Than Serve in Heaven

by Maayan

E-MAIL: maayan42@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Do not archive.
RATING: NC17
CATEGORY: S, R, A
SPOILER WARNING: Anything and everything up to HLoD for BtVS and ItD for AtS.
KEYWORDS: Smut, Rape, Slash, Violence, Torture, Angst, Plot.
CLASSIFICATION: Angel/Buffy, Spike/Other, Spike/Angel, Angelus/Other
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Joss & Co can get them all back when I'm done playing. Well, except Morghane.
SUMMARY: The Scooby Gang, the L.A. Team and Spike must join forces to save the life of an old friend of Angel's - and avert the Apocalypse.
THANKS: Sincere thanks go to my beta readers, Anja and Olie.

PROLOGUE

Morghane lay back in a chair in the garden of Angel's mansion. The night was still, waiting for the storm which had been threatening all day. She was staring at the sky, distracted. Clouds gathered around the lunar orb, draining its milky light. It looked like the moon was dying.

She could relate.

*What with the stealth?* Did he think she couldn't feel him coming from a mile away?

She fingered the gun in her lap with a small smile.

He finally worked up the courage to approach her, weary. His customary smirk distorted his sharp, handsome features, but he wasn't as unflappable as he wanted her to believe he was. She scanned him quickly and picked up concern.

Interesting.

"You're not thinking about using this, right?" he asked, pointing at the gun.

She smiled without looking at him.

"On you?"

"On yourself."

She sighed.

"I don't know, I'm... considering."

He didn't move.

"Come on, Will. Take a chair."

He took a seat next to her, grumbling. "Not that I have a choice in the matter... And if you would bloody stop calling me Will, I would be much obliged," he added with a sneer.

"Buffy made it back to Giles' from patrol okay?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "I swear... first looking out for you, and now the bloody Slayer. What's the world coming to, I ask you?"

Morghane ignored his rant. She lightly fingered the puckered scar on his forehead - and he flinched.

"Must have been painful."

"No kidding. But he'll pay. Someday. You take a good look. Get used to him looking like this. 'Angel', my arse."

She scowled.

Went back to looking bored.

Waved her gun absentmindedly.

"Fuck you, Will. You're a player, are you not? You played, you lost. He was stronger than you, and more resourceful. Don't make this personal again. If I remember correctly what Doyle told me, you had just spent a whole day torturing him. Taunted him with Buffy's little indiscretion, right? Now that's personal. What's a little sunburn? It'll heal. Coffee?"

He let his surprise show at her strange segue, then frowned, suspicious.

"You're not gonna off yourself in the kitchen, are you?"

She laughed.

"Committing suicide while the coffee's brewing. Now that would be undignified, wouldn't it? But thanks for caring."

"Sod off."

She disappeared inside the mansion, then returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup. She was limping badly, but he refrained from comment. She would just bite his head off anyway.

Besides he was a nasty, big bad vampire. He didn't give a shit about her well- being. Really.

Right.

"Sugar, two spoons, no cream."

He looked startled.

"How d'you know?"

He hadn't had coffee since his days with Angelus in nineteenth century London, when they had been preying on the bourgeoisie - who thought drinking coffee was oh so deliciously decadent.

Idiots.

She pointed at her temple, shrugging.

"Fucking eidetic memory, what d'you think? That I just cared enough to remember?"

He refused to pick up a fight. Just because she wanted one.

"Why are we here, Guardian? Why Sunnydale?"

"I have to talk to the Watcher. Let him know what's happening."

"Won't be happy to see you."

"No shit, Sherlock."

He ignored her biting tone.

"Do you know him personally?"

She nodded. "I've met him a few times at the Council's headquarters. He agreed with me that protecting the Guardian was an unnecessary burden for the Slayer. Well, except when the time comes for a new Guardian to rise. So here we are."

He mumbled. "How long?"

"A week at the most," she answered mildly.

He looked at her. Hard. Didn't think she would last that long.

"Why not go to my poof of a Sire? Why me?"

She shook her head, fiercely. "No, I don't want him involved in this. He deserves a break. Well, he deserves much more, but that's all I can give him right now. Maybe..." She trailed off. "I don't give a fuck about anything anymore, except the welfare of the people I love."

"You love him?"

"Of course, Will. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"What do you care?" he retorted angrily.

The situation was so unnatural, it pissed him off no end.

She didn't answer. She looked tired. Well, exhausted really.

"When you tell him the whole story, the Watcher might just shoot you on sight."

She stared back up at the night sky. The rain was coming. She could hear thunder in the distance.

"Who cares, Will?" she thought out loud. "I'm dying already."

They remained blissfully unaware of the startled pair watching the whole scene unfold from the bushes across the street.

Buffy tried to smother another yawn behind her hand, without much success. All the while, Giles kept on lecturing them on the relative quietness of the last few days. Well, as far as paranormal activity was concerned anyway. It couldn't be good, yadda, yadda, yadda...

*Tell me something I don't already know.*

She didn't care much one way or another. She didn't care about a lot of things these days. Parker would pretty much be a distant memory by now, if only Willow didn't insist on making those funny Parker-voodoo dolls with lots of needles stuck in uncomfortable places. Buffy didn't know if the dolls had any effect at all - although in the dark recesses of her mind, she kind of hoped they did.

Sometimes, she pictured similar dolls of herself. It would serve her right for being so stupid and gullible in the first place. Then again, maybe she should give herself a break. She was the Slayer... and life was so damn lonely these days. Too bad that the relief she had been seeking had come in the form of a pathetic jerk. Too bad that there was no relief to be found anywhere.

Just plain too bad.

She made a conscious decision to pull out of her funk and start paying attention to what was going on around her. Slayer Central had been transported from the now defunct high school library to Giles' place. It was nice and already felt like home. Lots of space to lounge around. Willow was sitting in Oz's lap, ensconced in Giles' favorite love seat. As usual, they were too cute for words, so Buffy didn't try to find any. Giles was standing next to the fireplace with a cup of tea in one hand and a jelly-filled doughnut in the other. An amusing sight.

She didn't smile, just sat straighter on the couch. She had just realized that Anya and Xander hadn't reported back from duty yet, and she was starting to worry.

Just as Giles was crossing the living room to the kitchen to refill his cup, taking a break in the lecture she hadn't been listening to, the front door opened forcefully and a disheveled Xander rushed in, followed by an equally wild-looking Anya. They had obviously been running.

This was never a good thing. Running usually meant trying to escape the fangs of something big and scary. And hungry.

Before either of them could offer an explanation, Buffy was on her feet, battle- ready, adrenaline pumping. "What happened?"

Xander bent at the waist, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Anya filled in for him.

"Spike is back in town."

All the blood drained out of Buffy's face.

She was vaguely aware of Giles swearing colorfully behind her back, but she ignored him. She couldn't think beyond the red haze which descended on her at the simple utterance of that name.

Spike was back.

The score she had to settle with him was so big, sometimes she thought she would have to take notes just to keep track of it.

It hadn't been easy, but she had gotten the details of the L.A. fiasco out of Oz. He had been reluctant to share anything beyond the brief assurance that Angel was okay - or would be soon. But she hadn't settled for that. And in the end, he had told her what she did not really want to hear, in that quiet, understated way of his. And she had felt like throwing up. Because she had sent Angel the ring and he had been tortured for it. Because he might have seen it as a punishment rather than a gift. She had dumped her problem on him and she hadn't bothered to do it in person. Not even a phone call to check on him. She sent Oz. Deep inside her mind she knew that her noble, sweet, self-sacrificing idiot of an ex-boyfriend would never see it that way. But she did. She did.

And now Spike was in town.

And there would be hell to pay.

Realizing that Buffy was not going to overcome her shock any time soon, Giles took charge of the debriefing.

"Where did you see him?"

"The mansion," answered Xander. He drew a deep breath. "We spied on him from across the street. I don't think he saw us. He wasn't alone."

Willow shuddered. "Drusilla?"

Xander shook his head. "No. New chick."

"Vampire?" asked Giles.

"Don't know. We didn't stay long enough to find out. And we couldn't hear what they were talking about. Too far away. There was one really weird thing, though."

*Like that wasn't weird enough?* wondered Buffy, slowly coming back to her senses. But she kept her mouth shut.

"What's that?" said Oz, his arms wrapped around Willow's waist.

He didn't much like the idea of having Spike around either - what with the fact that the vampire had kidnapped Willow a few months back, and the glee he had taken in torturing Angel. Oz was pissed.

Although it didn't show much.

"The woman. She had a gun."

"A gun?" echoed Giles, perplexed.

"Yeah, handgun, in her lap. I have no idea what she was doing with it," commented Anya.

Buffy sighed. "Vampires with guns. Will wonders never cease." She mused, "A hired killer? Kind of like the Order of Taraka morons?"

Xander shrugged. "I'm not sure. But she didn't seem to be a fledgling, like, taking orders from Blondie or anything. The body language was all wrong."

Giles arched an eyebrow. Buffy could see the thoughts coursing through his head. Xander had grown. His summer away certainly seemed to have done him some good.

Giles cleared his throat before continuing. "Well, we must certainly endeavor to find out what Spike is up to and who this mysterious newcomer is..."

"I might be able to help you with that, Rupert."

They froze.

Standing in the open doorway was a young woman dressed in black. Her short, chin-length red hair framed a pale face illuminated by striking, feverish green eyes. She was slightly taller than Buffy, twenty-five years old, maybe a bit older. Her black silk shirt, open on a daring V, underlined the fullness of her breasts and the delicate bones of her shoulders. She wore designer black pants, leather boots and an obviously expensive cashmere duster.

Buffy's first thought was *she's breathing*.

The second, *she has Angel's fashion sense*.

And she called Giles 'Rupert'.

It didn't look good.

She turned to her Watcher. His mouth hung open for a second, then closed as his lips tightened and his expression turned grim.

*Friend or foe?* Buffy guessed she had her answer.

"It's her," murmured Xander. "Spike's girlfriend."

Giles ignored him. "What are you doing here?"

His voice was devoid of any inflection.

The stranger shivered. "It's cold. And it's raining now. Can I come in?"

Giles tensed, but nodded curtly.

The woman entered slowly then closed the door behind herself. She waited a moment, but Giles did not invite her to sit down. Her eyes closed, then reopened slowly, and for the first time Buffy noticed the tired lines around her mouth and the shadows under her eyes, which marred the perfect alabaster of her skin. Breathing notwithstanding, she certainly looked enough like a vampire to fool the Slayer.

"Who is she?" asked Anya, trying to get to the point.

Giles looked like he wasn't going to answer. His expression hardened.

"My name is Morghane," offered the woman, "and I am the Guardian."

Like that made any sense.

Obviously, it did make some sense to Willow, who started bouncing excitedly. "I... I know you". She added quickly, "I mean, I don't know you... I mean... I've read about you. In the Watcher Diaries."

"She's a vamp?" asked Buffy, taking a threatening step forward, confused by the mixed signals she had been receiving since Morghane had made an appearance.

Willow shook her head vehemently. "No, no, no... She's one of the good guys."

Buffy faltered.

Now THAT didn't make any sense. At all.

Silence followed Willow's outburst.

Meanwhile, the storm was picking up outside. And as if the situation wasn't freaky enough, the lights abruptly went out.

Surprise and indecision paralyzed Buffy for the space of a second, and then she was moving.

"I'll get candles."

"Let me," came a voice from her right.

Suddenly the room was bathed in a warm, golden light.

The Slayer realized that it emanated from a small, bright sphere the size of a tennis ball hovering over Morghane's left hand.

And her eyes glowed. White.

"Okay, not a vamp."

"Wow," added Xander.

"She's a witch," stated Anya.

Giles cut in. "No, she's a mage."

"A mage?," said Buffy.

"A magician," explained Willow, awed. "A very powerful one."

Giles left quickly while the others stared at Morghane, entranced. He returned a few minutes later with several candles that he set up all around the room.

When he was done, Morghane closed her hand, and the golden sphere vanished.

"Huh... how?" babbled Xander.

Morghane turned towards Giles. "Do you want me to explain, Rupert?"

He shook his head no.

"Sit down, this is going to take some time. So try not to interrupt." They threw themselves on the closest chairs. Morghane remained standing. "You too, Guardian," said Giles, his voice cold.

She flinched but lowered herself in the love seat Willow and Oz had vacated. Her movements were slow and deliberate.

Giles went back to leaning against the fireplace. In this light, his expression looked ominous. Buffy flashed back on summer camps and ghost stories told around a bonfire. She quickly pushed away this unexpected flight of fancy to focus on her Watcher once more.

Giles took a deep breath. "As long as there has been demons, there has been a Guardian."

Buffy snorted, Xander gave Giles a big 'uh?' look and Willow nodded knowingly. Even Oz smiled.

Morghane's eyes sparkled.

"I thought the Slayer had the copyright on this gig," volunteered Xander.

Giles scowled.

"Sorry, no interruption. Shutting up now."

"I have one question," ventured Buffy, despite Giles' warning glare. She couldn't help herself. "What exactly is she 'guarding'?"

Surprisingly, the answer came from Anya.

"Souls. Human souls. She's the Guardian of Souls."

Xander turned to his sort-of-girlfriend. "How d'you know this stuff?"

She shrugged. "You can't live as long as I have and never have heard of the Guardian."

"Children, if you please?" interrupted Giles, sternly.

They quieted down.

"The Guardian does indeed protect human souls. Protecting human life is the Slayer's 'gig' as you put it, Xander. Although their respective duties might merge on occasions. The Guardian opposes those forces which would rob humans from what distinguishes them as such. Their souls. The Guardian often intervenes on the ethereal plane. Sometimes she must even venture into the demon dimension. Hell, if you will."

"Ethereal plane?" asked Buffy.

Giles smiled kindly. "Consciousness, Life, the Self... Everything exists on different planes. This," he encompassed the room around them with his hands "is one plane. The ethereal plane, or spiritual plane, is another. It is quite well explained by Gnosticism. The illuminated man can reach a superior level of awareness, an exalted state, closer to the divinity..."

Xander stared dully at a wall.

Illuminated.

Right.

Seeing that he had lost his audience, Giles shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Let's just say that the Guardian fights demons, or any other creatures who would prey on Human souls. She complements the Slayer. Well... They complement each other."

"That means there's one per generation too?"

Giles froze unexpectedly, and eyed Buffy, concern permeating his expression.

Morghane seemed to take pity on him. "No. The Guardian is Immortal."

*

Another shock in a seemingly unending litany that night.

Buffy briefly wondered if one could O.D. on adrenaline. Then again, considering her track-record, she would know by now.

Xander squeaked. "So you've been the Guardian since... like... forever?"

Morghane chuckled softly.

"No. Guardians are immortal, not invulnerable. Much like vampires. A few things can kill us... or hurt us so badly that we never recover. Some choose to pass on their charge to another Guardian. Voluntarily. It gets... tiring after a while."

Willow was dumbfounded. "They commit suicide?!"

Morghane bit her lower lip. "Well... they relinquish their immortality... so I guess it could be interpreted as suicide. Although we don't age, we do get... old, in a way. Spiritually old."

Buffy nodded. She understood the concept.

One thing was nagging at her, though. "Are you human?"

"Yes. It's magick that keeps my body alive. A very, very powerful spell. Without it, I would just die, like any other human. By now, my body cannot go on without magick. It would just... collapse."

Xander finally asked the question which was on everybody's mind.

"So just how old ARE you?"

"1700," answered Morghane, straightforward. "Give or take a decade."

"Wow," whispered Oz.

"What he said," added Buffy, reeling.

In that moment, the Slayer had an epiphany. She suddenly understood some of Giles' reluctance and the look he had given her when the one-per-generation thingy had been brought up. Guardians lived forever. Slayers... didn't. *Well, duh.*. But she realized that, somehow, she did not envy Morghane at all - even if immortality would mean one less obstacle between Angel and her. Even if it would be really nice to live past twenty. She just couldn't picture that kind of an eternal life. To go on fighting forever. *And go to Hell literally for Christ's sake*. No. She didn't want that for herself. Not in a million years.

She smiled reassuringly at Giles, then turned towards Morghane with newfound compassion. She discovered that the Guardian had been staring at her the whole time and was now smiling knowingly.

"You're right, Buffy. Humans aren't meant to live that long."

The Slayer jumped, startled. "You're psychic, too?"

Morghane shook her head.

"Just empathic. Comes with the job, really. When I look at someone, the first thing I see is their soul. You can tell a lot of things that way."

All at once, they straightened their posture and clothing. Like it could have any impact on Morghane's perception. Just how do you make your soul look presentable?

The Guardian grinned. She got that reaction a lot.

Even after 1700 odd years, it was still funny.

"It tends to make people uncomfortable though, so don't spread it around," she added, deadpan.

Giles, who had remained silent during her explanation, finally had enough.

"Why are you here, Guardian?"

Morghane sighed. "Look, Rupert..."

"It's Watcher to you."

Everybody frowned, feeling the stark hostility but not comprehending its cause.

The Guardian's jaw clenched and she drew her coat tighter around herself like a shield.

"Very well, Watcher. Just for the record, I'm not here to pile more responsibilities on the Slayer's shoulders, but this cannot be helped..."

The cup of tea Giles was still holding fell to the floor and exploded into a thousand pieces.

They stopped breathing.

"This is not about the Slayer's duty, Guardian. This is about Jenny."

Still holding her breath, Buffy saw Morghane pale visibly. The mention of the dead computer teacher had come out of left field, and the Guardian wasn't the only one taken aback by Giles' cold accusatory tone. Willow clutched Oz' arm like a security blanket. Xander held Anya's hand, startled.

"How...?"

"You did not think this would ever come to my knowledge, did you?" asked Giles tightly.

"I don't... I..."

"Jenny left me all her possessions. It took me until a few months ago to gather the strength to go through them, but eventually I found her journal."

"Rupert... Watcher, you have to understand..."

"But I do. I do. I understand that you could not be bothered to come to Sunnydale yourself, so you got in touch with Jenny and exploited her guilt to get her to do the dirty job for you."

"No, that's not..."

"Even if there was a good reason to explain your unwillingness to take matters into your own hands, you still chose him over her. You played liberally with Jenny's life, knowing how dangerous Angelus was, knowing about Drusilla."

Giles was practically shouting.

Morghane slowly got out of her chair to stand. "How can you believe...?"

"Shut up."

Everybody recoiled at the slicing words and the homicidal light in the eyes of the Watcher. He was shaking, the effort it took to contain his rage was so great.

"Angel told me about you. He told me months ago. How dare you show yourself here? How dare you appear before me? Before her? Before them?" he accused, pointing to Buffy and her friends.

The Slayer tried to intervene.

"Giles, what are you talking about? What about Jenny and Angel?"

His expression softened. "Not now, Buffy." Then he faced the Guardian once more and the murderous look was back, but he was calmer.

Deadlier.

Ripper in all his glory.

"Get out of my house. I cannot stand the sight of you right now."

Morghane was shaking. From the impact of his words or from the effort it took to stand, Buffy couldn't tell.

But something was seriously wrong with her.

"Rupert..." The Guardian was almost pleading. "Listen..."

The Watcher turned his eyes away. His fury was spent, leaving bitter lassitude and a bone-deep weariness in its wake. It had been so unexpected. He had never thought he would see her here this night. He was unprepared to deal with the sudden release of the unreasoning anger which had steadily built up since he had first read Jenny's journal. He could not deal with this right then. Not in front of the children.

"Leave. Now," he enunciated slowly.

Morghane looked like she was going to argue again, but she stared at him oddly and her expression went blank. She nodded slowly, defeated, resigned.

"Very well, Watcher. But I'll be back. I'm sorry, this cannot be helped," she said, repeating her words of a few moments ago.

She turned around after a brief smile for Buffy and the Slayerettes, then opened the front door and left, swallowed by darkness.

Spike was getting seriously pissed. Not only had he been coerced into becoming the Guardian's new freakin' bodyguard, he had to wait for her Highness out in the rain, in front of the bloody Watcher's house. And to top it all he was back in Sunnydale, which meant back on the Slayer's territory - a Slayer who just happened to have a major grudge against him.

*So I tortured Angelus a little, so what? Big deal. Still got all his limbs. Skin's still attached. He used to call it foreplay.*

That, of course, was before the goddamn gypsy curse. Now his Sire wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, except maybe to break a few bones.

To make a bloody long story short, Spike's life was complicated enough without the Guardian adding to his grief. Although so far the situation hadn't been half as bad as it could have been. Maybe the old saying was right: misery did so much love company.

He hadn't quite known what to do with himself after the whole Ring of Amara disaster. As usual, he was planless. He had half considered the possibility of going after Angelus again. Not that he thought he would get the blasted ring back. He knew his own Sire better than that. Angel would have destroyed the bloody thing as soon as possible, he was not stupid enough to turn himself and his new buddies into every vamp's favorite targets. And he was too disgustingly noble to hide it somewhere and risk having it fall into the wrong hands. No, at that point, Spike couldn't have cared less about the ring - short attention span, and all.

He had just felt like hunting Angelus down, tying him up - preferably to a rack and those chains had cost a fortune and could be recycled anyway - and having his way with him. The younger vampire hadn't tried to analyze his own reasons for wanting to get anywhere near Angelus again. Whether he wanted to pick up the torture and cheap taunting where they had left off, or whether he missed his Sire's companionship so badly that he was ready to take it by force... well, he didn't want to know.

And that's when he had been Summoned. Literally.

Maybe she had known what he had in store for Angel; maybe it was pure coincidence. Either way, he had been unable to get a straight answer out of her. And now he was her fucking lapdog. Tell him to raise his leg and he would go find a nice tree.

Submission to a non-demonic master was thoroughly offensive to his vampiric sensibilities. Not to mention pathetic.

If only his Sire could see him now.

Like father, like son.

*Peaches would be so proud.*

Spike heard rustling in the bushes behind him and straightened.

Now, he was forbidden from killing humans, but the Guardian hadn't said anything about moronic fledglings who didn't know enough to recognize the sent of a frustrated master vampire when they met one and steer clear of him. Which was just as well really. He was itching for a good fight.

He turned around to meet the three vampires head-on. He realized quickly that they wouldn't be much of a challenge - but it would do as a stop-gap measure.

"Good evening, mates."

"This is our territory."

*Okay. Brainless, no banter. This is gonna be boring.* He frowned. *I've been bloody spoiled by the Slayer.*

"I'm just stopping by," said Spike with a grin.

The bigger one appeared to ponder that statement.

*That's right. Try to connect the couple of neurons that pass up for your brain and see what you come up with.*

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." *Me Spike. You Dust.*

"Yeah, well... Move along."

"Sorry, no can do. I'm waiting for a friend."

"Huh, I don't think we can allow that."

"Fine by me," roared Spike, throwing himself at the vamp, game-faced, fangs bared.

He didn't have a stake handy, but that wasn't going to stop him. He quickly dropped the leader to the ground with a round-kick to the face, simultaneously elbowing the second vamp coming at his back, breaking its nose. The smell of blood spurred him on and he grabbed his third assailant by the shoulders, bringing it down on his bent knee, snapping its spine in two. The vampire screamed in agony. Spike plunged his clawed hand into its chest, going through flesh and ribs, tearing out the unbeating heart. The demon instantaneously turned to dust.

Meanwhile the leader had picked itself up and was growling ominously. Spike did not spare it a glance. He took hold of the second vampire whose nose was still bleeding profusely, and threw it on a branch of the nearest tree.

*Next.*

Spike turned around without hurry, letting the leader get an easy shot at him. The fist split his lower lip and he smiled, feral. It felt good.

"Come get me," he taunted.

The good thing was, his remaining opponent was too dumb to run.

The fledgling charged head first, and Spike easily caught it in a headlock. The lingering smell of blood was intoxicating, he wanted more. Spike dug his claws in the vampire's shoulder, grabbed its hair and tugged, exposing its throat. Without a moment's pause, he struck, sinking his fangs deeply into the jugular. The younger vamp still struggled, outraged, but Spike tightened his hold. The blood tasted a bit young. It lacked the potency of that of a master vampire, but still it felt good going down his throat.

Just then he sensed her, and her mere presence was enough to drag him out of the bloodlust.

With a roar, he released his victim and brutally impaled the weakened fledgling on the same tree as its late acolyte. Without waiting for the dust to settle, he turned around to face the Guardian.

"You look like shit, pet."

"I know," she answered softly.

Her wet hair was plastered to her face, her lips were blue, and she was trembling viciously. She looked subdued.

Something was wrong.

And what did he care anyway?

*Oh, Hell*, thought Spike. He was always one to go with the flow. He would worry about those inane feelings of compassion and concern later.

Her knees gave out.

He rushed towards her with vampiric speed and slipped an arm around her waist before she hit the muddy ground. She was still conscious.

"Didn't quite go as planned, did it?" whispered Spike.

She shook her head, then moaned. "On the contrary. Just like we discussed; he threw me out." She sighed. "Didn't let me explain." Her voice was almost inaudible. "At least he didn't shoot me on sight."

"So what are we doing now?"

"Go back tomorrow. Try again."

And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed against his chest.

*Fuck.*

Unexpectedly, Spike came to a decision. Screw the Watcher, screw the Slayer. He picked up the Guardian in his arms. First find the De Soto, if he could remember where he parked it.

And then, L.A..

*

Spike was not amused.

He had gotten singed while racing from the De Soto to the door of the roach- infested motel at dawn. In his arms, the Guardian hardly slowed him down. Then he had been sorely tempted to disembowel the oily little weasel behind the counter with a toothpick when the wanker had insisted that he only had a double room left. But Spike couldn't follow through on the nice, gory mental pictures because he couldn't harm humans.

Although the humanity of the condescending bastard was highly debatable. In his opinion.

Okay, so he would never have to argue his case in front of the soddin' Supreme Court, but he WOULD have to answer to the Guardian, and no pillock was worth that much trouble.

Not that her Ladyship was in any position to play high and mighty with him right then. She hadn't regained consciousness since they had left Sunnydale and that worried Spike. He didn't remember much about human physiology - let alone Guardian physiology for that matter - but he could tell that her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy and her pulse erratic. From his admittedly limited personal experience, none of those things were good.

He quickly paid the obnoxious clerk - flashing the Guardian's AMEX at him like it was a crucifix and the motel employee a vamp - ignoring his suspicious glare when he grabbed the room key with one hand, still holding the Guardian with the other.

"She on drugs?"

Spike lost it. He allowed his game face to flicker on and off for a second, then grinned hungrily, leaning over the counter. "Sod. Off."

The wanker did the smart thing and fainted.

Spike sighed. Dinner was laying down unconscious at his feet - it wasn't even Christmas - and he couldn't take advantage of the free buffet because he had a Guardian to attend to.

And some people thought their life was unfair.

Morghane was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming.

And remembering.

She knew that too.

Dusk, and she was leaving the mansion. When she had stopped by L.A. the previous day, Doyle had told her it was still unoccupied.

Angel would have been surprised to see her after so long. Maybe glad. But uncomfortable. She had thought twice about visiting. It would awaken old, disturbing memories for both of them.

She didn't care much about stirring her own emotions. It wasn't like she didn't have any experience in trampling all over them with careless disregard. Angel, however, was another story. She had known him, in some way, for a century and she could tell that it would take some time still before he would maintain eye- contact with her for more than a minute without bolting.

But she couldn't help it. She had to see for herself that he was okay. She knew through Doyle, and occasionally Whistler, that he was making a life for himself away from the Slayer. Yet their reports weren't enough. She needed more.

When Doyle had called Whistler to tell him about the Gem, and then Whistler had called her, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. She couldn't possibly stay away. She intended to visit for a day or two, just long enough to assess the damage Spike had caused. Hopefully long enough to try and convince herself for the thousandth time that she had made the right decision four years ago. That she had indeed helped to alleviate some of Angel's suffering, not added to it. She needed to ask him the question; if he could erase that time, the love and the heartache, would he do it? Did he hate her for sending him to the Slayer? Despise her?

The others would - if they ever learned the truth. The Watcher, the boy, the little witch. The Slayer's mother. She didn't know about the Slayer herself, although she could hazard a guess. Buffy loved Angel and that was that. Doubts, certainly. Pain, of course. But not regret.

Anyway. In and out of L.A. in a couple of days, that had been the plan. Except that it hadn't unfolded quite that way.

She stopped by Angel's office an hour before nightfall. Cordelia wasn't there but Doyle welcomed her. Ten minutes into the conversation and the half-demon collapsed in pain.

A vision.

Sunnydale. A warlock. Big trouble.

As soon as he mentioned magick, she knew it was a job for her. No coincidence that. She made him swear on Cordelia's life not to tell Angel that she had been here or where she was going, and then off to the Hellmouth. She could always stop by L.A. again once she was done.

She decided against getting in touch with either Watcher or Slayer. She never supported the Council in their view that a Slayer's duty should include protecting the Guardian. Morghane had been quite capable of taking care of herself since she turned thirty, thank you very much. Each Guardian was an accomplished mage even before the Rapture - the spell which turned a mage into the Guardian.

Morghane thought it was a pretty apt denomination. The experience defied description, the amount of power embraced was purely staggering. Wrapping an essentially human mind around it took training, energy and time. Harnessing the magick required a few years during which the new Guardian was vulnerable and could do with the Slayer's support.

Morghane had mastered the magick a long time ago. She had no need for a Slayer's assistance. When you compared the Guardian's life expectancy with the Slayer's, it seemed obvious who needed whom there. Yet Morghane knew that the retarded, narrow-minded bastards who ran the Council didn't see it her way, so she had voluntarily isolated herself from the Slayers, keeping the secret of her existence from them. She never intervened unless the situation was desperate, granted that she was not busy fighting her own battles. And even then, she would always explore her other options first.

Hence the choice she had made four years ago. The decision she knew Rupert Giles would hold against her to his grave if he ever learned of it, and she couldn't say she blamed him.

Yet another reason why she had not contacted the Slayer once in Sunnydale.

Which explained why she had been walking alone towards the graveyard featured in Doyle's vision, in search of a powerful warlock who, from what the half-demon could tell, had no business being on the Hellmouth.

There was at least fifty of them waiting for her in Redfield's cemetery. That she could see anyway.

Vampires, big. Skilled fighters.

She wasn't completely helpless in that area. She didn't have the Slayer's innate abilities and strength, but that didn't mean she didn't know how to handle herself in a fight. And although she was much more comfortable wielding spells, in her 1700 years she had learned to resort to street-fighting when needed.

She put up a good fight, but they were so many. She fried half of them with a single command, but the reinforcements kept on coming. It didn't look good. She was starting to rethink this no-Slayer-protection business. She had magick working for her, but she was still human, and soon she was tiring. She killed thirty, maybe more. She couldn't keep count. Their number was overwhelming. Someone had premeditated this, someone who could afford to send an army of experienced vampires against her, knowing that most would become so much cannon- fodder.

Suddenly her back was against a wall and she went down. They restrained her quickly and she struggled, summoning a stake, fire, lightning, but each time she destroyed one, another took its place. She couldn't see for the dust in her eyes.

And then pain.

Pain so blinding she thought her spell had backfired and she had been staked and burned and struck by lightning all at once.

Agony so intense she thought her skin had turned inside-out.

When she opened her eyes again a hooded figure hovered over her, chanting. She couldn't make out the words for the roaring in her ears. Then she realized that the vampires stood around her in a circle, they didn't hold her down anymore.

When she lifted her head, she understood why.

A sharp, silver, foot-long spear protruded from her belly, going through her stomach. It was buried in the grass under her. She was pinned to the ground.

*The Sepulcher* she realized, dazed.

The figure, the warlock of Doyle's vision, completed its incantation. Morghane looked on, helpless, as it took hold of the ornamental handle of the Sepulcher then twisted viciously before pulling it out of her.

A strangled cry escaped the Guardian as her consciousness swam in and out. She was drowning in her own blood.

She fought the darkness down - and failed.

She awoke some time later, alone.

And she wished she would pass out again, slowly fade away and die.

Her body was on fire. There wasn't an inch of her that didn't hurt. She would probably have a hard time finding skin that wasn't bruised or a bone that wasn't broken. She did not remember ever being in that much pain, and God knew she wasn't lacking in the experience department.

She had been beaten while unconscious. Whoever ordered this was either a sadist or wanted to make sure she died quickly.

*Or all of the above.*

Now her body would call onto the magick to heal her as it usually did - except that now her supply was not infinite anymore. The seriousness of her injuries was only going to speed up the process, bring the end closer.

No Guardian could survive the Sepulcher.

She knew what had to be done.

She lay there for an hour, watching the stars revolve around an invisible pivot and the moon inch its way towards the horizon. When she felt strong enough, she called onto her power, knowing that in doing so she was hastening the inevitable, but there was no alternative.

She Summoned him to her.

*Spike.*

"Spike."

The vampire jumped and whipped his head towards the bed.

*Bloody wonderful.* Now she was delirious and calling out for him in her sleep.

As a rule he didn't mind attractive women murmuring his name while unconscious, but he wished Morghane would stop jerking his chain - even if she wasn't doing it on purpose. Even dying, she was still a powerful mage and the strength of the binding spell she had worked on him attested to this. He couldn't help but answer to her beck and call.

At first, he had been enraged.

One minute he was in L.A. plotting some fun at Angelus' expense, the next he was behind the wheel of the De Soto speeding like a madman towards Sunnydale - the last place on earth he wanted to be.

After the initial shock - and wrath - of finding himself bound to the Guardian of all people, he asked her why. Why him? He was privy to the history the Guardian shared with Angel and Angelus. He understood why she could not call onto the Slayer or the Watcher to protect her and she did need someone strong and resilient who could look out for her. She was weaker than a kitten. She had healed some but not as completely and as quickly as she should have. Yet any other demon would have done the trick. So why him?

She refused to answer.

Which was probably just as well. He figured he wouldn't like her explanation.

He didn't like what was happening to him right now either. He watched the Guardian thrash and fight against the covers and he only wanted to try and spare her more suffering. What the hell was wrong with him? He should have been enjoying the show and cheering, not feeling like Mother Theresa on a good day.

He wanted to heave.

Where did all those feelings of caring and worry come from anyway? He felt like he should be protecting the Guardian, not because of some stupid gais, but because he wanted to. And he was starting to think of her as Morghane too. She wasn't just the Guardian anymore. The enemy. Obeying her command became easier with each passing minute. It wasn't as much of a struggle as it was yesterday. Or the day before.

The demon that was Spike rebelled, straining against its bonds, thrashing and struggling and yelling. Wanting to maim, to hurt, to kill.

Spike approached the bed and leaned over the Guardian.

Her breath was short and her eyebrows were drawn together, her lips parted. Perspiration pearled at her temples and she shivered. Her hands gripped the sheets like claws. Her fists clenched and unclenched convulsively.

She moaned softly.

Spike reached out and shook her shoulders roughly. She murmured incoherently but did not wake. Frustrated, impatient, Spike threw away the covers. He had undressed Morghane before putting her to bed and she was only wearing a shirt. This new evidence of his despicable concern for the Guardian's welfare fueled his anger. He lifted her shirt. Her torso was covered with slowly fading bruises and barely closed gashes.

Spike fingered a nasty-looking contusion over her ribs. Then he opened his hand.

And applied pressure.

Morghane came awake with a muffled cry and sat up abruptly, wrapping her arms around her waist to protect herself. She was gasping, her eyes glazed, and it took a few seconds before she was able to focus on the vision before her.

Spike was towering over the bed. Pissed.

"Will?" she whispered. Her throat was raw, although the screams in her dream had been silent. She looked around them, puzzled. "Where are we?"

"What did you do to me, Guardian?"

The coldness of his voice took her by surprise. She thought they were over this. "What... what are you talking about? I told you... already. I performed a spell to bind you to me..."

He growled.

She recoiled.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he snarled. "You did something else. I'm having those feelings" - he spat the word with disdain - "like concern... for you. I'm a demon. I shouldn't..."

"Care?"

He growled again.

Morghane sighed. "I... I didn't think..." she trailed off.

"What? You didn't know your spell would have nasty side-effects?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes."

"So you knew..."

"Yes."

His face morphed. "Explain. Now."

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

"You're bound to me, Will. And I'm bonded to Angel. And Angel is your Sire. His blood flows in your veins. Between the two of us... well, you can think of it as a virtuous spiritual circle. You have a piece of my soul, now. And a little bit of Angel's. The spell I used on you is potent. It's Guardian Magick too. And it ties you to the ethereal community. To humanity. Like a surrogate sou..."

"You returned my soul," yelled Spike, interrupting her.

"Of course not," she replied just as forcefully. She sat straighter in the bed, despite the pain. "You know what I think about THAT. It's unethical. It's inhuman. The mere thought of it makes my skin crawl. I would never..."

"You knew this would happen?"

"Yes. Just... not so soon."

"Is it reversible?"

"No." She anticipated his next question. "Not even when I die. Not even if Angel dies. And the ties will only strengthen with time."

Spike snapped and the demon broke free. "How could you do this to me?"

Enraged, he slapped her and she flew across the bed. Without pause he came after her, grabbed the collar of her shirt and threw her against the wall. She slid onto the floor with a cry. He charged, blinded by anger.

"How. Could. You."

He punctuated each word with a kick to her already damaged ribs.

Morghane curled up on herself. "Stop. Stop, Spike. Stop..." she pleaded, trying to reassert control over the demon.

He found that he was paralyzed, incapable of striking again.

*Fucking gais.*

"Stay... stay away," she rasped, holding out her hand.

Spike backed off, his back against the opposite wall.

"Stay away," she repeated. Before she passed out.

Giles was pacing back and forth between his kitchen and the front door and it was driving Slayer and Slayerettes out of their already frazzled minds.

They had spent the day pretending to be interested in whatever they were doing - be it going to class or having a ridiculously expensive cappuccino at the Espresso Pump - but they couldn't take much more of this. Giles had thrown them out (in a nice way) after the Guardian's departure the night before, with the promise that he would explain everything the next evening. They had been waiting for him to open his mouth and start talking for about ten minutes - which was the limit of their collective attention span at the moment.

"Giles," Buffy reiterated. "Sharing mode, remember?"

The Watcher stopped in his tracks and turned around to face them. He couldn't stall any longer.

"Morghane was the one who sent Angel to Buffy four years ago."

Buffy's jaw dropped.

"Wow," commented Xander, nonplused. "Cut right to the chase, G-man, why don't you."

"What do you mean she sent him...?" asked Buffy. She wasn't about to let Xander babble on. This was too important. Angel had never told her anything about a Guardian. "Whistler..."

"Whistler is one of a handful of demons who work for the Guardian."

"She has demonic help?" Buffy thought out loud, bummed. "How come I don't?"

"You do actually," answered Giles. "Or did."

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

"Angel," said Giles, kindly.

Willow cleared her throat then blushed when everyone turned to look at her.

"Giles, I think... What I mean is... Could you be more explicit?"

Giles nodded. "You're right, Willow. No time for riddles... or idle chit-chat," he added, staring pointedly at Xander.

"Okay, okay. I can take a hint."

The Watcher looked doubtful, but carried on nonetheless.

"When Angel's soul was forcefully returned to his body, well, let's say that it created such a backlash on the ethereal plane that Morghane felt it even though she was on the other side of the planet at the time. You see, souls are meant to cross one way, not the other. Ghosts and other poltergeists are souls trapped in our plane, whose attachment to the ethereal community has been severed before death for various reasons, meaning they are lost and cannot find the way to move on. To rip a soul away from the ethereal community is almost unheard of. Very few demons are powerful enough to prey on souls once they have crossed over to the upper plane and the Guardian is their unrelenting adversary. The Kalderash knew this. As depository of the Old Magicks, they serve the Guardian as a rule. But their anger towards Angelus was so strong and irrational that they chose to brave the Guardian's formal proscription and called Angel's soul back regardless.

"The negative magical and spiritual energy released upon completion of the curse was so powerful that Morghane plainly collapsed in her tracks and remained unconscious for days afterwards. You see, the Guardian has this kind of mystical connection to all human souls... Whatever. When she regained consciousness, she was beyond outraged. She traveled to Romania and confronted the gypsies. They were unrepentant, as you can well imagine. As punishment, Morghane deprived them of the magicks necessary to perform such a spell ever again and cast the clan away from her protection."

"Did she know about the happiness clause?" asked Buffy simply.

Giles shook his head. "No. As I understand it, she was not in a discussing mood at the time. I imagine the Kalderash were too scared she would strip them of all magicks if they confessed to the full extent of the curse and faced her wrath." Giles paused. "Please bear in mind that I learned all this from Angel. He came to me after... Christmas last year, when he was trying to understand why he had been released from Hell and what the First Evil wanted from him. He himself learned most of the story from Whistler rather than from the Guardian herself."

Buffy shivered. She didn't like to be reminded of last Christmas. The mad race up the hill behind the mansion. The tremors in Angel's voice, the tears in his eyes, the defeat, and the utter certainty that whatever she said the sun would rise and he would burst into flames in front of her.

Giles continued on, oblivious. "Morghane tried to track Angel down but he was long gone. However, she knew what being so brutally ripped from its restful place could do to a soul - especially to share a body with a demon. She feared Angel would go insane or commit suicide, which was simply more abuse than his soul could take without permanent spiritual damage.

"So she decided to... to... this is not easy to explain. Hm... she performed an act of High Magick on the ethereal plane and created a... a bond between her own soul and Angel's. A protective spell if you will, sort of like a mystical shield, to make the transition easier for Angel. Well, as much as could be, anyway."

Buffy frowned. In some way she was grateful that Morghane had spared Angel any more pain. In another, more primal way she didn't like the sound of this bond business. At all. But she didn't feel like sharing her confusion quite yet.

"Much like you, Buffy, Morghane has distanced herself from the Watcher Council. Actually, the Council is theoretically subordinated to the Guardian, but I think Morghane couldn't be bothered to deal with their internal politics after the first couple of centuries. She's pretty much kept away from both Watchers and Slayers ever since. She does not agree with the way the Council conceive of the Slayer-Guardian relationship."

"What do you mean?" Willow asked, perplexed.

"As far as we can remember, the Slayer's duty has always included protecting the Guardian. Being her first line of defense, if you will, upon the Guardian's request. Morghane always considered that the Slayer had enough on her... plate, as you might say, without having to act as her bodyguard on top of everything else.

'Guardians are powerful mages from birth and the only time when they are really vulnerable is in the few years after they are Called and must learn to master Guardian Magick. Quite a few Guardians have been destroyed during those first critical years. Morghane and I always agreed on that point. The Council, however, does not like for things to change... Well, I guess you have first hand experience of that," Giles said, addressing Buffy. Her eighteenth birthday was not such a sore point anymore. They had put the whole thing behind them a long time ago. "Yet the Slayer's average life expectancy has... greatly improved since Morghane took matters into her own hands."

"Sounds like a nice enough kind of chick to me," commented Xander, trying to get a rise out of the Watcher.

He really wanted to get to the bottom of yesterday's little display.

Giles' expression darkened, although he wasn't as tense as last night.

"Yes, well. Back to Morghane and Angel. From what I gleaned from the Watcher Diaries, the Guardian was involved in a fight with a major demon for almost fifty years and it took her some time to recover."

"Fifty years?" piped Willow.

"Like time passes differently in Hell, it passes differently on the ethereal plane. Scholars believe that it is one of the reasons for the Guardian's extended life span. Seven days in the ethereal dimension would be the equivalent of about half a century here.

'Anyway, afterwards she joined forces with the Slayer a couple of times and then there's no mention of her for about a decade. She might have been in the ethereal dimension again, I don't know. Then the last Slayer passed away and Buffy was Called." He took a deep breath. "As you all are aware, Buffy was not trained as a potential Slayer from birth and as we approached the new millennium... well, millennial Slayers always face more than their share of apocalyptic threats, and an untrained Slayer, well... the situation was dire to say the least."

"Angel..." Buffy whispered wistfully, understanding.

Giles smiled sadly. "Yes. Angel. Morghane took it upon herself to send him to you in the hope that it would even the odds. No one but her knows the full scope of what she had planned for Angel. She charged Whistler to locate him and explain the situation. When Angel agreed to get involved, Morghane revealed herself to him, trained him. That's when she told him about the bond. Then Angel left for Sunnydale and she disappeared for parts unknown."

Giles fell silent.

It looked like he didn't plan on pursuing his explanation any time soon.

They exchanged nervous glances, then Buffy spoke up.

"Giles?" she called softly. When she had his attention, she added, "Jenny?"

The Watcher sighed and took his glasses off to wipe them clean with his handkerchief. "Yes. Jenny." He spaced out for a minute, then seemed to come back to himself. "When Jenny made the decision to return Angel's soul the second time, she got in touch with the Guardian somehow. Morghane... Morghane said she couldn't come perform the incantation herself, but that she would help Jenny with the translation of the curse. And I guess she did." He lowered his eyes to the floor. "You know the rest."

They had no comments to make.

Because indeed, they knew.

*

Spike discovered that he could move again.

The sun had set about an hour ago, and although his first instinct was to run out the door he turned around and approached the Guardian slowly. He could tell himself that there was no point in running; she would draw him back to her easily enough. Or he could start acting like a man - well, a vampire - and deal.

Over the hours he had spent standing in a corner of the room watching the Guardian struggle to breathe, he had discovered yet another feeling.

Guilt.

*Brilliant. Compassion, concern and now guilt. What next? An unrequited attraction to teddy bears?*

If this was the way his Sire felt all the time, it was a wonder Peaches hadn't taken a walk at noon by now. And Spike was pretty sure the guilt was a hundred times worse for Angel - him being ALL soul-having and all.

Reluctantly, Spike kneeled in front of the Guardian. Her eyes were closed, her arms still wrapped protectively around her ribs and he couldn't tell if she was conscious or not. Gently, he pushed her hair away from her face. She flinched but did not open her eyes. Her lips moved slightly. He inched closer.

"No more, no... more..."

Spike frowned but didn't back off. Instead, he leaned forward, took the Guardian securely in his arms and stood.

She was bleeding again.

He laid her down on the bed then went into the bathroom and started filling the tub with hot water. He went back to the bedroom and finished undressing Morghane. When he saw the extent of the damage he had caused, his heart twisted in his chest.

*Didn't even know an unbeating heart could do that.*

He got a damp washcloth and wiped away the blood. He felt his fangs drop but fought to keep a human face. Wouldn't do for the Guardian to toast him when she woke up because she found a vampire salivating over her naked form.

By the time he was done, Morghane was shivering and whispering softly in a language he didn't understand. Maybe old Gaelic.

He scooped her up once again and deposited her in the hot water of the tub. She stirred and her eyes opened to small slits.

"Spike?" she murmured, puzzled. "What... what are you... doing?"

"Shut up, Guardian," he growled.

He got a clean washcloth, dumped some scented bath oil on it and began working the lather against her skin cautiously.

Morghane closed her eyes again. She didn't have the energy to try and figure out what was going on. At least he wasn't trying to hurt her anymore. So she was naked and a demon was giving her a bath. So what? At least it was a new experience.

Her 1700 years had left her quite jaded that way.

She really was dying, and her mind was the first to go.

Spike washed her neck, then her shoulders, her arms, her hands - to the very tip of her fingers. When the washcloth brushed against her left breast she tensed, but he quickly steered away to concentrate on her stomach. Then he moved on to her feet, her calves, her thighs.

She relaxed. It felt good. It had been so long since another being had shown her such kindness, she refused to question it.

She was dazed.

When the washcloth hiked between her legs, she jumped. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt like lead. "Spike..."

"Look, Guardian," he grumbled, "I'm trying to show I'm sorry here and it's the only way I know how. I'm new at this guilt nonsense, so shut up and enjoy before I change my mind, okay?"

She didn't answer. All basic verbal skills went out the window. She felt detached, like she was still dreaming. Could Guardians suffer from shock?

Her reasoning skills went the way of the verbal ones when Spike's blunt teeth closed around a nipple. She groaned.

"Sorry," he murmured around her flesh, thinking he had hurt her. He used his tongue to soothe the hardening nub and she moaned.

Spike quickly realized that the logistics were proving too much of a challenge. He rinsed Morghane, picked her up and rolled her in a towel. She could barely stand, she was sleepwalking.

Which, in his opinion, was just as well. At least she wasn't talking.

He carried her to the bed and deposited her on the mattress. He divested her of the towel with a flick of his wrist and went back to suckling on her right breast without pause. Goose bumps erupted along her sides. He lavished attention on each nipple, teasing them to hardness until she lifted a weak hand and he understood that she could not bear any more. His tongue traced a languid path along the sensitive underside of her breasts while his hands softly massaged her hips. He kissed her navel, careful to stay away from the wound left by the Sepulcher. It was an angry red, the size of a dollar coin; the flesh was charred around the edges and it refused to heal. He laved the bruises covering her ribs with the tip of his tongue. She was trembling and whimpering under his ministrations.

He kneeled between her parted legs, nipping at the inside of her thighs, taking in mouthfuls of skin, working her flesh with tongue and teeth. When he reached her apex, she was shaking, murmuring incoherently again.

He lifted his head briefly to look at the medieval beauty of her face. Morghane stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Her cheeks were flushed - from her arousal or the fever she had been fighting all day, he couldn't tell. She obviously wasn't all there.

Fine by him.

Startled, he realized that he did not expect to get any release for himself. It was his act of contrition, his gift to her, a reprieve from the constant pain. That said, it didn't mean he wasn't enjoying himself. After all, it had been a while - *Harmony just doesn't bear thinking about* - and he never did get the chance to play with Angelus and work out some pent-up tension. This could be fun.

Smiling thinly, Spike placed an openmouthed, wet kiss on her clit and she gasped. He moved away from her sex to lick the patch of velvety skin right above her soft curls. She smelled like jasmine, clean soap. And rain. Her muscles contracted under his lips and she raised her hips off the bed, longingly. He slipped a hand around her, caressing her haunches, tracing the cleft between the delightfully rounded globes and she mewled when he found the circle of sensitive skin there. Spurred on by her ragged breaths, the vampire lowered his mouth to her core.

She bucked against his face, arching her spine, bringing herself closer to his lips. He sipped the moisture off her silky inner lips, lapping unevenly - long strokes that started at the bottom of her sex and ended with a sweep of his tongue around the tight little mound of her pleasure. He could almost taste the blood pounding and flowing under the incredibly thin skin. Her clitoris throbbed with the desperate beating of her heart.

Making love to Drusilla in the good old days had always been a rewarding, if slightly frantic experience, but there was something to be said for the feeling of a warm, living body in his arms, under his mouth. The sex did not quite bring the same fulfillment as a good feed, but the mere whisper of the blood rushing in Morghane's veins to meet his questing tongue was enough to make him dizzy. In any other circumstances, Spike would have sunk his fangs in her soft thighs, or even better in the hot, wet flesh of her outer folds, drinking in both her blood and her dew before burying his hardness in her core to the hilt. The Guardian might even have liked it.

But he knew better than that. More than a century ago, Darla had entertained them with the tale of a young, starving vampire who had been stupid enough to choose the blood of a Guardian over death. The Guardian in question had lived to see another day, but the vampire, unprepared for the consequences of his act, had gone mad and met the rising sun. Spike had no intention of meeting the same fate. He wasn't THAT far gone over the edge yet.

Morghane contorted under his hands and Spike shook away his wandering thoughts. He attached his mouth to her left nipple and without warning thrust two fingers in her warm channel. She cried out as her inner muscles clenched around his knuckles. She was panting heavily, writhing on the bed. Small, agonized sounds escaped her parted lips when Spike added a third finger, thrusting in and out of her, his palm rubbing her clit with maddening roughness.

"Please..." she gasped.

In other times, Spike would have enjoyed the power he held over the Guardian and prolonged the cruel teasing indefinitely, denying her the sweet release. But dominating Morghane wasn't the point of this whole exercise and he knew she couldn't ride the wave of frustration much longer before pleasure became unbearable pain. She was too weak.

He increased the tempo of his fingers, pressed the pad of his thumb firmly on her clit and bit her nipple bluntly.

That did it.

Morghane jerked and arched off the bed, screaming, her honey flowed over his hand and her tight muscles trapped his fingers viciously. Keeping his mouth to her breast and his hand to her sex, he let her ride out the pleasure, bringing her back down slowly from the brink. Her legs shook. She trembled convulsively and he enfolded her in his arms, kissing the delicious patch of skin behind her ear softly.

Then she was still.

Spike lifted his eyes to her face. She had lost consciousness again. He sighed. She did that a lot lately.

With a groan he turned onto his side, refraining from grinding his painful erection into her thigh, and stifled the urge to steal his own release from her unconscious body. He would have to take care of it by himself then.

This virtuous-circle thing was no fun.

No fun at all.

All things considered, Angel was having a good night.

Doyle had been free of any visions in the last few days so they were case-free, the injuries inflicted by Marcus were mostly healed and he was sitting comfortably in the quiet of his office. Not even brooding, just reflecting. What more could a vampire need?

*You want a list?*

No. No self-pity, not tonight anyway. The memory of his first sunrise in two hundred years would be enough to sustain him for another lifetime, and Oz had called with the assurance that Buffy was safe and sound in Sunnydale.

No, really. What more could a 243-year-old vampire with a soul want?

Besides a closer look at Parker Abrams' insides.

Angel shook his head roughly.

No. He had no right to give into his darker urges simply because Buffy had done what he had told her to do. But he couldn't summon the strength to be happy that she was trying to move on. He had given so much already and he was so tired, he didn't know if he could give any more. And she had been hurt. Parker had taken her most precious gift and thrown it in her face. He deserved to spend forty- eight hours trapped in a torture chamber with Angelus for sole company to atone for this blasphemy.

The ringing of the phone pulled him out of his thoughts of blood and mayhem and he heard Cordelia's voice filter through the door.

"Doyle, get that. My nails aren't dry yet."

Angel felt a slow, closed smile spread across his lips. He was grateful that those two were here, that he didn't have to be in this alone. Sure they could be annoying sometimes. He wasn't used to sharing his personal space with anyone on a regular basis and he knew that he wasn't the easiest person to be around. But still they stood by him. It didn't make a difference that Doyle had been sent by the Powers That Be to assist him, or that Cordelia still clung to the charade that Angel Investigations was just a temporary, insignificant step on her way to stardom. They stayed because they cared.

When Angel had left Sunnydale, he was shattered. He was leaving Buffy behind, forsaking love, friendship and acceptance - renouncing the sun for the second time in two hundred years - and it was like taking Darla up on her offer all over again. Like being cursed. He had tried to prepare himself to return to his life before Buffy, an existence of low-grade misery and the constant ache of solitude.

Except without the rats and the filth - that he couldn't take again.

He knew he wouldn't last long and couldn't quite bring himself to care. He did not possess the shield of a hundred years of deliberate starvation for human contact any longer. Buffy had ripped that away from him, stripped him bare. He was supposed to go back to a life of isolation and perpetual guilt naked, unarmed, exposed, divested of the protective distance he had cultivated for years, reduced to the basic remnants of his self, raw. It was Buffy's blinding gift to him, this rediscovery of who he was, who he could be under the layers of pain and regret, who he had become under her gaze and in her arms, basking in her love. And it was his damnation too. He could not go back to the insensitive wraith he had been for so long before her; yet the only thing that he could ever hope to feel again was the uncaring embrace of loneliness.

And the stark understanding that he would be denied the completion his soul hungered for until the day he finally turned to dust.

His best friend. His lover.

Then Cordelia and Doyle came along and it wasn't only about misery and despair anymore. Yes, his arms still longed for Buffy, his mouth was still tingling with the taste of her and he missed her with brutal agony sometimes, but he had also gained two friends and he was free to luxuriate in the sweet display of their unwavering loyalty. In Sunnydale, he had found love but also friendship, for a short time, and he missed that too. Family. Friends. Suddenly, it didn't matter that a few months back Cordelia wouldn't have crossed the street to give him the time of day or that he still ignored everything about Doyle's past. Angel wasn't alone and he felt like weeping in gratitude. At some point he realized that maybe being away from Buffy could bring its own rewards. He would find out more about who he was in the shadows, away from her all-encompassing light, and he would become worthy of her love. Even if he never found a way to get rid of the curse, he would strive to deserve her respect. And if some day she decided that her life was better with someone else by her side, he would learn to be happy for her. After all, that's what he had always wanted for his Slayer.

His soul howled in anguish at the thought.

But he would learn. He would. He had started with the destruction of the Gem of Amara. He had renounced the sun a third time. There was a lot of sound, practical reasons why getting rid of the ring was the only viable option, but the truth was, he couldn't lie to himself about his own nature. He would have, before. Not anymore. He was what he was, dreadful as it sounded, and he wasn't about to surrender all sense of responsibility to a piece of jewelry. He wanted to believe that he was a better man than this.

Out of the blue, his sensitive hearing picked up something really strange coming from the outer office.

Complete, undisturbed, perfect silence.

No keyboard sounds, no Cordelia bitching about this or that, no Doyle trying to sweet-talk her into going out with him for a beer.

Nothing.

And then, a strangled gasp.

"Angel!"

He was on his feet in an instant and threw the door open. Then froze in his tracks.

He felt his face shift and growled.

"Spike."

His Childe was standing nonchalantly in the frame of the open front door, a smirk twisting his lips. He was looking at Cordelia in amusement - which was somewhat brash since she held a crossbow aimed at his heart - and his scarred eyebrow was raised doubtfully.

"Watch out, luv. You gonna hurt someone with that thing."

Cordelia's aim did not waver. "That would be you, Bleachie. Because I'll be damned before I let you get anywhere near Angel ever again, you sadistic bastard."

She wasn't joking.

Doyle stood steadfastly by her side, stake in hand, and his expression made quite clear that he shared Cordelia's anger and then some.

Angel inserted himself quickly between his Childe and his friends before Cordelia and Doyle lost it in their touching haste to protect him. He forced his face back to its human disguise and took a threatening step towards the younger vampire. "What are you doing here, Spike? If you've come back for the Gem, I destroyed it days ago."

Spike shook his head mournfully, then surprised them by sighing.

"No, Precious. I'm not here for the bloody ring. I have something much more important to show you."

"Yah, right," interrupted Doyle. "Like he's gonna go anywhere with ye. Ye really are slow, ain't ya?"

Spike snarled.

Cordelia's index tightened around the trigger.

"You can all come along for all I care, but time is of the essence here so if you could PLEASE move your collective arses to the car, I would be most grateful... That polite enough for you? I'm parked in front of the door."

With that Spike disappeared, leaving three very stunned people in his wake.

Angel hung his head in resignation and heaved an unnecessary sigh. Why tergiversate, he was going to follow Spike anyway - if only to make sure that his wayward Childe wasn't in L.A. to cause any-more trouble. Ignoring Cordelia's gasp of surprise, he went out the front door and descended the few steps to the De Soto parked along the sidewalk.

Spike was leaning over the back seat of the car. When he turned around, Angel recognized the figure huddled in his arms and he roared.

"What did you do?!"

Spike backed away, trying to extend a placating hand while still holding the Guardian against his chest. "Now, now, Peaches, let's not get carried away, okay? I didn't do anything. Why would I bring the Guardian to you in the first place if I wanted to hurt her? Besides, you think I could up her in a fight even if she wasn't trying to defend herself?"

Angel took a deep breath. Spike actually made sense.

*What are the odds?*

But Spike and his explanations were not what mattered right now. The sight before him made Angel shudder with dread.

"Bring her inside," ordered the older vampire.

Without comment, Spike did as he was told.

*

As soon as they were inside and Angel had made sure no one followed after them, the dark-haired vampire turned to confront his Childe, ready to take the Guardian from his arms.

Spike snarled at him and vamped out.

"I stay with her. Don't argue with me. You can rip me a new one later, but right now I need to put her in bed, somewhere warm."

Taken aback by Spike's outburst, Angel thought about confronting the younger vampire and making him relinquish Morghane by force. But it was quickly becoming obvious that Spike would not go quietly - and that he didn't intend to harm the Guardian just then.

With a tight nod, Angel led the way to his apartment. Deciding to forego the freight elevator *wouldn't want to end up trapped in a small enclosed space with my unpredictable Childe*, he went down the flight of stairs, Spike and his precious cargo behind him. Doyle and Cordy quietly brought up the rear - mute in the face of Angel's stormy expression. The older vampire opened the door and let everyone in past the caged-in desk clerk. With a slight nod of his chin, he ordered Spike to follow him into the bedroom.

Without taking the time to survey his surroundings, Spike went straight for the bed. Holding the Guardian with one arm, he drew away the white and gold striped duvet and arranged the pillows before depositing his unconscious burden on the mattress. The small mewls of his leather duster were the only sounds disturbing the peace; Morghane was barely breathing.

She looked otherworldly. Her pale face, her fiery hair, like an escapee from a Gustave Moreau fantasy. An exhausted Salome. Or Lilith after the Fall. The one whose name Genesis had erased.

Spike proceeded to ensconce her securely inside the covers, then, satisfied, turned around to face his Sire.

Angel was deeply disturbed - on several levels - by what he had just witnessed, but decided to wait until they were back in the living room to start a conversation that could quickly become heated.

Tacitly, they all agreed to retreat to the study in silence.

Angel kept his voice level. "What the fuck is going on?"

Cordy flinched. Angel never swore.

As it was, Doyle decided it would be fun to add his two cents to an already confusing situation.

"How's the Guardian doin'?"

Angel froze, then turned to stare at the half-demon, nonplused. "You know Morghane?"

The smaller man shrugged nervously, fidgeting. "Yeah, I... I work for her sometimes, like Whistler, ye know."

Angel opened his mouth and realized he had a million questions to ask. Yet none of them were important just now.

"Who's Morghane?"

Angel exhaled deeply. Cordelia had been uncommonly subdued so far and the state of grace was over. "She's the Guardian. Kind of like the Slayer, except that she's a mage and she's 1700 years old. I'll explain the details later, or Doyle can fill you in." Turning his back on a very bewildered Cordy, the older vampire faced Spike once more, trying to fight the impulse to torture the answers out of him.

The standard master vampire procedure.

"Explain."

Spike didn't beat around the bush. "Two nights ago in Sunnydale the Guardian was attacked by a powerful warlock and an army of vampires. They used the Sepulcher. She's dying."

Angel didn't have the time to express his shock. Doyle moaned softly beside him. "Oh God."

"What?"

"Morghane was here three days ago, in L.A.. She wanted to see ye, see how ye were holding on after the whole Amara business, ye know? But I had a vision. A black Mage in Sunnydale, and she left. She made me swear not to tell ye she had been here or where she was goin'. She didn't want ye gettin' into trouble. She said she would come back once she was done. The vision didn't show anythin' about... that." Doyle seemed genuinely distressed. "I swear, Angel, I would never have kept quiet otherwise."

The vampire clenched his fists and nodded stiffly. "Don't worry, Doyle. She made you promise. I know how Morghane can be." He fought down the overwhelming nausea that rose from his stomach to his throat at the thought of Morghane having to face the Sepulcher alone. "What is your part in this, Spike?"

The blonde vampire shrugged, falsely disinterested. "The Guardian was too weak to protect herself any longer and there are things that still need to be done. She used a spell to bind me to her, so I would act as her bodyguard."

Angel nodded. He knew of such spells. Yet, although it explained some of Spike's behavior, it didn't account for all of it. So many mysteries and no time to get to the bottom of it. One of his best friends was slowly and painfully fading away in his bedroom and Angel was growing increasingly frustrated.

"She was in Sunnydale. What about Buffy? I know Morghane's policy concerning the Slayer, but if this doesn't qualify as an emergency, I don't know what does."

Spike growled, a deep rumbling sound, but Angel knew instinctively that whoever was the target of the vampire's ire, it wasn't him.

Doyle and Cordelia, however, always the cautious pair, took a step back.

"The Watcher threw her out of his house before she could explain. She didn't share the details. She... she has been in and out of consciousness for the past two days." In the midst of his anger, Angel noticed Spike's uncharacteristic hesitation and stored it away for future reference. "I think the Watcher was pissed off because she was the one who sent you to Sunnydale. We all know how her little initiative nicely backfired... And I don't think he's aware of what she did when you reverted to type."

Angel winced deeply but ignored the confused glances his associates sent his way. God. Bringing everyone up to speed was going to take ages, not to mention dredge up a lot of angst. As it was, he couldn't think for the undiscerning rage that threatened to rip away his hard-won control - as his Childe explained why the people in Sunnydale had basically sent Morghane away to die. His shoulders were hunched - tight, poised fury obvious in every feature, every muscle, every nerve of his dead body.

"You're telling me that Giles refused to help her because she didn't know about the clause, and simply decided to let her die?" he ground out, his jaw clenched.

Spike shook his head. "She didn't have time to tell him about the Sepulcher, that she was dying, that a new Guardian would be called soon and need the Slayer's protection. He didn't want to listen. She wouldn't come to you, but when she passed out in my arms I had to make a decision so I brought her here. I didn't know where else to go."

The younger vampire seemed disturbed by that thought.

Angel took a moment to try and reassure his Childe. "You did good, Will."

Spike groaned. "No, not you too..."

Angel ignored him and went straight for the phone, his stride confident and even. Stalking - the long, smooth, lithe, lustrous form of a tiger in his natural habitat. The shadows of the dim apartment clung to him like unsatiated lovers.

No one dared stand in his path.

He picked up the receiver and dialed Giles' number from memory. The Watcher answered after the third ring, sounding slightly rattled.

"Ah... Hello?"

"Giles, it's Angel," announced the vampire, fighting to keep a civil tone.

Silence on the other end.

Stunned silence to be precise. Angel hadn't been in touch with anyone back in Sunnydale even once since he had left after graduation - besides Oz of course. Cordelia handled most of the necessary communications. He could understand that the Watcher was taken aback, but he didn't have the patience to properly handle anyone's feelings right then.

Least of all Giles'.

"Uh... how are you doing, Angel? We heard about Spike's..."

"Morghane is here."

No. No patience at all.

Giles cleared his throat noisily. "Angel, I'm sorry but I can't deal with her right now. Whatever the matter is, I would very much... appreciate it if you could take care of it. Buffy can't afford to take on more responsibilities..."

"Cut the bullshit, Watcher." Cordelia had followed only half of the conversation, but she could just picture Giles keeling over, his omnipresent cup of tea crashing on the floor. "Buffy's duty has nothing to do with this and we both know it. You can't forgive Morghane for sending to Sunnydale the man who fucked up so much of the life of YOUR Slayer."

"Now, Angel, there are things you don't know about. This has nothing to do with what you confided in me last year. Although I wasn't... overjoyed, Morghane's decision can be defended."

"Then what is it?"

"Did you know that Jenny contacted the Guardian to help with the curse? Morghane did not come to Sunnydale and perform it herself, she just sent her the means to translate it. We both know how THAT went over. I... I will never forgive her for this. Never."

Angel closed his eyes and gripped the phone tighter, swaying slightly.

Familiar feelings grazed the surface of his consciousness. Guilt, for killing Jenny of course. And shame. But most of all anger. The Watcher blamed Morghane, yet he had no idea of what had really transpired in Sunnydale before and after the tragic death of the computer teacher. Of course, no one knew but Angel, Spike, Morghane and Drusilla. He wasn't angry at the Watcher for ignoring the facts. He was angry at him for judging Morghane so quickly, not giving her the chance to explain. Sentencing her to die alone.

Giles was still rambling on in his ear. "I'm surprised she kept this fundamental piece of information from you," he added nastily. "Why don't you go ask her about it?"

Angel's face was so much a reflection of Angelus' at that moment that even Spike shivered.

"Oh, I would just love to ask her about it, Watcher. Except for a couple of things. I already knew. And Morghane is dying."

"What?!"

The vampire didn't know which statement Giles was reacting to, and he didn't care. "You wouldn't be so surprised if you had let Morghane put two sentences together last night. She went to Sunnydale a couple of days ago to battle a warlock and fell into a trap. He caught her unprepared, went after her with the Sepulcher. She put a gais on Spike so he would protect her in the meantime. She went to you because she's going to die soon and a new Guardian will be called. She probably thought she would give you and Buffy a fair warning before the Council came after you both to handle baby-sitting duty."

"I... I didn't..."

"I don't want to hear it, Giles," Angel interrupted coldly. Deadly. "You will come to L.A. right away. Take all the books you'll need to save her. If there's anything you require, I will provide it for you by any means necessary. And one last thing, Watcher." Angel bared his teeth in an unconscious gesture of dominance. "You can hold me responsible for everything that went wrong in Sunnydale, for the death of your lover, for Buffy's pain and your suffering. I will take whatever punishment you see fit to inflict on me. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe you. But you will never speak of Morghane in this way in my presence or show her such disrespect ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear, Angel," Giles bit out.

"You better be here tonight, Watcher, or I'll come after you. And if you think you've seen the worst of me... think again."

With that, Angel slowly hung up the phone.

Spike crossed Angel's apartment first one way then the other before returning to his vigil by the bedroom door, like a caged animal coming up against the boundaries of its new territory for the first time.

Cordelia was in the bedroom bandaging Morghane's wounds and the men had been unceremoniously thrown out to wait in the living room. Patience was not Spike's strongest suit - oh sweet understatement - and he had been pacing for the best part of the last twenty minutes, snarling at Angel's attempts to calm him down.

Now his Sire sat in a lounge chair while Doyle was in the kitchen fixing them a drink. Spike just wished the Irishman would bring the damn bottle already. Angel wore his best poker face, his eyes tracking his Childe without missing a beat. It didn't bode well for him. The older vampire looked like a predator on the look out.

Spike didn't have long to wait.

"So what's the story?"

Although he expected the question, Spike jumped anyway. "What do you mean?"

Angel didn't even blink. "Don't play stupid with me, Spike, you're gonna win."

The blonde vampire felt a growl forming at the back of his throat but his Sire's somber expression dissuaded him to even try. He sighed, almost collapsing against the wall behind his back. Angel would learn the truth sooner or later.

"The binding spell had an interesting side effect. Because Morghane's bonded to you and well... you and I are sort of bonded together by blood... the magick tied me to the ethereal community. Not quite a soul for good 'ole Spike - you've still got the exclusivity on that one - but close enough."

Angel shook his head. "I... I felt... something. I didn't know... I thought it might have come from the link I share with Morghane. It acts up once in a while, usually when she's tired or hurt and her psychic shields are down... So what does it mean?"

Spike shrugged, at a loss to explain the nature of what was happening to him.

"I don't know. I guess I'm becoming like Irish boy there." Angel had explained everything about Doyle. "What... a... a humanized demon?"

"Doyle is half human. He's something different from you and me." Angel looked at his Childe intently. "I'm here to help, Will... if you need me."

"It's not like I've got my soul back, you know," Spike felt the need to defend himself.

Angel nodded. "I know. And I'm glad, in a way. It's... painful. But human feelings are still hard to get reacquainted to. I remember. Everything was so overwhelming..."

"I'm sorry," interrupted Spike gruffly without looking his Sire in the eye.

This was so bloody embarrassing.

"About what?"

Spike groaned. *Of course the big poof is gonna make me spell it out.*

"The ring. What I did to you." He exhaled. "Torturing you."

"And enjoying it?"

"Yes."

Angel got out of his chair and took the few steps necessary to reach his Childe, trying to appear non-threatening. He brought a finger under Spike's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"You're my Childe, Spike. Soul or no soul, nothing can change that. I made you into the demon you became. Holding you responsible for your actions since then is pointless. But now I can tell you this, because it's not meaningless to you anymore." He paused. "I forgive you."

Spike's stare wavered and he struggled to swallow. *Pathetic. I'm pathetic.* But he couldn't help his next words just the same. "How come you can see that in me, but not in yourself?" he grumbled.

Unknowingly bringing up a long-standing point of contention between Angel and the Slayer.

Uncomfortable now, Angel took a step back, acting like he hadn't heard Spike at all.

"I can smell her on you, you know," he said simply.

Startling Spike.

"What?"

"Morghane. I can smell her on your skin."

Spike retreated slowly.

Just in case his Sire decided to go for his throat and put him out of his misery once and for all.

"Ah... I... uh... I gave her a bath."

Angel smirked. "That's not the smell I was talking about. Give me some credit, Spike. I'm still a master vampire."

Spike went on the offensive. "And you remember how she smells, don't you?" he fired back.

Angel growled. "This is not about me, Spike."

"Calm down, you two."

Surprised, the two vampires spun around.

Morghane, dwarfed by one of Angel's black cotton shirts, was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, supported by Cordelia.

Immediately, Angel went to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. He nodded his thanks to Cordy then escorted Morghane to the nearest couch.

"You shouldn't be out of bed."

Once seated among the plush cushions, the Guardian looked up at him with a grin. "Thanks, Daddy." She noticed Spike hovering worriedly in the background. "Leave Spike alone, Angel. He was just trying to... help. Relieve the pain. At least I got to have a good time before I die."

Cordelia made a disgusted face. "You and SPIKE. Yuck."

Undaunted, Spike wriggled his eyebrows at the former cheerleader. "Wait 'til you try it, pet."

"Hey, watch it," warned Doyle, returning from the kitchen, a glass of scotch in each hand.

"Children," admonished Morghane.

She lifted her eyes again when Angel's hand caressed her shoulder.

His eyes glinted like stones. "You are not going to die, Morghane."

She smiled sadly. "It's gonna be okay, Angel."

"Am I not the one who's supposed to say that to you?" he asked, his throat tight.

"Cm' ere," she said, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater.

He sat down next to her on the couch and she leaned against his side. "It's all gonna be okay," she repeated. "I'm glad to see you."

His expression softened. "I'm glad you're here," he murmured, embracing her, hiding his face in her neck.

His cold tears soaked the soft skin of her throat.

Raising her eyes over Angel's shoulder, Morghane caught Spike staring at them.

"Thank you," she mouthed.

He mumbled back. "You're welcome."

*

"Why didn't you come to me right away, Morghane? Why didn't you tell me you were going to Sunnydale in the first place?"

He trailed off.

"Is it because of... of what happened when I... when I changed?"

"No. No, Angel. Never that." Emphatic.

"Then... why?"

Morghane sighed and shook her head again.

They had been at it since they had moved from Angel's underground apartment to his office. Spike had unilaterally decided to give them some quiet time alone and dragged Cordelia and Doyle in the outer office on the pretense of doing a quick Internet search on the Sepulcher. Cordy had been all too happy to show off her newly acquired computer skills.

Now Morghane rested in the lounge seat Angel had carried over from Cordy's office and the vampire was leaning forward in his desk chair.

She let her eyes fall on the thick leather book open on Angel's desk. 'Trait des apparitions des Esprits, Revenants en corps, Anges, Dmons, Vampires de Silsie et de Moravie' by Dom Calmet.

She remembered meeting the French scholar over a hundred years ago. The guy was a complete loony.

She briefly thought about mentioning it to Angel.

"Morghane?"

The wonderful, stubborn man wasn't going to let it go.

"It's what I do, Angel. I've done it a hundred times before. A thousand. I didn't know this was anything but your run-of-the-mill black mage. There was no reason to drag you all the way back to Sunnydale - and take the risk of you running across a very ticked off Slayer."

Angel faltered. "She's angry at me?"

His voice soft. Childlike.

Morghane felt like smacking herself, but she probably wouldn't survive it.

"I don't know, Aingeal," she murmured, retreating behind his Celtic name. "I can't read minds. I just don't think she would have been happy to see you back on her territory so soon after you left. She needs time."

The vampire nodded quietly. "She's moved on."

Now the Guardian felt like smacking HIM. Since she didn't have the strength to do that either, she resigned herself to an exasperated sigh. "You can believe that, if that's what you want," she answered.

Two could play dense.

Angel backed off. "It's not important now. You're all that matters. We need to find a way of disrupting the spell, discover who did this to you," he added, adamant.

Morghane stifled a groan. Why, but why did he always think he was less important than everybody else around him? That he just did not matter.

From her point of view, the idea was so ludicrous it was laughable.

But in all honesty, she knew why he had such warped view of his self. It had been pounded into him first by his father when he was human, then by a hundred years alone on the streets after he got his soul back, by five centuries of mind-numbing torture in Hell in the sole company of sadistic demons bent on breaking him; and again by the Sunnydale crowd who had all but convinced Angel that he wasn't worth the effort of being forgiven and loved when he finally made it back from the demon dimension.

However much pain it had caused all around, she was glad he had eventually made the small, selfish decision to leave. There was so much yet to achieve, so many great things yet to be done. His soul needed the reprieve that Cordy and Doyle's simple, free, uncompromising friendship could provide. Angel still needed to give - it was in his nature. But he also needed to receive, to grow - to regain his trust in a world that ignored his existence and had often wounded him so deeply.

Uncaring.

So much pain. Such a beautiful soul.

She gave him a quick hug - surprising him - and kissed his cheek softly. Then she reclined in her chair, biting back a pained groan. Her ribs were still tender. She knew he saw her wince and was getting ready to drag her back to bed kicking and screaming.

She hastened to put the discussion back on track.

"You're not getting out of this conversation so easily, you know."

"And you're going back downstairs to lie down and rest, my Lady," he countered, addressing her properly.

A title she despised and he knew it.

In the end, neither won the staring contest. Their sparring match was interrupted by the rattle of the opening front door.

Morghane tried to stand but Angel wrapped an arm around her waist before she could complete the motion. She smiled in gratitude as he helped her up.

They slowly made their way out of the office.

"Well, well, well," remarked Cordelia snidely, "the gang's all here."

She stood tall and proud between Doyle and Spike, ready to defend her turf and her friends.

Which included the woman now leaning heavily against Angel, struggling to remain on her feet.

In the short time she had spent in Morghane's company, Cordy had learned to respect the Guardian. Contrary to standard practice, Morghane had not dismissed her as a brainless bimbo as soon as she laid eyes on the former cheerleader. She had even made it a point to thank Cordelia soberly for staying by Angel's side. And if Angel held her in such high regards - well, that alone made her worthy of Cordelia Chase's esteem.

*Since when do I rely on a socially inept vampire as a personality barometer?* she mused. Then shrugged it off quickly. She might not have been renowned for her perceptiveness, but even she could sense the tension gathering in the overcrowded lobby.

It looked a lot like the L.A. team and the Scooby Gang were facing off.

Willow and Oz stood close to Xander, who looked really ticked off. Anya had been left behind on the Hellmouth. Then came Giles - his expression was unreadable - and Buffy. The Slayer's eyes were riveted to Angel.

Her face seemed to close off when she noticed the Guardian holding onto his arm.

Angel looked lost, obviously misinterpreting Buffy's dark expression.

"Spike."

The blonde vampire turned towards the Guardian, an eyebrow arched in question.

"Can you help me sit down, please?"

Angel frowned when Spike approached and gently led Morghane to the closest chair.

*Smart move*, thought Cordelia. Wouldn't want to stand between the Slayer and her vampire.

"Thank you for coming," said Morghane. "Why don't you all find a place to sit down? This is going to take some time."

It took a while indeed.

By the time everybody had been brought up to speed the sun was rising and the vampires retreated to Angel's apartment to get some sleep. Morghane had to shoo them out, assuring them that she could make her own way down perfectly well. Cordy made a few phone calls and soon enough rooms had been booked in a nearby motel for the Slayer and her friends. Doyle offered to escort Cordelia home after making sure that the Guardian did not require his presence.

The Sunnydale crowd made a move to follow them out.

"Go ahead, guys. I'll join you in a few minutes," announced the Slayer.

Giles frowned. "Are you sure, Buffy? Do you want me to stay?"

"No, I'll be okay. I need to talk to Morghane. If you don't mind..." she said, facing the Guardian.

"Not at all."

Giles nodded, swallowing back an objection. "Very well. See you in a little while."

And then they were alone.

Buffy sat across Morghane, fidgeting.

The Guardian appeared even more exhausted than she had the previous night. She was so pale. Deep dark circles ringed her eyes like bruises. Her hands were shaking slightly; she looked weak and feverish. The green irises shined, unhealthy. She radiated heat.

"Do you want me to get you a glass of water or something? Maybe I should let you rest, this can wait..."

Morghane smiled kindly. "I'm fine, Buffy. I've been resting most of the night. I'm tired, but not sleepy. And no, this conversation can't wait."

The Slayer looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked, wriggling her hands in her lap.

"You have questions. About the bond. About Angel, you and me. So ask."

Buffy steeled herself, hesitating, then faced the Guardian squarely.

"Were you and Angel lovers?"

Morghane breathed deeply but did not try to escape the Slayer's probing gaze. "I'm not trying to evade the question, Buffy, I promise, but the answer really depends on the meaning you give to 'lovers'... Angel and I were never in love. But we did sleep together once. Before he came to Sunnydale. He needed to feel that he was still someone, and, well, as strange as it sounds, I needed the same thing.

"But we were never... we were not 'together', to employ today's phrasing. We were just friends seeking comfort from each other. It never went further than that. Certainly not after he met you. Can you accept that?"

Buffy kept silent for a long minute. She was not ecstatic, but she wasn't quite distressed either. She could understand what Morghane was saying. And she could accept it.

Was that growing up?

"Yes... yes, I think I can."

The Guardian grinned. "I didn't expect any less from you, Buffy." She paused. "But there's more on your mind."

"This 'empathy' thing is sorta unnerving, you know that?"

"Sorry, so I've been told."

Buffy shook her head to dismiss the apology. "S'okay. And you're right. There's one more thing I'd like to know. Well, many more things actually, but this is kind of the key issue... Hm... Do you... do you love him?"

Morghane gave her the same answer she gave Spike.

"Of course I do."

"Oh."

The Guardian sighed. Buffy was an amazing woman and Morghane had the utmost respect for her. But she was still a teenager. A wounded, confused teenager at that. She couldn't expect her to understand right away.

"Buffy, I know it sounds clich, but there are many different kinds of love. Sometimes I think it's a shame that we live in a society which insists on putting names on everything and having definitions for all sorts of relationships, but that's the way things are. I'm not making much sense, am I?"

She shook her head, fighting the bone-deep exhaustion. Buffy needed to be reassured right away.

"Angel is very dear to me. More than I can express. I love him like you must love Willow and Xander, like you love your Watcher, your mother. Maybe in a different way, because..." She suppressed an exasperated groan. This was so hard to explain. "A hundred years ago, when Angel's soul was returned, I was... I was ready to pass on the charge of being the Guardian to another. I had seen so much, been through so much. Try to imagine your lifetime up to now multiplied by a hundred.

"I was barely human anymore. I didn't have friends, no family, I was alienated from the Slayer, no allies... I didn't have time or even the desire to form any close relationships. I couldn't feel much of anything. My empathy had become more of a burden than a gift. And I realized... what good is a Guardian who cannot feel anything for humanity any longer? Who doesn't care? And I just couldn't dredge up the strength to care. Not about my life, not about the lives of others. I was just going through the motions. I was dead in all the ways that count. And I understood that I had to give up. Too much depended on the Guardian for me to go on like that.

"And then the Kalderash returned his soul to Angel. I had never felt anything like it before. It was... there really are no words. It was like the fabric of the universe had been torn apart and my self with it. The agony... indescribable. But it marked the return of feelings. Anger, at first. Then caring. I created the bond between me and Angel, and suddenly I was linked to him. To this amazing being who could feel so much, who cared so deeply.

"Yes, for a century I shared mostly pain, loneliness, anguish and guilt. I wish I could have been there for him in a more meaningful way... but other obligations got in the way. Still, it was something. Like being reborn. Recreated. I owed him so much. So when you were called, I decided to interfere with the Slayer in a way I had never done before. I sent him to you. And I relearned. Love, the feeling of belonging - to a place, to someone - friendship, acceptance, loyalty, support. All the things you gave to him. All the gifts he offered you.

"So you see. Yes, Angel is a part of me. But that doesn't make what you share with him any less meaningful, or any less exceptional. And believe me when I say that Angel has enough love in him for you, for me, for the whole world to share. Trust me. I've seen his soul. I know."

Morghane fell silent, slumping slightly in her chair. Talking for so long had depleted the meager reserves of energy she had left, but she was glad she had finally shared this with someone. With the Slayer.

Buffy dragged a trembling hand through her hair, over her face, shaken. All the things Morghane had shared with her. And she understood it all. She felt gratitude - recognizing the significance of this gift, of the insight she had been given.

Then the pain returned.

"We're not... not together that way anymore. He told me... told me he didn't want to be with me. Then he left without saying good-bye."

Morghane stared into the shining, tortured eyes of the Slayer. Feeling her own heart break to pieces. Gathering the frayed remnants of her strength, she leant forward and drew Buffy against her without a word.

Unresisting, the Slayer wrapped her arms around the Guardian gratefully - shredded - muffling a sob in the copper strands of hair, her cheek against Morghane's throat.

"It still hurts so much. Why, why does it hurt so bad?"

Morghane shushed the young woman with soft, nonsensical sounds, caressing her back soothingly though her satin shirt.

*Your soul's weeping for its loss, little one. But I'll set things right, if it's the last thing I ever do.*

And it would be the last.

"Shh, now, Buffy. It will get better. It will. Give it time. Shh. It will all be okay. I promise. I promise."

And Buffy's tears mingled with Angel's on Morghane's skin.

*

"So can we recapitulate what we know about the Sepulcher?" asked Buffy, her mug of coffee firmly in hand.

Xander pinned her to the wall with his best killer stare.

To no avail. She wasn't even looking at him.

None of them had had nearly enough sleep - not that this was such an uncommon occurrence for the Scooby Gang - and the Slayer was far too chipper for Xander's taste.

He didn't quite understand Buffy's latest mood swing. She had been moping for all she was worth in the passenger seat of Oz' van on the way to L.A.. Her eyes had been planting virtual stakes in her ex-honey's heart the minute she had stepped into the office earlier that morning - which had given Xander a massive happy.

And now she was acting like the levelheaded, determined leader-of-the-pack she knew how to be in times of crisis, taking charge, driving them to find a cure for Morghane. As if the Guardian was her new bestest-of-all-best-friends.

That just did not make any sense. Buffy wasn't supposed to act all composed and responsible. They were in L.A. In Angel's office. With Angel. Trying to save the life of a woman who, in all likelihood, was one of Deadboy's old lovers for the love of God. By all rights the Slayer should be a basket case.

And to top it all, Cordy kept running interference each time Xander tried to take a dig at Angel. She was even subtle about it - at least when the vampire was in hearing distance. Xander's ears were still ringing from the stern talking-to she had delivered after cornering him in Angel's office.

And the whole time, Doyle and Spike had been grinning like maniacs in the background.

God. Even Blondie was playing bodyguard to Angel. What the fuck was going on? Were those people insane?

Spent too long in Tinseltown?

Xander didn't have a clue about the best way to deal with this new situation. He was in L.A. and he felt like he was trespassing on Angel's territory. Among people who Angel called friends.

Who called him friend in return.

*What next? The Nobel Peace Prize?*

It wasn't easy adapting to new circumstances so fast. He had avoided thinking much about the souled vampire since Angel had left Sunnydale - until that whole business with the ring of Amara anyway. Now he had to find a way to cope with his resurfacing resentment and awkward feelings of inadequacy.

His hatred towards the dark-haired vampire was in some way the simple way out and he knew it. His life was complicated enough, he didn't want to try and see things in any other color than black and white. Couldn't keep track of all the shades. Angel and Angelus each embodied one end of the spectrum. Trying to reconcile both and face a single man was more than Xander could handle.

And righteous anger was such an easy mask to wear. Undemanding. Didn't require more than one facial expression at a time, and it was the perfect outlet to all his pent-up teen angst.

Yet now he was faced with a second challenge to his clear-cut, comfortable, narrow appreciation of good and evil.

The Guardian.

Morghane had obviously gone out of her way to make the Slayer's life - Buffy's life - easier. Not to mention longer. For that Xander could only be grateful. But she was also the one responsible for Angel's presence in Sunnydale in the first place. And Giles did not, to be fair, hold her in his heart any way you looked at it.

Although, now that he thought about it, the Watcher was much more civil to her here than he had been in Sunnydale. Probably because she was dying. Yep. That would do it.

Xander respected Giles.

Xander loved Buffy.

Xander despised Angel.

Angel, who, appearances to the contrary, Xander had, at one time, considered a friend - until the vampire tried to kill them all.

Giles was Xander's mentor. The father figure, occasionally the big brother too. And a deep, bonding camaraderie with Oz was nowhere in the near future. Angel should have been his most meaningful male friendship. Could have been.

Had been.

Xander wasn't quite sure who should be blamed for the destruction of that relationship - the loss of that opportunity - any longer.

More uncertainty.

No. Surely, sticking to the old patterns was the way to go here.

Surely.

"So?" Buffy prompted.

Giles took his cue. "The Sepulcher is a demonic artifact that can be traced back as far as the beginning of ages - before humanity drove the demons out of this dimension. It can be utilized in conjunction with a specific incantation to disrupt the most potent spells by severing the magical ties between the spell and its recipient. The Sepulcher spell, however, takes several days to complete itself.

"It has been used against Guardians three times already. The last time, the Sepulcher was cast out of this plane to the ethereal dimension by the Guardian herself before her final death. I have no idea how it could have been brought back to earth. It would take an incredibly powerful mage to summon it back - or an even stronger demon."

"The demon connection would make sense, considering the number of vampires who took Morghane down," ventured Angel, who was leaning against a wall opposite Giles.

The office had been transformed into an impromptu replica of the Watcher's home. Ancient volumes littered almost every inch of space available. It had taken them about fifteen minutes to unload Oz's van. Giles had brought his entire library and Angel had carried his non-negligible personal collection up from his apartment.

"I agree," said the Watcher, keeping his gaze steady on the dark-haired vampire.

Angel had been quite subdued so far and Giles had some difficulty reconciling this new attitude with the menacing, cold, unforgiving voice on the phone.

Was it guilt?

Of course, this sudden turnabout could also be explained by Buffy's presence in the room.

As far as Giles was aware, the former lovers had yet to exchange more than a couple of strained 'hellos'. He didn't know what Buffy and Morghane had talked about earlier that morning. The Slayer had knocked softly on the door of his hotel room to let him know that she had made it back safely. She knew he had been awaiting her return to go to sleep.

Her eyes had been bloodshot, the tear tracks on her face unmistakable, but she had seemed more peaceful, lighter than she had been in a long while. She had admonished him to get some sleep with an enigmatic smile, before retreating to her own room.

The mechanical groans announcing the arrival of the freight elevator brought his silent musings to a screeching halt.

They all turned around to face Spike and Cordelia.

Their expressions were grim.

Angel gracefully pushed himself away from the wall to meet them. "How is she?"

Buffy inched closer.

"She finally fell asleep," explained the former May Queen. "I rebandaged her wounds. She... she's not healing... well."

Angel turned towards his Childe.

"Will?"

The younger vampire met his Sire's gaze with troubled blue eyes. "The pain is getting worse, Angel," he explained, his voice tight.

"We'll find a cure, Spike," assured Buffy.

It was so weird talking to him without any of the old homicidal feelings coming to the front.

Witnessing him care so much for someone who wasn't Dru.

Whatever else happened during this trip in L.A., things would never be the same on that front.

Angel clasped his Childe's shoulder with a none-too-steady hand. "Thanks for watching over her, Will."

Spike grunted, looking at the floor.

"Okay, people," said Buffy, taking charge once more. "Back to the Sepulcher."

"Yes," agreed Giles, readjusting his glasses. "The little research we've been able to carry out so far hasn't given us any inkling as to what the... counterspell might be. Maybe we should try contacting that other demon... Whistler, I believe his name was?"

Doyle nodded. "I'm already on it," he said from the back of the room, immersed in dusty old tomes.

"I'll get in touch with some of my old fledglings who've settled here in L.A.. They might know something," added Spike. "If that fails, I'll go back to Sunnydale. There might be a way to track where the army of vampires came from. You can't pull so many experienced warriors together, sending most of them to a certain death, without some cadres noticing."

"Very well. I also believe we should endeavor to try and locate the current Guardian in training." Angel and Spike winced deeply at this reminder of Morghane's ultimate fate. "It is not outside the realm of possibility that whoever attacked Morghane might decide to go after her successor as well."

With a sigh, the Watcher determinedly caught Angel's eyes.

"We only have a few days. You know everything that the completion of the spell entails, don't you?" asked Giles, not unkindly.

Angel tightened his fists at his sides. "Morghane's soul will be destroyed."

Giles nodded gravely.

"What... what do you mean?" asked Buffy. "Her soul?"

Angel opened his mouth to explain, but no sounds would come out. He shook his head.

"The spell will not only... sever the ties between Morghane and the magick that keeps her alive," explained Giles. "It will... it will destroy her soul. All that is Morghane will cease to be on any plane of existence. This would be quite a terrible fate on its own. But it also... means that all her knowledge... all the knowledge she has acquired over the last 1700 years will not be passed on to the next Guardian - as it would be in more... ordinary circumstances. And our side cannot afford to lose that much experience.

"The times are dire. Our enemies would not hesitate to launch a millennial war... if the new Guardian was to be so weakened. It would be such an opportunity for them - the likes of which haven't been known to occur for thousands of years."

"So... so that means that much more is riding on our finding a counterspell than Morghane's life..." concluded Willow.

A low growl erupted abruptly and they all turned to face Spike.

In game face.

"No, Red. You've got it all bloody backwards."

Buffy noticed that Angel's head hung low and that he was the only one in the room not looking at Spike. He already knew what the blonde vampire was going to say. His arms were wrapped around his chest, as if he sought to protect himself from a mortal blow.

"Then what..."

Spike's growl grew more ominous.

*Don't ask, Willow* thought Buffy, suddenly filled with dread.

But the little witch would not be deterred. "I don't understand..."

Spike took a step forward and snarled. "It fucking means that if we don't find a solution very soon the Guardian's going to fucking blow her own head off, Red. And considering the power she's already expended so far to heal herself, she won't rise again. That's what." He smiled harshly, baring his fangs. "And I, for one, don't give a bloody flying fuck about the rest of the world and the soddin' coming war. She's gonna kill herself, people. She won't let the spell come to completion - not on her life. She almost ended it in Sunnydale. But she'd summoned me and thought that it would give her enough time to warn the next Guardian. But she's ready. She'll do it if we don't fucking get off our arses and do something!"

Spike was practically yelling at that point. Until Angel came up to him and put a restraining, soothing hand on his arm.

"We won't let that happened, Will. I swear..."

Spike's stance relaxed as he lifted his head to look at his Sire.

A sad smile crossed his face.

"I know you'll do anything, Angel. I don't doubt it for a minute. And I'm pretty sure the Slayer here will, too. 'Cos that's the way she is. But them," he snapped, facing the Sunnydale crowd. And, most of all, Giles, "they don't give a shit. And the Watcher... he just cares about not losing his fucking war."

"Hey!" Xander protested loudly - while Willow spluttered, taken aback by Spike's brusque accusation.

Giles' eyes narrowed dangerously, and Buffy tensed.

Too many predators in one room. This could end badly.

But Angel quickly inserted himself between his Childe and the Watcher, turning his back on Giles. "That's not true, Will. Whatever his feelings towards Morghane, I know Giles would not let her die or sacrifice herself if there was anything he could do about it." Saying this, he turned to face the Englishman, one eyebrow raised, his hard expression contradicting the desperate plea in his eyes.

Buffy almost intervened, ready to vouch for her Watcher's honor. But she understood that the answer - the commitment - had to come from Giles himself.

He did not disappoint her.

Giles straightened, his posture purposefully controlled, then enunciated slowly, "I will not let her die, Angel. I would never let my personal feelings interfere with my duty to the Guardian."

Angel remained motionless for a moment, then he nodded very deliberately. "Good."

As the tension went down several notches, everyone released a small, relieved sigh as people returned to their respective books.

But Angel was still shielding Spike from the rest of the room with his own body, and he heard his Childe murmur behind him - so low that only his vampire hearing allowed him to understand his words.

"'Duty to the Guardian?' I'm bloody glad she wasn't here to listen to this."

Angel turned around slowly and exchanged a long look with the younger vampire.

Spike was right. Given a choice, Morghane would probably rather end her own life than accept any help the Watcher was ready to give merely out of a sense of obligation.

Angel felt his anger towards the Watcher rise once more, but tamed it quickly.

They just could not afford to do this without Giles. It really was no choice at all.

*

Morghane opened her eyes.

And was slightly taken aback. No nightmares, no memories, no fateful premonitions. She had awakened because her body had decided it'd had enough sleep for now.

Considering how weak and sick she felt, it was a bit puzzling. She was exhausted to the very marrow of her bones, yet she was restless. Couldn't spend one more minute in this bed.

Spike be damned.

Sweet, funny Spike. He was a source of endless entertainment these days. Who would have thought that a vampire could have such a deep-seated Florence Nightingale complex?

Anyway. Everything hurt. Her muscles were cramped - a consequence of the incessant shivers brought on by the fever she still felt coursing in her veins. Weird. In all the time she had spent as an immortal, she had forgotten what listening to her own body felt like. Even her throat was painful.

What now? A cold?

*Slayed by the flu when all the armies of Hell couldn't bring me down. It doesn't get much more pathetic than this.*

She sighed and closed her eyes again, sensing the walls of the room closing down on her, protecting her. Alone, insulated. Nervous energy notwithstanding, she felt like she could stay here forever, buried under the cozy duvet, her face hidden in the warm niche of Angel's pillow, bathing in his lingering scent. Would be a nice way to go. All of a sudden the familiar darkness did not speak of demons, loneliness, deathly battles and unending struggles anymore. It welcomed her, concealed her. Sheltered her. Like an old companion who knew her most private quirks, the dark did not ask anything from her. Calm and constant. Maybe she could learn something from it?

She hadn't felt safe in so long.

She shook herself awake again. Yes, she needed some more sleep. Badly. But there was a lot to do still.

*Miles to go before I die.*

The thought brought a faint smile to her lips.

And then a revolted scowl.

*And I do self-pity since... when?*

Disgusting.

She dragged herself to a sitting position and groaned. Great. The room was spinning and she wasn't even up yet.

Making her way to the bathroom was going to be a riot.

Biting her lower lip until she drew blood, Morghane got closer to the edge of the bed then pushed the heavy duvet aside. Determinedly, she slid her legs to the floor and, grabbing onto the night-stand, she stood.

Her vision dissolved in a flash of whiteness and her stomach did a lurching flip-flop, but she was prepared for it. She remained on her feet. Once she could see again, she deliberately pushed away from the night-stand and her hand found the nearest wall.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to rest for a minute and took the opportunity to look down at herself. She had healed somewhat. Meaning she had some reserves of magick left. She knew very well how the Sepulcher operated. All Guardians knew. She would feel better for a little while before starting on the inescapable downward slope towards her own end. She counted on it, really. A couple of basic strengthening spells would do the rest and buy her a few more hours. She only needed a small reprieve, just long enough to meet the new Guardian and present her request.

Her dying wish.

It was pretty much all she had been thinking about since Angel had been returned from Hell, since she had realized how little time they had left before the Beaynid prophecy came to pass. It wouldn't be everything, but it would still be something. A parting gift to Angel and Buffy. Not an instant solution to all their problems - or to the upcoming war - yet a small part of the equation.

She was going to anchor Angel's soul.

If she could find her successor in time.

"Just what the hell are you doing?"

Doyle froze in his tracks and turned slowly to face Cordelia Chase.

"What's that, Princess?"

"Where did the luggage come from? Buffy moving in?"

The half-demon looked down at the two small travel bags he was carrying and shrugged.

"Morghane dropped them at me place before she left for Sunnydale. Figured she would be happy to get out of Angel's clothes and into her own, ye know."

Cordy inspected the tags on the bags and smirked. "Loewe. Of course, I should have known it couldn't be Buffy's stuff. Someone around here has taste. Bet she gave Angel a crash course in style and fashion sense when they were together." Cordelia frowned, considering Doyle's loud green shirt and baggy black pants. "The least she could have done was to go through the same drill with you. Obviously, the quality of the hired help is slipping."

Doyle's eyebrows knitted together; he was a bit hurt, although he should have been accustomed to Cordy's biting tongue by now.

Just as he was about to deliver his own comeback, a loud crashing sound resonated from the bedroom.

Without hesitation, he dropped the bags on the floor of the living room and ran towards the noise. Cordelia was just one step behind him.

He skidded around the corner of the hall and stopped. Cordy crashed into his back, mumbling colorful insults. Ignoring her, he quickly took a few steps forward to crouch by Morghane's side.

The Guardian was kneeling on the floor by a broken lamp, her breath coming in rapid, short pants. She felt Doyle's presence and lifted a relieved gaze to the half-demon.

"Sor... sorry. I... I thought I could... do it alone."

Doyle shook his head reassuringly and smiled. "S'okay, m'Lady. Don't worry about it."

"He's right, Morghane. It was a really ugly lamp anyway," added Cordelia, hovering worriedly over them.

"Can ye walk?" asked Doyle.

Morghane nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can."

Doyle carefully wrapped one arm around her middle and another around her shaking shoulders - mindful of her barely healed ribs and other miscellaneous bruises. Morghane rested most of her weight on him, but he didn't mind. He gave a push with his thigh muscles and they were up. The Guardian swayed slightly and Doyle feared she would lose consciousness again. But after a few indecisive seconds, she stood more firmly on her legs and took a deep breath.

"I need to... I'm... I can't stay in that bed any longer. And I need to take a shower. I feel... disgusting."

Cordelia appeared on her other side and slid an arm around her waist, over Doyle's arm.

The Irishman tried not to shiver at the prolonged contact with Cordy's skin.

"Let's get you to the bathroom. I'll help. And Doyle brought you some of your own clothes."

"Thanks," murmured the Guardian, concentrating on each step.

"Anything for ye, me Lady."

"Morghane, Doyle. Call me Morghane, okay?"

"Okay, boss."

Morghane groaned softly.

"Where's everyone?"

"The Scooby people are in the office, researchin'. Spike left for Sunnydale an hour ago, when the sun set. Angel is meetin' a few of his contacts in downtown L.A.. The Slayer stayed 'ere to keep an eye on things."

Satisfied, Morghane nodded.

Slowly, painfully, they made their way to the bathroom and Doyle made his excuses, embarrassed.

"Ah, uh... I... I'll be outside... if ye need me."

"In your dreams, doofus," was Cordelia's straightforward answer.

But Morghane smiled kindly at him. "Thanks, Doyle. I appreciate the help."

Blushing, the half-demon nodded and ambled out of the small room.

"So..." the Guardian said, looking down at herself with a frown. "How are we gonna do this?"

Cordelia started peeling off her own clothes. "I'm getting in the shower stall with you. Let me do the work, okay? Just concentrate on staying up."

Morghane threw an affectionate smile Cordy's way. She really liked the former cheerleader. Nothing ever seemed to faze her for long.

Soon Cordelia stood naked in front of her, obviously perfectly at ease with the situation and her nudity. After so many years, the Guardian was more than accustomed to seeing people in their most simple apparel, but she had expected the young woman to be more self-conscious.

Which she wasn't.

Which, to be fair, she had no reason to be, as far as Morghane was concerned. Cordelia was truly a beautiful woman. Not many people could brave the shedding of the protective, concealing layers humans used to disguise themselves, withstand critical appraisal and still pass with flying colors.

But Cordy could.

The only small imperfection - the scar which marred her smooth, flat stomach - was barely visible to the untrained eye amid her tanned skin.

Morghane resisted the need to clutch Angel's shirt to herself. She knew her own body very well and had pretty much lost any notion of vanity over the years. Well, almost any. She gave very little thought to the way the people surrounding her perceived her appearance. She had long ago shed any semblance of artless modesty and ingenuous inhibitions.

Yet tonight she felt almost inadequate. Not because Cordelia was much more beautiful than herself - which she was. Morghane had never been one for comparison.

What was the point?

No. Envy had nothing to do with this.

Cordelia's flawless, lithe, unmarked body reminded her of every little scar that disgraced her own. 1700 years worth of battles - some physical, some not. Some scars had faded, some remained. Not all visible, but the ones that were, were also a reflection of those that weren't. Daring her to forget.

Morghane felt old. And ageless at the same time. And weary beyond words.

She would never be like Cordelia again. Carefree and secure in her own seduction, her youth, in the certitude that there would be a future awaiting her tomorrow - even if the younger woman never really devoted any thought to what it held.

The Guardian felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat and she looked at Cordelia in wonder. She hadn't wept in years. Certainly not since this nightmare began. Why now?

Yes, she was exhausted, but this was ridiculous.

"Morghane? Are you okay? Do you want me to call Doyle so you can lie down again?"

The Guardian shook herself out of her daze, meeting Cordy's concerned gaze.

She smiled.

"No, I'm okay, Delia. Sorry I spaced out for a minute."

Cordelia shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't worry about it." She paused, puzzled. "Hey, you called me 'Delia'."

Morghane was slightly taken aback. "So?"

"Only my grandmother calls me Delia. And Angel sometimes, when he's worried."

"Oh... I can stop..."

The younger woman shook her head. "S'okay. I don't mind." She grinned widely. "Besides, you're certainly old enough to be my grandmother, right?"

Morghane stifled a distressed groan. "Yes. Yes, I certainly am."

Without devoting more thought to the matter, Cordelia quickly unbuttoned Morghane's shirt and discarded it on the floor. She cautiously peeled away the few bandages which covered the Guardian's most serious injuries - never once making a comment on how gross some of them looked. When she revealed the still angry wound left by the Sepulcher, Morghane flinched.

Cordy's expression softened. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"I'm not worried, Delia," assured Morghane, lightly.

The young woman moved away from the Guardian to adjust the shower-head and turned on the taps, waiting for the water to reach the right temperature. Once she was satisfied, Cordelia helped Morghane in the stall, guiding her under the water stream, then pulled the curtain closed.

"Can you stand?" Cordy inquired gently.

"Yeah. I think. For now at least."

"Hold onto me if you need to, okay?"

Morghane smiled faintly. She was grateful Angel had someone like Cordy by his side, no matter how rough her exterior could appear sometimes. She was quite an extraordinary young woman in her own right.

The heady scent of sandalwood drifted around her as Cordelia carefully washed her shoulders and her back. Morghane almost laughed out loud - but it was a little hysterical, so she refrained. So many people taking care of her, making sure she was clean, fed, even sexually satisfied. If she had known it would be this way, she would have endeavored to come across the Sepulcher a long time ago.

As it was, she was having the hardest time not reacting to the feeling of Cordelia's soft hands gliding guilelessly between her breasts. The fever had left every nerve-endings oversensitive to external stimuli and she shivered.

"Cold?" asked Cordelia, her arms wrapped around the Guardian's stomach.

"No," responded Morghane after a strangled breath. "M'okay."

What was wrong with her? She had gone centuries without sex in the past. Now she was unbearably aroused by the touch of a teenager.

First Spike, now Cordelia.

*God, Morghane. You're sick.*

She tried to distract herself by making conversation.

"So... you and Doyle..."

*Subtle, Morghane. Very subtle.*

To her surprise, Cordelia didn't reply with an outraged scream of protestation. She just chuckled quietly.

"When it comes to Doyle, there's no rush. I want to do it right. I don't want a repeat of the fiasco that was my relationship with Xander."

Why anyone as smart as Cordelia could ever have wanted a relationship with Xander Harris in the first place, Morghane had no clue - but she nodded anyway. "I understand. But he's a good man, Delia. Don't make him wait too long."

The young woman laughed again. "I won't."

Cordy washed her up quickly, knowing the Guardian wouldn't be able to remain standing for very long. She rinsed the foam off her skin and the shampoo out of her hair before turning off the taps. Cordelia helped her out of the shower then dried her off swiftly, and soon enough Morghane found herself lost in the wine- red sea of cotton that was Angel's bathrobe.

Cordy wrapped herself in a very small towel.

"I'm going to call Doyle, so he can bring your stuff in here."

Then she smirked.

Morghane shook her head, amused. Doyle was good for a heart-attack when he found Cordelia enveloped in this poor excuse for a towel.

"Doyle!" called Cordelia.

A few seconds later, the door opened and Doyle poked his head in.

"Ye bellowed, Princess?"

Then his jaw hit the floor.

"Doyle, would you mind bringing Morghane's bags in here?," asked Cordelia, unfazed. "Please?"

Once he regained control over his basic motor skills, Doyle nodded frantically and disappeared.

"That was cruel," commented Morghane, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. "Fun, but cruel." Her grin belied her reproachful tone.

"It's good for him," replied Cordelia, while she put her own clothes back on. "Got to toughen him up."

The Guardian almost giggled. She was in the Twilight Zone.

Had to be.

When Doyle returned with her luggage, Cordelia was - thankfully - dressed, and the Irish half-demon had regained some of his composure.

"Got yourself a little challenge, right, Francis?" Morghane remarked affectionately.

"Francis?" echoed Cordelia.

"Yes. Allen Francis Doyle. The only demon I ever worked with who sported not one but three Christian names."

Morghane realized that she had said something wrong when Doyle paled visibly and Cordelia started to shake.

"Demon?" she whispered, dazed.

"Cordy," said Doyle, pleadingly. "Let me..."

"Get out of my way," Cordelia bit out coldly.

When Doyle refused to move, she pushed past him forcefully.

A few seconds later they heard the familiar groans of the freight elevator.

"She didn't know..." murmured Morghane, her throat tight.

Doyle shook his head. "Hadn't told her yet."

The Guardian passed a tired hand over her eyes - fighting unexpected tears once again.

"I'm sorry, Francis. I don't know why I thought..."

"It's okay," Doyle interjected with a resigned, sad smile. "I shouldn't have tried to hide it from her."

Slowly, he moved to collect the bags he had dropped on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

He lifted his gaze towards Morghane, puzzled.

"I thought I would help ye get dressed. Or I can call Buffy if..."

"Go after her, Doyle."

"But ye need..."

The Guardian growled warningly. "I've taken care of myself for the last couple of millennia, I think I can manage. Now go. It's an order."

Doyle didn't have to be told twice. "I'm goin'."

And he was out the door.

Drained, Morghane slid to the floor, huddling in the corner between the tub and the wall, and pulled the bathrobe tightly around herself.

Nothing was ever simple anymore.

She let the tears fall.

Spike kept one eye on his watch, restless, and the other on the road. He didn't like the thought of leaving the others on their own while he went back to the Hellmouth. Not one bit. But Angel had convinced him that they would make better time if he covered Los Angeles and Spike returned to the scene of the crime - Sunnydale. They were supposed to join forces again in L.A. three hours before sundown to tackle a big nest of vampires.

So now the blonde vampire was speeding south like the hounds of Hell were on his trail for the second time in one week, trying to come up with a plan of action that didn't require extended contact with the Sunnydale vampire community. The place wasn't Spike-friendly anymore.

As he neared the now very familiar - and still standing *must be an effect of the Hellmouth* - 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign, Spike made up his mind.

He steered the De Sotto towards the seediest part of town.

He parked in front of Willy's - a few inches to spare between his bumper and the wall.

The door hit the frame forcefully when Spike shoved it away and walked in. He didn't bother with a stealthy entrance. The vampires who stopped by Willy's so early in the evening were usually trying to lie low and stay out of trouble.

Then again, the Slayer was out of town.

It tended to turn stupid cowards into bold morons.

Spike fingered the piece of wood hidden in the recesses of his leather duster. He still couldn't believe that the Slayer had lent him a stake before he left L.A.. Her lucky stake, she had said. The vampire smirked under his breath, surveying the patrons.

His gaze fell on the little mouse of a man behind the counter.

"Good evening, Willy."

Willy dropped the pint glass he held in his right hand when he recognized Spike in the gloomy, smoky atmosphere of the bar.

"Sp... Spike. Fancy seeing you... here."

The blonde vampire turned towards the demons and other random bloodsuckers who sipped their drinks, holding their metaphorical breaths.

"I'm not here to cause trouble with you, people, so go back to your O neg and don't mind us."

Then Spike faced Willy, who was trying to pull a disappearing act and not succeeding.

Spike shook his head. "Don't panic, mate. I'm batting for the home team now."

Willy frowned, still cowering against the wall.

"So? Everybody's on the home team here. That's why they call it the Hellmouth. You know... every little demon's home-sweet-home."

Spike growled, grabbed Willy's lapel and dragged him over the counter. "Patience still isn't my strong suit, mate. That was my best shot at diplomacy, okay? So now you're gonna answer my questions. Works for you?"

"Yeah. S... sure, Spike. Anything for you, you know. We're like... brothers or something."

"Shut up. What do you know about the Guardian?"

"G... Guardian?" Willy squeaked pitifully.

"Yeah, you know, the Guardian. 1700 hundred but doesn't look a day over 25. 5'6'', red-head, bright emerald eyes. Great ass. Puts out one hell of a light show when she's pissed. Got attacked by a whole battalion and a warlock last time she was here, three nights ago? Ring a bell?"

"I can't say..."

Spike tightened his grip on the smaller man when he heard the tell-tale noises of a commotion behind his back. Vampires congregating en masse.

Undaunted, he turned around.

The dozen or so patrons who had been enjoying their drinks a minute ago were now busy rushing through the backdoor.

Soon, he and Willy were the only ones left in the dingy establishment.

"Was it something I said?" the blonde vampire mused out loud. "My cologne, maybe? Eau de Slayer?"

"Look, Spike. I can't..."

Spike sealed Willy's lips with a black-painted finger. "I hope you're not going to say that you can't help me, mate. 'Cos that would be detrimental to your health. I think you were going to tell me exactly what I want to hear. Where did the vamps who attacked the Guardian come from?"

"Uh... ah..."

"I could rip out your intestines and play rodeo, Willy."

The barman collapsed. "Okay... okay." Spike let go of him and Willy shakily raised a glass of whiskey to his lips. "It's not even you I'm worried about... It's the Slayer. Don't want to cross HER."

Spike snarled.

Willy cringed. He raised his hands in defense. "I'm talking, talking now... the vampires were of the cadre of Nehemiah. Took real pain not to attract the Slayer's attention. I don't know nothing about a warlock. Just heard about vampires. Lots of them. That's all I know, Spike, I swear."

The blonde was more than disturbed by what he had just heard. "I know the reputation of the cadre of Nehemiah. Fierce warriors, but not exactly ones to look for trouble with the Guardian. Not quite bounty hunters either."

Why would they willingly get involved in this?

"And that doesn't explain why everybody here ran out with their tails between their legs as soon as I started asking about the Guardian."

Willy shook his head. "I don't know more, Spike. Things have been quiet all week. Pretty much no bloodsuckers - beg your pardon, vamps - have been out to munch on the populace. They're all... very subdued-like. And I'm not talking Slayer-induced fear. It's something else."

Spike took a step back.

Giles had mentioned the unusual lack of odd happenings over the last few days - unusual for the Hellmouth anyway. Even vamp activity was down and it seemed to coincide with the attack on Morghane.

Very few things that had the power to scare the creatures of darkness into submission.

Very few.

This did not bode well at all.

And for the first time since this whole thing began, Spike felt fear.

Giles decided to forgo the freight elevator. He didn't trust the ancient mechanism. The lift looked like it could be as old as Angel.

Which wasn't possible at all, but thinking that sort of inanities kept Giles from mulling over the conversation he was about to have. It was quite like taking the stairs rather than the elevator.

Delaying tactics.

He pushed the door open and walked passed the caged-in clerk, quiet.

He stopped in the middle of the living room.

Morghane was in the study, seating in Angel's leather desk chair. She was, once again, dressed in black - a long hooded woolen coat over a matching ankle-length dress and leather boots. Her dark attire accentuated her red hair and pale skin.

She was on the phone.

"That will not be necessary, Wesley. I can take care of it... What do you want a Watcher there for anyway? It's not like you guys can do anything any of us can't do. As soon as I die Lisandra will go through the Rapture. I'll make sure she knows where to find the Slayer... Thank you, Wesley, but there isn't much that can be done to prevent it now... I know... That is out of the question, I formally forbid you... Well, you do not control the Slayer anymore, do you?... Wesley, this conversation is at an end. Take care of yourself. Goodbye."

She slowly put the phone back in its cradle and stood.

She stopped by the wall next to the desk, inspected the collection of weapons displayed there. She chose a small, wicked-looking dagger and hid it in the folds of her coat. She walked unsteadily towards the access to the sewer system, bent slightly and made a gesture to open the manhole.

"Where do you think you are going?"

She jumped and turned around quickly - startled.

"Giles... What are you doing here?"

"We saw Cordelia come up from the apartment like some demon was after her, then Doyle followed. They are hashing it out in the street as we speak, although I'm not quite clear on what it is they are fighting about. I volunteered to come down here and check on you."

Morghane arched a delicate, perfectly drawn eyebrow. "You volunteered?"

She sounded vaguely amused.

Giles refused to rise to the bait. "Who were you talking to? Wesley? Wesley Wyndham-Price?"

Morghane's eyes narrowed.

"Why are you asking me? You already know."

"What did he tell you?"

"What I needed to know."

Giles ground his teeth together. No wonder Angel was so cryptic.

"He told you where to find the next Guardian."

"Yes."

"And what were you going to do?" he asked angrily. "Go there alone?"

The green irises flashed and he recoiled.

"Just what am I supposed to do, Watcher?" She bit out the last word - as if she was afraid it would leave a sour taste in her mouth. "What am I supposed to do? Kill myself in front of all of them? In front of Angel? You might not care, but I do. I'm tired, Watcher. I'm tired. It might sound selfish to you, but I'd rather go out there and finish this alone than stay here and see my death reflected in their eyes. It's like dying a thousand times over. Just..." - the word caught in her throat, and she had to breathe - "just what do you want from me?"

As he pronounced the words, Giles realized the selfishness of his request. But he couldn't stop himself.

"I want answers," he whispered. "I want an explanation."

The sadness and pain of hundreds of years seemed to envelop Morghane at that moment.

She swayed.

Ciles took a step towards her.

"Stay where you are," she ordered, lifting an imperious hand.

He stopped.

"I will tell you what you wish to know, Watcher. But this stays between you and me, is that understood? Swear, or you will learn nothing."

Giles hesitated, but recognized that she would not back down. He had only been tolerated so far.

"I swear."

She did not move for a long time, then returned to Angel's chair, pointing Giles towards a nearby couch.

"Sit."

He sat.

"I did go to Sunnydale when Jenny called for my help."

Giles opened his mouth but the Guardian did not let him speak.

"Do not interrupt."

He almost objected, then remembered who he was talking to. He owed her that much respect - if only because it was his duty.

"You can well imagine that I was... aware of Angelus' return as soon as Angel's soul left his body. How could I not have been? I, however, was in the middle of a fight at the time - almost lost the battle; I was understandably distracted. When I... came back, I found Jenny's message and made my way to Sunnydale."

Giles just couldn't help himself. "She does not mention seeing you in her journal."

Morghane let the forbidden interruption slide. "That's because I never made it that far. I knew that Jenny planned on using the original curse to restore Angel's soul. To me, it was a last resort. Angel had to be brought back, no question about that. No way his soul was going to rest after leaving the world that way - Buffy still needed him and he was trapped in this plane. But the clause... that he could do without. So I decided to restore him another way. Using my blood."

Giles' jaw basically hit the floor.

"You did what?!"

"What is so surprising about that? You know what my blood can do to a vampire. It's just another protection for the Guardian. It ensures that I'm really not all that appetizing to them so they don't come after me looking for an immortal snack. I couldn't give my blood to Angel while he was cursed. It would have had no effect whatsoever. I had to get rid of the stupid curse first..."

Giles saw red.

"Tell me you didn't send him to Buffy thinking eventually..."

He couldn't complete his sentence.

Morghane appeared to lose focus for a moment, like she couldn't quite comprehend what Giles had just proposed.

She murmured. "Are you insane?"

The look of profound pain, plain surprise and betrayal on her face was so disturbing to behold, Giles had to apologize.

"I'm sorry."

"Do you think of me as a monster? I... "

She was incapable of pursuing that train of thought. Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, defeated, then steeled herself.

"I didn't know about the clause. When I learned of it, I tried to find the Kalderash, but they had scattered all over the globe, fearing the retaliation. With good reason. Then Jenny contacted me... Anyway, I came to Sunnydale, and I arranged for Angelus to be forced to drink my blood."

"How did you manage that?"

Morghane looked away.

"I lured him to one of the chambers of the Master's lair and trapped both of us there."

Giles nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Driving him to starvation..."

"Yes."

Short and cold.

"What happened?" asked the Watcher, dreading the answer as soon as the words left his mouth.

"I was... prepared, for the worst. I kept him at a distance using magick the first three days. Then I had to let him come close to me, so he could drink... or what would have been the point? He..."

"He must have been enraged. I can't imagine... Angelus..."

"He beat me. Tortured me. He intended to make me suffer every minute along with him. Then he raped me."

Giles closed his eyes, his head bowed. "Good Lord."

He didn't see her shrug.

"After a while, sex looses its power as an instrument of control. It was just another way of torturing me. To make me share his torment. And he knew what kind of history I shared with Angel. He had the memories."

"He thought he could use your relationship to make you suffer... like he did with Buffy."

Morghane laughed hollowly. "Angelus was a moron. When I look at Angel, I see his soul. They don't even look the same to me." She shrugged. "I expected it, really. Didn't think for one second that the once Scourge of Europe would go down quietly. He knew what I was trying to do after all. Corner a wild animal, you better expect it to fight for its survival with everything it has. But it's not like he could kill me or do any permanent damage. The benefits outweighed the risks by far."

She brought her hands to her head, massaging her aching temples.

"But it didn't work out as planed. I had forgotten Drusilla. She had a vision. Came to free Angelus. By that point, I was in really bad shape. They... you don't need to know the details. Once they were done playing with me, they trapped in the chamber, tied down, gagged. Drusilla put a magickal seal on the door. They kept me there for the next few weeks, used me... and then they didn't come anymore. It took me a very long time to heal myself, regain enough strength to loosen the gag enough to call onto the magick and break the seal.

"By then it was too late. Jenny was dead. I had left instructions with Whistler. He was to give Jenny the means to translate the curse if she tried to contact the Guardian again, which is what happened. She never knew who it really came from, it was an anonymous e-mail account. By the time I escaped and I regained my full power, the fiasco with Alcathla had already reached its conclusion and there was nothing I could do."

She lifted her eyes back to Giles' face, gauging his reaction.

He seemed dazed.

Understandable.

"I never suspected..."

"I did everything to keep it that way. Everybody was in enough trouble at the time, first with Buffy gone, then when Angel returned from Hell. No one needed to hear that story. It served no purpose. No purpose at all."

Silence fell over the apartment like a curtain of lead, each lost in their thoughts and troubled recollections of times past.

Morghane hoped for some sort of peace between herself and the Watcher - so that she could go about doing what remained to be done.

Giles still had questions.

"I still don't... understand. Why Angel? Why... him? Why go to all this trouble for one vampire?"

Morghane almost growled. Frustrated beyond belief.

"Think, Rupert. Think. You know all this. You just refuse to see. Your judgement is still clouded by your personal feelings over the matter. And I'm going to sound cruel, insensitive, but I want you to start thinking like a Watcher again, put all this behind you and try to consider the situation with the best interest of the Slayer in mind."

"Are you insinuating..."

"I insinuate nothing. I'm just desperately trying to shock you into finally listening to what the fuck I've been trying to tell you, because I don't have that much time left."

She paused and he listened.

"Please, Giles, I just want you to open your mind for a minute and understand what I'm saying. You must realize the importance Angel has in the grand scheme of things. Yes, I could have just killed Angelus and be done with it. I've had to make hundreds of decisions in the past that meant life or death for thousands of people. So maybe I was selfish in keeping Angel alive. And then again, maybe I had my reasons. I'm the longest-lived Guardian there ever was, Giles. Do you think I came this far by acting rashly? By neglecting my duty?"

She struggled to keep her voice even.

"You are a historian, Giles. You know how situations evolve, you know that between humanity and demons, it wasn't always this way."

Giles' expression softened and he looked at Morghane with something akin to compassion.

"Your calling came at a most difficult and trying time, I know."

The Guardian nodded emphatically. "Yes. Humanity weakened and lost fundamental ground. I don't need to tell you that there was a time, an ancient age to which even the Watchers barely refer anymore, when a vampire could turn either way, when the human soul could reclaim control of the body and subdue the demon during the first Torment.

"Then humanity faltered, the times darkened, and the ethereal community was incapable of maintaining its stronghold over the demonic realm. Now when a human is turned, their soul does not even bother fighting anymore and the demon asserts its control unchallenged. Exceptions are rare, and more often than not, they end up insane." Morghane raised desolate eyes towards the Watcher. "And it's not getting any better, Rupert. The balance is tilting. The millennial wars are coming, and we are unprepared."

Giles met her somber gaze with one of his own. "So this is it. The battle is approaching."

Morghane nodded. "And we need every leverage we can get. The equilibrium is so frail right now - it wouldn't take much. One being. Or better, two."

"Angel and Buffy," concluded Giles, finally comprehending where she was heading with her explanation.

"Yes. Because of the trials Angel had to go through, his soul is stronger than most. Soon, Angel will come into his own. He'll be powerful enough to assert control over the demon, once and for all. But this might still take years. Angelus' reappearing act and Hell were serious setbacks - to put it mildly. Buffy doesn't have that kind of time. We don't have that kind of time."

"But why... why a vampire and a Slayer?"

The Guardian smiled affectionately. "Come on, Giles. It breaks all the laws of nature and several rules of magick. Challenge those two fundamental universal systems and you create power. You can't begin to imagine the kind of energy Buffy and Angel generate in the ethereal dimension when they are together."

Giles took his glasses off. "I see."

"Do you? Really?" asked Morghane - incapable of leaving a tinge of hope out of her voice.

"Yes," affirmed Giles. "I just... I just wonder... why you didn't... stay with Angel... yourself."

The Guardian turned a bittersweet smile away from the prying eyes of the Watcher.

"Could he have learned to love me like he loves her... we'll never know. But of one thing I was certain at the time. I was not the open, warm, full of life, generous being he really deserved. Really needed. I couldn't be that for him. He needed trust, strength, unconditional love and acceptance. Buffy is the Slayer. She deserved someone who could love, admire and respect the hunter in her. Who could understand and support all that she was.

"I didn't know if he would become the Slayer's consort or her ally in battle. It didn't matter. In the end, he became both - partner and lover. Slayers always operate according to their instinct. It's their best weapon. I trusted her to make the right choice. The happiness clause was a magickal interference outside of her control."

She was shivering.

"Are you alright?"

Giles immediately berated himself for asking such a stupid question, but Morghane shook her head.

"I'm cold" she said, despite her thick wool coat.

The Watcher got up and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned swiftly with a small glass. He crouched besides Morghane's chair and handed her the drink.

She eyed the rich amber liquid doubtfully.

"Drink," Giles coaxed her. "It's just a little whiskey. Angel doesn't have anything else around. Bloody Irish." He smiled. "No offense intended."

She laughed softly.

"None taken. I was born a Celt. Not quite Irish. A century or so before Saint Patrick turned the land away from the old beliefs." She grumbled. "Bloody Catholics."

Giles chuckled as he watched her dip her lips in the burning liquor with a grimace. He remembered the Guardian telling him years ago in London that even after all this time she still couldn't hold her alcohol. A shame for someone of such pure - couldn't get purer than that - Irish origins.

Seeing her try to control the trembling in her hands as she lifted the glass to her lips, he sobered.

"What are you going to do?" he asked simply.

She brought the glass back to her lap. Giles was still crouching by her side.

"I'm going to ask Lisandra - the new Guardian - to anchor Angel's soul. And then I'm gonna die."

Giles' lips parted in confusion. "She's untrained. How could she manage a spell of such magnitude if you yourself could not handle it at full strength?"

"It's not such a complex spell, Giles. It doesn't so much require skill as it requires power. We have to override the Kalderash happiness clause. We're talking soul magicks here, and it takes more energy to get rid of the curse than to cast it. Casting is easy. Control is another issue entirely. The only time I can think of when enough magickal energy will be generated is during the Rapture. I can instruct Lisandra to perform the spell, channeling the power liberated at the instant of my passing to destroy this ridiculous gypsy gais."

Giles acquiesced quietly and Morghane sighed.

"I wish it could be any other way, but like I told you, we don't have enough time to give Angel the opportunity to do this for himself. Eventually, he'll grow stronger, take control and the original curse will become irrelevant and fade away. In the meantime, knowing that his soul is anchored might be enough to give him some much needed self-confidence." She shrugged. "It's not a miraculous solution, but it's a first step. He's so scared right now. He's alienated, cut off from a part of himself out of fear. He's afraid to care, afraid to feel the hunger again. He refuses to call on the full extent of his power for fear of losing control."

She plunged into Giles' gaze, willing him to accept what she was saying.

"He must be whole before he can be with Buffy. It was a good thing that he left. If the situation was bad after the curse, it was even worse after Hell. He must feel that he is her equal - if they want to have any hope of surviving and winning the millennial wars. They are fated to lead the warriors for our side. Don't ask me how I know this. I just do."

Silence once again.

And once again, Giles was the one to tear away its comforting fabric.

"What are you going to do with the dagger you're hiding in your coat?"

Morghane looked slightly embarrassed. She chose to ignore the real meaning behind the inquiry. "Spike confiscated my gun. Can you believe it? It's not like there's a lack of weapons around, but I guess it made him feel better."

Giles frowned, remembering yet another question he had meant to ask the Guardian.

"Why Spike of all demons?"

"'Cause he looks good in leather?"

Giles snorted. "Yes, quite. And if my mother had wheels, she would be a trolley."

Morghane almost choked on what remained of her whiskey.

"Excuse-me?" she said around a strangled gasp, scandalized. "You've spent too long in California, Rupert Giles."

"Don't elude the question."

If Morghane had been Buffy, Giles would have said she was pouting. But a Guardian did not pout.

It was undignified.

"I knew he would come to care for Angel and Buffy, even for the others. He has... history, with you people."

Giles resisted the urge to ask her to say that again.

"And I thought you would need as many allies as you could get, after I... left."

The Watcher's long, elegant fingers encircled Morghane's left wrist, lightly. "You're not going anywhere, Guardian."

"Rupert..."

"No." His expression was stern. Seeing her stiffen, he relented, pleading. "Just give us some more time. I'm sure you can grant us at least one more day. Please."

Morghane was shivering again. But this time, the Watcher knew it wasn't the cold. She let him be the silent witness of her weakness.

And Giles understood that there needn't be pain or anger between them anymore.

"Alright, Rupert. One more day."

*

He climbed over the wall then let himself fall to the ground, silently. The cemetery stretched out for miles in front of him. He headed north, among the tombs, going through the most ancient section of the graveyard. He knew were to go; his step was cat-like and confident as he made his way between the stones piled in a nostalgic chaos of fog and granite.

It was raining.

The tang of decomposing leaves and wet grass surrounded him. Although they were in California, the atmosphere managed to remind him of the gothic districts of nineteenth century England. The cold wind breathed life into the oaks randomly scattered between the graves. His footsteps remained inscribed in the decaying mud. A secluded mausoleum had been desecrated by vandals.

He followed the battered path that led to an ancient presbytery, then slid along the north wall of the ruined edifice. It led to a small square of cemetery, romantic and soothing with its winged angels and tranquil virgins.

That's where he found him.

Angel was leaning against a huge oak, lost in thought, weary. It was impossible to say which was holding the other up - the tree or the vampire.

"How is it goin', Peaches?"

"You're late."

"Yeah, well, nice to see you too."

Angel pushed away from the tree to meet his Childe.

The clarity of the moon revealed the faint smile that graced his lips. Illuminated the strong, harmonious traits. The deep-set, soulful eyes. The highly defined cheekbones. The preternatural, pallid skin. The smooth, aristocratic column of the neck above solid, broad shoulders.

Spike looked at his Sire. Unexpectedly, he remembered a night very much like this one in a graveyard near Westminster, over a hundred years ago.

And slow, passionate love on Spenser's tombstone.

Angelus had always been partial to graveyards. He liked the pagan company of the dead, one of the highlights of his obsessive tendencies, an obsession which had nothing to do with the 'constantia sapientis' of the stoicians - and more with the 'excess of perversity' Aristotle had written about.

A warm hand tightened around Spike's heart.

But his Sire was talking to him.

"I'm glad to see you made it back from Sunnydale in one piece, Will. So what did you get?"

Spike nodded soberly. Angel had the right idea. They didn't have time for this.

Back to business.

"The vamps who attacked Morghane belonged to the cadre of Nehemiah. No word on the warlock."

Angel frowned, unwittingly mimicking Spike's earlier reaction. "Nehemiah? That doesn't make any sense. They have no quarrel with the Guardian - at least nothing that warrants launching their best warriors after her. And what is such an ancient cadre doing in America anyway?"

The blonde shook his head. "No idea. But the vamps weren't the brains behind the whole operation if you ask me. The underground community in Sunnydale is scared shitless, and I don't see how a warlock or a cadre - however old - could generate that kind of fear. It feels more like an ancient master at work."

Angel nodded. "Yes, I felt it too. Here in L.A.. Whatever it is, I think it's safe to assume it followed Morghane from the Hellmouth."

"We have to find it, mate."

"Or at least put a name on it. That might help Giles with the counterspell."

"So what's the plan?"

Angel pointed towards the presbytery. "I've located your fledglings' current nest."

"The presbytery? You gotta be kidding."

"Underneath."

Spike shrugged, unconcerned. "Let's get this show on the road."

Furtively, they made their way to the crumbling structure.

They didn't need to confer or discuss strategies and tactics. They moved effortlessly in tandem, weaving in and out of each others' familiar, interlaced shadows. Accustomed to the whispers, the patterns of their companion's blood.

Lethal and seductive, like two powerful felines on the hunt. Like the hounds of Hell.

They entered the old building through a side door, soundless, moving along the walls, gathering the darkness around themselves like a cloak. They went through an anteroom, then a study. Angel pointed Spike towards a door in the far wall.

The dust on the stone floor had been repeatedly disturbed - indicating a heavily used passageway.

Spike nodded his understanding. He approached the door and pulled on the knob. Encountering no resistance, he glided smoothly inside, his Sire at his back.

Soon they found a flight of stairs leading to the underground of the cemetery. They went down, ignoring the putrid smell of decomposing earth and decaying flesh.

They could feel the overwhelming presence of others of their kind down below.

At the bottom of the stairs, they followed a corridor which opened on a vast, brightly lit cavern.

There were vampires there.

Lots and lots of vampires.

"Damn it, Angel. Do you have to do everything the hard way?"

The older vampire did not bother with a response, taking the time to survey their surroundings. "Let's ask some questions."

Spike looked at him as if his Sire had just proposed a mid-day brunch at the terrace of a caf on Hollywood Boulevard.

"Are you daft, Peaches? Don't you reckon two of us against twenty of them are somewhat staggering odds? I know we're good but still..."

"If whoever attacked Morghane is in L.A. right now, we need to know tonight. It's the biggest concentration of vamps I was able to locate on short notice and most of them used to work for you in Sunnydale. Maybe they'll cooperate?"

They exchanged a somewhat disillusioned look.

"Right," they murmured in synchrony.

Resigned.

They stepped into the open and immediately faced a horde of growling vampires.

"Spike...," muttered the tallest of the vamps.

He sported a nasty scar across his left eye.

"Ronald. How've you been?"

"What do you want?"

"Relax, Ronald. I just need an answer to a simple question. It's not that hard."

The vampire leaned towards Spike - a snarl deforming the scar on his face. "You left us behind in Sunnydale when things got tough and now you dare show yourself here and ask for favors. And you bring HIM along." Ronald pointed a clawed finger at Angel. "You're dead, Spike."

"No. Wait..."

They charged.

Spike vamped. "Okay, if that's the way you want it..."

Angel jumped into the fray alongside his Childe, his long black coat flowing around him like the shadow of death. They fought back to back, keeping close to the entrance - trying to limit possible angles of attack. They wanted to force the vampires to come after them one at a time, two at the most.

The tactic was successful during the first few minutes of the fight. Angel and Spike dispatched five opponents without much effort, but the remaining vamps wised up. A few of them climbed up to the catwalk circling the cave and dropped down on them from above.

Spike was driven back against the wall of the cavern; three vamps were on him. Two of them managed to get hold of his arms, restraining him against the rock. The third, Ronald, smiled as he drove his fist repeatedly in Spike's ribs.

The blonde freed one of his arms from their clutches, but Ronald grabbed a crowbar from one of his minions and brought the weapon down across Spike's shoulders. Spike grunted as he went down and Ronald moved to seize a stake stuck in his belt.

"Will!"

Sensing that his Childe was in danger, Angel roared, high kicking his opponent and following through with a punch to the throat. Pulling a couple of stakes from the deep pockets of his cashmere duster, the dark vampire simultaneously tossed one to his Childe and rushed Ronald, dragging him away from Spike - interposing himself between the blonde and the other minions. He knew that the vampires still occupying the center of the cave would not intervene before Ronald, obviously the leader of the pack, ordered them to do so. And Ronald was unlikely to call for help during a fight to the death with his former master. He would lose face in front of his underlings.

Unfortunately, Angel overestimated the vampire's pride.

Or underestimated his survival instinct.

Spike, armed with his Sire's stake, got rid of the fledglings trapping him against the wall. He faced his old lieutenant with a smile and a flash of his fangs.

"One on one, Ronny."

The scarred vampire must have read something unholy - all puns intended - in Spike's expression, because he yelled.

"Move it, you morons! What are you waiting for? Kill them!"

Angel still stood between Ronald, his Childe, and a whole battalion.

He was the first to go down.

Claws raked his throat, his back, his chest and he fell on his knees with a

shout. Kicking out his leg, Angel managed to bring a couple of vamps down, but two more rushed him before he could find his feet. One of his opponents whipped out a knife and took advantage of the general confusion of flailing limbs to bury the blade through skin and flesh in Angel's stomach.

Then he twisted the handle.

Angel howled in pain.

Spike lost it.

The wholly familiar, compelling scent of his Sire's blood reached his nostrils and he felt something primal, something buried deep within him stir, then snap. He threw Ronald over his shoulder, slipped an arm around his neck and swiftly broke the vertebrae. Without pause he staked him, then moved through the dust to reach his Sire.

He couldn't hear Angel anymore. And the silence scared Spike more than all the screams of agony.

When he found the older vampire, Angel was on his stomach, his hand closed over his wound to protect himself - clinging to consciousness as a minion hammered on his shoulders with a baseball bat.

Spike jumped into the foray with an outraged howl. Using the crowbar he had stolen from Ronald, the blonde beat the fledglings back and away from his Sire. Grabbing Angel's duster, he dragged the dark-haired vampire to his feet.

His Sire moaned as the brutal movement jarred the torn flesh.

Spike promised himself to apologize at a safer time.

He shoved Angel towards the exit and followed into the passage after him. He could hear the remaining vampires gathering their forces and their wits after the demise of their leader. He unhooked one of the torches from the wall of the corridor, spun around, searched his pocket for his lighter and spread its fluid on the floor. The first couple of vampires rushed in.

Spike set the hall on fire and the screaming started.

It wasn't much, but it would gain them a few precious seconds. Without stopping to check the consequences of his pyromaniac impulses, Spike caught up with Angel.

His Sire held onto the wall, trying not to keel over.

Spike wrapped his arm around Angel's waist.

"Come on, mate. We're almost there."

Angel grunted and they made their way up the flight of stairs, through the presbytery and finally out in the graveyard again.

Once pale, Angel's skin was now positively ashen. He bit his lip deeply to keep from moaning in pain and drew blood.

The scent called out to Spike's frayed senses.

"You've lost a lot of blood," murmured the younger vampire, supporting most of his Sire's weight.

"I've had much worse. I'll be fine," Angel rasped out.

"We need to get you back home and feed you," said Spike, moving again.

"I..."

"Shut up, Peaches. Just concentrate on not bleeding so damn much."

"Are they still going at it?"

"Well... hum... in a smooching kinda way, yes..."

"What?!"

"Look for yourself."

Willow moved aside so that Buffy could gain access to the front window and look surreptitiously outside.

The Slayer plastered her nose to the pane.

There they were.

In the middle of the sidewalk.

Playing suckface.

"It looks like the Standard Cordelia Chase Procedure, Variation 9B. Scream, rant, insult... then jump the poor guy's bones without warning," mused Buffy.

"Well," the hacker objected, "he isn't... struggling."

Buffy's eyes narrowed.

No, no. Doyle definitely wasn't struggling.

Buffy moved away from the window, dragging Willow along with her, and they retreated towards Angel's office to return to their research.

The Slayer passed the freight elevator with a frown. "I hope Giles and Morghane haven't killed each other. He's my Watcher, and, well... I really like her."

"I'm sure they'll be okay," said Willow, opening yet another dusty old volume. "I think Giles wants to make up with her... you know. Before..."

"Yeah. I know."

Buffy threw a glance at the clock on Angel's desk and scowled.

"It's almost dawn. Where the hell are they?"

"Calm down, Buffy. They'll be here soon. Maybe they'll use the sewer system..."

Before Willow was able to complete her sentence, Oz appeared in the doorway. "Giles just called from downstairs. They're back."

The Slayer leaped out of her chair and flew down the stairs to Angel's apartment. She found them in the living room. Angel was sitting on the couch opposite Morghane, Giles hovering between them. Spike was nowhere to be found.

She approached and saw Angel's blood-drenched fingers clasped over his stomach.

Immediately, she knelt in front of him, putting a worried hand on his knee. "What happened? Where's..."

"Here you go, pet."

She lifted her gaze and found a disheveled Spike handing her a first-aid kit.

She smiled gratefully and accepted the box from his hands. "Thanks."

She looked at Angel from under her lashes. He was deathly pale - paler than he usually was. His jaw was clenched tightly against the pain. Accustomed to Angel's stoic endurance, she feared some serious damage. Cautiously, she lifted his shirt and bit back a gasp. She had seen a lot of wounds before - quite a large number of which she had sustained herself - but the sight of the gored flesh surrounding the gaping injury still twisted her stomach. It had healed somewhat, but was still bleeding steadily.

She felt a hand caress her shoulder and raised her head. Angel was smiling reassuringly down at her.

"I'm fine Buffy. I heal fast, you know that. It looks worse than it is."

Buffy nodded, not trusting her voice.

She grabbed a few bandages, some disinfectant and set everything down on the couch next to Angel. Carefully, she unbuttoned his shirt to expose his chest. Her throat was tight. In other circumstances, she might have attributed the sudden dryness in her mouth to the broad expense of muscles exposed before her gaze. As it was, all she saw was Angel's pain and his trembling shoulders.

She set out to wipe away the blood. Angel bit back a gasp.

"What... what did you learn?"

The question came from Willow and Buffy realized that all her friends had joined them downstairs, including Doyle and Cordelia. Her world had narrowed down to Angel the instant she discovered that the dark-haired vampire had been hurt.

"Not much," answered Spike. "The vampires belonged to the cadre of Nehemiah. That doesn't make any sense, because it's an ancient cadre, which means they very rarely leave the old grounds. Europe. And they have no reason to go after the Guardian."

"Anything else?" asked Giles.

"Yeah," added Angel. "There's a force behind this... Something big. Big enough to scare the entire demonic community."

"Any ideas about what kind of power we're facing?"

Angel shook his head, grunting when Buffy applied disinfectant to the stab wound.

"Sorry," she murmured, shyly lifting her eyes to meet his.

"S'okay" he reassured with one of his trademark lopsided grin.

"Here we go again," grumbled Xander behind her back. "There's blood on her hands and still they're making goo-goo eyes at each other."

"Shut up, pillock," Spike snorted, somewhere to her right.

"What? You playing matchmaker now, Blondie? Are you sure it's wise, considering your track record?"

"Wanker."

"Bloodsucker."

Buffy turned away from Angel to face them. "Enough. If you two don't quit it right now, I'll tear off your balls, Xander, and feed them to Spike."

Angel chuckled when the interested parties looked at Buffy, flabbergasted. He saw Morghane hide a smile behind her hand and winked at her over the Slayer's shoulder.

Xander made a small, pathetic 'ow' sound.

Spike indulged in a few gagging noises.

"Now, children...," declared Giles, steering the conversation back on track. "We need to discover what this power might be."

"Well, we did try," said Angel.

He swallowed a groan as Buffy finished bandaging the healing cut.

"You should feed, mate," said Spike, trying to appear unconcerned. "You'll heal faster."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Sod off, Peaches."

Buffy shook her head, helping Angel up. Since - vampires or not - Angel and Spike were still guys, this sort of exchange probably meant that they cared.

Typical male bonding.

"Spike's right, Angel. Come on, let's go to the kitchen. We'll be back in a few, guys."

"Yeah, right," mumbled Xander.

Buffy wanted to cuff him but she couldn't reach. She smiled when Spike punched him in the shoulder.

"Hey!" the teenager protested, turning to face Morghane. "I thought you said he was harmless now."

The Guardian smirked. "I didn't say he would become a cuddle bunny. I said he would have free will."

Buffy giggled as she left the living room with Angel - Giles' dry, involuntary chuckle escorting them out.

She led Angel to a chair. "Sit." Then she opened the refrigerator and took a couple of bags of blood out.

"Want me to warm it up?"

Angel nodded and Buffy rummaged around to find a bowl. She put the blood in the microwave. Finally out of things to distract herself away from the vampire sitting behind her, she turned around.

"So... you're sure you'll be okay?"

Angel smiled affectionately. "It's not the first time I get hurt, Buffy. It's barely a scratch." He looked up at her earnestly. "I didn't thank you."

"It's just a bandage..."

"No, I mean... for coming, for helping Morghane."

The Slayer shook her head. "No thanks necessary, Angel. I'm doing this for her."

Angel flinched, but he didn't try to evade Buffy's stare. "Are you still angry at me?"

Buffy opened her mouth to retort, but in the end she sighed. Raising her hand to his face, her fingers traced the handsome features that she knew better than her own.

"No, Angel. I'm not angry. Not anymore. I was, when you left. I couldn't understand, or I didn't want to. I could only see that I was alone and that it was your fault. It made no sense to me. For a while, I was too numb to react. You would have thought I had time to prepare myself, but I was in denial most of the time. So it was a real shock to see you walk away in the fog that night. And you didn't even look back."

He closed his eyes.

"No, Angel, look at me. I'm not angry. I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm just explaining. After Parker... I know you know what happened. Spike told me. Anyway, right after Parker I felt the rage surge all over again. I resented you deeply. I was trying to move on like you had asked me to do, trying to erase your image in my mind's eye. For some reason, I concluded that the only way to do that was to replace it with someone else's. It was a disaster. I gave Parker a gift that only you had ever received - and he threw it back in my face."

Angel looked like he was in pain.

"I can stop..."

He shook his head, adamant. "No. Don't."

The electronic bell of the microwave interrupted them. Buffy took the bowl out and handed it to Angel.

"Thanks."

"That's okay." She paused. Watched Angel take a long swallow of the precious liquid. "She was right."

He arched an eyebrow in question.

"Morghane. She was right. She said that this time away would be positive for the both of us and I can see what she meant. I can learn to stand on my own and become stronger for it - which, before you analyze this statement to death, doesn't mean that I'll stop needing you. And I think I realized some time ago that Sunnydale was bad for you. Although I couldn't admit it even to myself. It felt too much like a personal failure." She worried her lower lip between her teeth. "And that was selfish, too."

"Buffy..."

"No, let me finish. I only saw what your departure did to me. You said you were leaving for me. I still don't believe your reasons were the right ones, but now I understand that this was inevitable. You were slowly dying in Sunnydale. You were burying yourself alive and I should have seen this sooner. I thought you were getting better after your return from Hell, but you weren't." She clasped his hand lightly. "You are now, though." She pointed at the bowl. "You would never have willingly fed in front of me before."

Angel considered the blood in his hands.

Buffy was right. He had become so accustomed to having Cordy and Doyle around at all hours of the day and night that he did not feel so self-conscious about the daily requirements of his vampiric nature anymore. His partners took it all so casually in stride.

"I'm... I'm learning. But..."

Buffy growled and Angel stared at her, startled.

"Angel, I love you more than my own life, but if you say you're not worthy of my love... I'll... I'll kill you. I'll hold you down as Xander tortures you to death. Get it?"

He nodded wearily. He didn't like the unearthly glow in her eyes.

She wasn't kidding.

Still, he wanted her to understand. He smiled sadly. "The curse is still here, Buffy, it will always be here. Between us. I left because I couldn't be a man for you, and it's still true."

"Yes," agreed Buffy. "The curse is still an issue, just one among many. But I believe we will find a way. I do. And I'm finally ready to wait for you to reach that same conclusion by yourself."

His eyes shining unnaturally, Angel got out of his chair with careful movements. The wound was just a twitch in his side now, but he was exhausted. He reached out a hand to Buffy's cheek, hesitant. His thumb traced the path of an imaginary tear down her face.

"How can you be so strong?"

She answered simply.

"Because you made me that way."

Shakily, he lifted his other hand to her face and drew her towards him. She complied, unresisting, and he bent to deposit a sweet, longing kiss on her mouth. She sighed in contentment when he trailed a path of little kisses down her jaw, along her throat, to the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

Then, he withdrew.

"I scarred you," he stated.

His voice was cold, devoid of feelings. His dark eyes, always so full of pain and longing in her presence, were now fathomless and unreadable.

She didn't react with awkwardness, frustration or anger as she would have in the past.

"Yeah, you marked me. So? Piercing is so pass. I might start a new trend."

He tried to step away from her, rejecting her attempt at levity, but she wouldn't let him. "Angel, you didn't have any choice in the matter, now, did you? I hit you, forced you to drink me, remember?" She slid her hand suggestively along his left hip. "I even liked it."

Angel's jaw hung open in surprise.

Buffy laughed freely. It felt good.

It was hope.

For the first time in ages, and despite the dire situation they still had to face, she felt hopeful. Angel still needed to learn to master his fear. To trust himself around her again. That he drank from her had only comforted him in his decision to leave and in his resolution to stay away. But she would show him that he was strong enough, that he was deserving and worthy, that he could finally accept some measure of peace.

That he did not have to do all the giving for her sake, yet accept nothing for himself.

Didn't being deserving stem from overcoming impossible obstacles and still striving to do good?

If Angel wasn't deserving, who was?

And she needed him in her life. Wanted him. She refused to surrender to fate and live the rest of her days alone.

"Okay. We have to go back with the others now."

As he was about to walk back into the next room, Buffy remembered another deserving friend. She closed her small hand over his forearm.

"Angel, about Morghane... I think she would like to hear that you're not angry, that you don't hate her for sending you to Sunnydale, for sending you to me."

The vampire was sincerely confused. "Buffy, I can't hate her for that. She's the reason I met you and you're the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't regret going to Sunnydale. Ever."

Buffy smiled. A heavy weight that she hadn't even known was there until that very second lifted from her chest. He had answered so simply. So sweetly. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world to him.

"I know that, Angel and I think she does too. But I also believe that she needs to hear it from you before... if she... you know." Her throat seemed to close up. "She loves you, Angel."

"I love her too."

"I know. Now let's go."

*

It was so dark.

He didn't even know if his eyes were opened or closed anymore.

He was exhausted, tired of struggling, of trying to resist, of holding onto the distorted vestiges of his self. He couldn't remember why he was fighting or even who the enemy was. He had reached the limits of his endurance.

It felt good to lie here, to feel the cool stone floor against his chest, his cheek, his lips, his belly. Against his cock. He tried to roll over, but found he couldn't. He wanted to raise his hand.

The sharp pain in his wrist brought him back to harsh reality.

*Oh, nononononono*

He had been crucified spread-eagled, face down, on the floor.

A hand snaked in his hair and his unbeating heart tightened with dread. The fingers clutched his scalp and forced him to raise his head, twisting his neck, almost breaking it.

'It's me, your worst enemy.'

In his terror, he recognized the familiarity of that voice.

'She is lost. Forget her.'

*No!*

'You are lost. Renounce your self.'

*No!*

'Who are you?'

*I don't know.*

'*I*? You are not *I*. What is this *I*?'

*Help me...*

'*Me?* You are stubborn... Do you believe that you deserve this punishment?'

*No, I...*

'Keep quiet. Look.'

He closed his eyes, but it wasn't enough to keep the images at bay. Images of death and mayhem, violence and blood, torture and corpses - the memories of a century spent killing and maiming his way through Europe projected on the unwilling screen of his lids. All the victims wore the face of a young blonde girl whose name he could not remember, yet whose features brought tears to his eyes. Her body was broken and deformed, supplicating. And the monsters kept on torturing her, and he did nothing.

'You are free now. You can go and save her. Why aren't you getting up?'

*I'm scared.*

'She is on her knees.'

*Leave her alone.*

'It's not me, my friend. It's you.'

*Please...*

'Maybe I will put an end to her suffering.'

*No!*

'Or prolong it.'

*No!*

His scream died but its echo haunted him and he huddled up in a tight ball of misery. He concealed his head between his arms, hiding his despair and his shame from the shadows' scornful stare. A barrier between himself and the darkness that always ended up smothering him. He knew nothing but the pain and the certitude that he deserved his punishment. Yet he couldn't remember what his sin was, and that more than anything else terrorized him. For how could he ever hope to redeem himself if he ignored the extent of his transgression?

Not for the first time, he considered surrendering - but his instinct of self- preservation took over.

It was dark. And he was lost.

Tired. So very tired.

He gave up his vain struggle against the tears and sobbed himself to sleep.

*Angel, Angel, Angel... I am Angel. My name is Angel...*

When he woke up again after a too short rest, he found himself chained to a wall.

It didn't even occur to him to try and free himself. To escape. To plead.

He saw It coming. His Nemesis. In one of its many corporeal manifestations too.

So. There would be no hallucinations this time, no mind games. Just torture.

The monster floated over him, its eyes gleaming, vindictive, full of hatred. Its hands were talons, the sharpened claws of a predator. It did not howl. Its breathing was whistling and muggy. The features of its face - or what passed for it - were indescribable, deformed beyond any analogy to the living world. Or the dead.

Its figure sometimes dissolved in a black, burning steam, alternatively sharp and shapeless. The monster was inhabited of a deep pulsation, the rhythm of the liquid flowing in its veins directing its movements, its stare.

The creature pressed itself against him, the talons closing around his wrists, inhuman restraints that threatened to rip him to shreds. But the demon did not wish to feed off his blood. It wanted his flesh and all of his soul.

It tried to settle into him like a snake dwelling in its lair. Like the creation returning to its creator.

The fusion was cataclysmic.

He contorted, more out of disgust than pain. The thing was in him now, ripping him apart from within, turning and twisting in his stomach like a cat looking for the most comfortable position on the living room couch. Fear drowned his senses, sucking him down into the abyss. His skin was burning, incandescent.

Still the monster raped him, its anger always stronger, ignoring the body of its host tormented to the breaking point.

And where there was pain, there was pleasure.

The beast tried to seduce him, rubbing against him, caressing his feverish back, shaking him like a dog trying to separate the meat from the bone before gnawing at it. The black steam twisted still, baiting his body. It wouldn't let him deny the pleasure, willing to feed off of sex as well as flesh - and a sensual stroke - over his cock, his nipples, his soul - preceded each new torture.

His erection hardened and he wanted to heave, repulsed by the treason of his own nature.

The reward instantly became punishment and he moaned quietly, crushed, bent, submissive, abused, enslaved. A jolt and he resisted, refusing to let the creature make itself at home inside of him. The demon snarled, fought, screeched and insulted him, grabbed a limb then another, quartering its prey, twisting and turning the limp form to mold him to its whim.

The monster penetrated him one last time, violently, exploding inside of him, knowing that it wouldn't steal much more out of this convulsing, worn body.

It left him there. This mount wasn't going anywhere.

They had all eternity to play.

As the demon faded away, the man hung in the chains, blood dripping down his arms. He wished he could sleep again but dared not close his eyes. Sleep. This peaceful haven was a lie, a false prophet. They always came after him when he tried to rest. His fear was paralyzing and foul. He didn't even possess the strength or the ability to feel humiliated anymore.

He thought he could remember the names, the faces of those who awaited his return, but they were probably the product of his fevered, diseased imagination. For who could ever want him? No one had ever wanted him. He deserved the cold, the endless pain, the dark and the helplessness.

A hand caressed his hair again and he sobbed, resigned to the inevitable. Without hope.

But the smooth fingers weren't clawed, weren't gouging his skin or lacerating his face. They calmed his fevered brow, traced reassuring patterns over his naked shoulders, healed the gaping wounds in his sides, soothed the inflamed lash marks which covered his entire body.

He saw her.

She seemed hauntingly familiar. The copper hair. The emerald, bright eyes, full of pain and compassion. For him.

This was familiar, too.

He opened his dry, parched lips. "Who are you?" His voice was broken, hoarse - like rocks dragged over sand.

"Angel. You are Aingeal. And you are my friend."

"You..."

She shushed him sweetly, like she would an agitated child. She unchained him and took him securely in her arms. He bit his lower lip against the pain but still pressed himself tightly to her, soaking up her warmth, lulled by the steady, strong lullaby of her heart.

A live body. It had been so long.

She lay a hand on his forehead and said, "Watch."

He closed his eyes.

And she fed him.

Memories.

She fed him his own memories. And he remembered.

Her. Buffy. His love. He remembered all the good things. The passion, the acceptance, the loyalty, the warmth, the sentiment of belonging. Her laugh. Her smile.

"Buffy."

"She loves you, Angel. If you can only remember one thing, then be secure in the knowledge that she loves you. I will get you out, Angel. I promise you. Just hold on. Please hold on. You'll be with Buffy again, soon."

And then the arms were gone.

He heard the voice again. Wavering.

"Please forgive me, Angel. I have to go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She was gone.

He raised himself on his knees, holding the memory of Buffy close to his heart.

"Ssssslave..."

He whimpered, cowering against the wall, feeling the all too familiar, hissing breath on the back of his neck.

"I am Angel, Angel, Angel..."

Enraged, his tormentor roared.

"You are nothing! You are no one! And you will learn."

It buried its claws deeply in the vampire's stomach, slashing through the tender skin with a vociferous snarl.

"Slave."

Angel cried out in agony.

Angel's scream ricocheted between the walls of the apartment at the very second Buffy's eyes popped open.

"Angel!"

The Slayer shot out of her makeshift bed on the couch of the living room and rushed to the study. She was by Angel's side in the blink of an eye, not bothering to wipe off the tears streaming down her face.

The vampire was still trapped in sleep, gasping, thrashing on the sofa-bed. His fingers gripped the sheets, his head was thrown back, his mouth open on a silent plea for mercy.

Buffy sat on the foldout couch and dragged him against her. He whimpered and she wrapped herself around him, coupling her legs to his, immobilizing his arms but still giving him enough space to move without hurting himself.

"I'm here, Angel. I'm here and you're safe now. Shh. Shh, my love. You're safe. Safe, Angel..."

Angel resisted the feminine restraint, convulsing in her hold, and she realized he was crying in his sleep. Yet the sobs that shook his tall frame were inaudible.

Hell had taught him to dream and cry in silence.

Buffy felt rage surge under the guilt and the grief.

"Slayer..."

She raised her head, trying not to disturb Angel, and met Spike's gaze.

And she knew he had shared Angel's dream - nightmare - too.

"Cm' ere."

The blonde vampire approached cautiously, eyes gleaming, more distraught than Buffy remembered ever seeing him. She extended a hand and he took it. She pulled lightly, until he lied down on Angel's other side.

Angel's whimpers turned into distressed moans before he fell silent. He was still tense, trembling and shaking, his muscles hard - as if frozen by rigor mortis.

Hesitant, Spike slid an arm around his Sire's waist and returned the Slayer's stare over Angel's shivering form.

"You were... there."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"The... the Guardian..."

Buffy's lips tightened. "Yeah, I saw her too. She was with him."

Angel's warm tears fell on her forearm and she kissed his dark head softly, smoothing the perspiration-soaked hair away from his forehead.

His eyes were wide open.

So full of anguish and grief.

"B... Buffy?"

"I'm here, love," she murmured, caressing his cheek with the tip of her fingers. "Spike is here, too." She raised her eyes to the blonde vampire pressed against her lover's back and met a gaze the color of the Atlantic in winter.

"I... I dreamed..."

"Shh. We know. We were there."

Angel frowned, slowly coming back to himself. "What?"

"We shared your dream... like I did last Christmas, remember?"

"Will, too?"

"Yes, mate," Spike whispered, leaning on an elbow, subdued.

"I did, as well."

Buffy jumped, startled to find her Watcher standing in the doorway.

"Giles?"

"After Morghane sent everybody to bed to get some rest, I decided to check out a few things and fell asleep upstairs researching. I... I experienced Angel's recollections too." He turned soft, understanding eyes to Angel. "I assume this dream was a... memory?"

The vampire nodded mutely and shuddered in Spike and Buffy's twined embrace.

"Morghane didn't tell me she had been with you... there," the Watcher added in a measured, calming voice, trying not to upset Angel even more.

Angel shook his head slowly. "I... I didn't know. I didn't even remember until now..."

Giles nodded, getting closer to the bed. "I think she must have taken some of the memories from you... we saw her feed you recollections of your time with Buffy. Morghane was trying to preserve your mind." Gently. "Your sanity." He took his glasses off to wipe them clean on his uncharacteristically untucked shirt - like he often did when he speculated out loud. "Seeing her again after all this time must have triggered repressed memories..."

He realized that no one was listening to him anymore. Their stares were fixed on some point behind him.

He turned around.

Morghane was leaning against the doorframe.

She broke the heavy silence with a weak, unsteady voice.

"I'm sorry. I linked to Angel while I was dreaming and, with my psychic shields down, I broadcast his nightmare to all those who were sleeping in the building. I didn't mean to. The content of your dreams is a private matter, Angel, and no apology will ever be enough. But I'm sorry."

Angel did not respond right away, still reeling, and Morghane lowered her eyes to the floor in shame.

"So you were there."

She raised her gaze to the Watcher. "Yes. I was. I did all the things you said. Took his memories from him. Kept the image of Buffy safe so that I could give it back to him through the link when he started to forget who he was. When he lost hope."

Buffy sat up, still cradling Angel in her lap. Spike followed her example, keeping one of his Sire's hands secure in his gentle grip.

"I guess... I guess you couldn't get him out... before," said Buffy.

It wasn't an all-out accusation, yet the Slayer still felt the need to ask, and it hurt.

Morghane hid her wince skillfully.

"No. I... visited... when I could. Which wasn't often enough. I cannot move freely in the demonic plane."

"I'm still amazed you were allowed access at all," remarked Giles, falsely detached.

Morghane flinched again. She was in no condition to partake in that kind of cat- and-mouse game with the Watcher.

"Yes."

Noncommittal.

But Giles smelled blood and like a hound he wouldn't let go. "What did you have to do with Angel's release from Hell?"

She remained silent.

His tone hardened. "What kind of deal did you make?"

She didn't see Buffy relinquish Angel's care to Spike but suddenly the Slayer stood in front of her.

"No more secrets, Morghane. Angel deserves to know. We all do. Whatever you did, we will forgive you. But we need to know."

The Guardian bit back a sorrowful smile.

Forgiveness was the last thing on her mind.

"Morghane?"

Angel now stood behind Buffy, Spike hovering protectively at his side. And she could never deny him the truth.

"I did. Make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" asked Buffy, dreading the answer.

Morghane opened her mouth to explain. Nothing happened.

She tried again.

"When Angel was sucked into Hell... it was... I mean, a vampire with a soul. The demons down there were all over themselves with joy. Like kids handed a new toy at Christmas." Angel flinched, and Morghane cursed her straying tongue. "What I'm trying to say is that the event didn't go unnoticed and it attracted the attention of one of the oldest powers that inhabit the demon dimension." She swallowed. "The First."

Angel took a step back, certain he wasn't going to like the rest of the story.

Spike put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"It didn't take the First too long to understand what had just landed in its lap. It knew how important you were to me and... well, the First wanted to play, and you were the prize. It wanted to destroy you, turn you into a mindless slave and it delighted in seeing me trying to play damage control. Eventually however, it got bored. And I saw my chance. Your chance."

"What..." murmured Angel, uncomprehending.

Giles' expression darkened once again, and Morghane knew he already understood. What she had done and why.

"You were of no use to either the First or myself in Hell, so I challenged it to let you go. The First bet that it could get you to relinquish your soul voluntarily. I bet that it could not. I also had to agree not to interfere in any way, shape or form. I made the deal. You know the rest."

Buffy looked at her Watcher, obviously expecting him to object loudly. But it was Angel who spoke.

"You risked Buffy's life. I could have killed her."

The Guardian shook her head, vehement. "No, never. I trusted you."

Angel ignored her, lost in a world of his own.

"I wanted to know... I wondered... why I was back. You could have told me."

"I couldn't..."

"Interfere, yes. What about the snow? It was you, right?"

She didn't answer.

"Right?" Angel repeated more forcefully.

Morghane closed her eyes. She had known he would react that way. He was still shaken by the resurgence of his memories from Hell and she had suddenly been added to the ever-growing list of people who had robbed him of his freedom of choice.

She deserved his anger.

"Not directly. I asked a favor from a friend. I couldn't lose you."

"But you could liberally risk Buffy's life?" Angel retorted coldly. "You didn't mind taking the chance that the First would persuade me to lose my soul in the Slayer?"

Her throat tightened painfully and she couldn't force another word past her lips.

Instead, she submitted herself to his reproachful, betrayed gaze.

Until Giles intervened. "The power that was behind the cadre of Nehemiah. The force that followed you from Sunnydale. It is the First, isn't it?"

"I... I don't know."

"You strongly suspect, though."

She nodded.

The Watcher sighed, deeply. "Why didn't you tell us before? It could have saved us so much time."

Morghane's shoulders straightened and she faced them all.

"Because you can't destroy the First. Because I didn't want any of you going after it and risking your lives in vain."

She smiled painfully and her irises glowed white.

"And, forgive me, but I still don't."

Before any of them could move forward or even realized what she intended to do, she raised her hand and pronounced a few sharp words in her mother tongue.

Giles had the time to implore "Morghane, don't..."

They all slid unconscious to the floor.

Shakily, the Guardian took a few steps inside the study, kneeling beside Angel and Spike. She bent and deposited a small, chaste kiss on Angel's lips.

"n am seo go dt sorraocht, m Aingeal."

Then she extended a hand to caress Spike's cheek and murmured in his ear. "I bid thee, keep him safe for me."

She stood and left the room after taking the time to spread a thick coverlet over Watcher and Slayer. She found her luggage and changed quickly into a snug pair of faded Levi 501s and old leather boots. Rummaging in Angel's closet, she found one of his customary black cotton shirts and put it on.

It still smelled like him. The feeling comforted her.

She picked up her own black cashmere duster, concealed a couple of stakes and the dagger she had found in Angel's study the previous night deep in the garment's pockets, and she was ready to go.

She hurried as fast as she could towards the freight elevator, knowing her spell wouldn't last long. Checking her watch, she saw that it was only eleven in the morning. *Good.* She had plenty of daylight time to find Lisandra without having to worry about protecting herself from random bloodsuckers. She would have taken Spike with her, but she figured Angel and Buffy would need him more than her when they came to. They would try to go after the First despite her interdiction. Hopefully, things would have settled down by then.

The office was empty. The rest of the Scooby Gang was safely tucked away in bed and that was fine by her. No sign of either Doyle or Cordelia. She had sent them all to sleep around 5am, arguing that they were exhausting themselves.

In truth, Morghane had known that she would break her promise to the Watcher to allow them one more day. In all probability she had about four days still before the Sepulcher killed her, but she didn't want to cut it too close or give the First the tiniest chance of success. That it let her go after attacking her in Sunnydale was bizarre enough. There was still something that she did not understand and she would kill herself rather than give the slightest advantage to her enemies. They had enough as it was.

She reached the front door and thought she was home free.

*Think again.*

"Hey, good-morning, Morghane. Where are you going?"

Oz.

"I... I've got to go, Oz. Please."

Why bother to explain? She didn't have that long before the others came to.

She tried to pass by him, but he moved in her path.

"Please, Oz."

He shook his head. "Why do I get the feeling that no one knows where you are going?"

"Because you're very perceptive?"

He didn't so much as twitch. "So where are we going?"

"Oz..."

"Or we could also wait and ask Buffy to come along."

She read his eyes and he let her.

Morghane growled. "Where's your van?"

"A block down that way," said Oz pointing to his left.

"Then let's go."

He nodded.

He didn't say a word when Morghane held onto him for support. He silently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they continued down the road.

*

"She's so dead."

"Buffy..."

"Just... just why did she go and do that? How are we supposed to help her now? What...."

"Buffy!" Angel interrupted again, putting his hands on the Slayer's slim shoulders - trying to calm her down. "We're going to find her. Don't worry. Spike and I can go ask around using the sewer system and you can track her down above ground."

"How will we know where to start?"

Giles massaged the patch of tension between his eyes. "I tried to contact the Council. I know they gave Morghane the location of the next Guardian, Lisandra. I wanted to reach Wesley, but they wouldn't take my call. Didn't care about my explanations, either."

"What?" Buffy ground out between clenched teeth.

She stepped away from Angel, almost relieved for this opportunity to escape his dark penetrating gaze, and marched forcefully to the phone. "What's the number?"

"2235 245689" rattled Giles. "The international code for England is 44."

He knew better than to argue with his Slayer when she was in that particular mood. Better to let the unsuspecting Council deal with the fallout.

Buffy punched the numbers in and waited, turning away from her friends gathered once again in Angel's living room. Her body hummed with nervous energy, her nails drummed on an antique pedestal table as she waited for someone to pick up the phone on the other side of the ocean.

When she finally got an answer, she straightened, her stance rigid, her poise controlled and commanding - every inch the powerful Slayer that she was.

"Put me through to Wesley Wyndham-Price, please... Buffy Summers... yeah, the Slayer. You know many others?... What, you mean you gonna keep a Slayer from contacting a Watcher? That'll go down well in the books... What do I mean? Oh, I don't know. Let's just say a certain Watcher Diary could find its way to the motherland... yeah, yeah, it's blackmail. Hey, you catch on fast... Or I could go over there and play apprentice surgeon with your entrails... yeah, now it's a threat. Man, you're sharp... Good for you."

Spike was leaning against a wall to her right. He grinned, vastly entertained.

Buffy rolled her eyes heavenward then focused back on the voice in her ear.

"Wesley?... Yeah, delighted to hear from you too. I understand you gave Morghane the location of the new Guardian. Well, I need it too... Need-to-know? Been watching one to many James Bond, haven't you?... You're gonna tell me, Wes, not because I scare you, but because you wanna do the right thing. The Council is going to be short on Guardians soon if we don't locate Lisandra in the next few hours... Please, Wesley, I'm sure this request is not against the rules. Think about it. I may be a rogue to you, but I'm still the Slayer and I have a duty to the Guardian. I want to fulfill it, but to do that I need to know where Lisandra is... Yes, Morghane is gone. You know why..." She scolded but grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. "Thank you, Wes. Sincerely... Yeah, We'll keep you updated... Bye."

She hung up the phone with a groan and a sigh.

Angel approached her, disquiet permeating his expression. "What did he say?"

"Wes didn't give Morghane an address. He gave her a phone number."

"Which can mean one of two things," acknowledged Doyle. "Either she went to that number's address, or whoever is on the other side of that phone line fixed her a rendez-vous somewhere else."

Buffy shrugged.

"Should be easy enough to verify."

She picked up the receiver again and dialed the number Wesley had given her.

"At least it's an L.A. area code," murmured Angel, close to her ear.

The vampire leaned against her back, his arms around her waist, enfolding her, and she tried not to tense up.

He had been seeking contact - brushing her arm, holding her hand, caressing her hair distractedly - since they had left the study. As if he needed to periodically assure himself that she was there, that he wasn't alone. That he had left the oneiric specters behind him.

His chest - the ghost wounds left by the demon's talons - had finally stopped hurting.

No one intended to call him on the unusual displays of affection. At least, none of those who had shared the dream. Doyle and Cordelia acted like nothing was amiss. Willow shot wondering glances that went unanswered at Buffy. And when Xander opened his mouth to comment, Giles, Spike and the Slayer closed ranks around Angel. Their collective stare pilloried him before he could utter one insulting word.

But Buffy had her own issues with Angel's proximity.

"Nothing," she said, dropping the receiver. "No answer."

"You think you can find the address on your machine?" asked Giles, addressing Willow.

The hacker nodded earnestly, moving towards the lift. "I'll get on it right away."

Willow had a lot riding on this now. An hour ago, Oz had disappeared somewhere between the motel and Angel's office and his van was nowhere to be found. They were working under the assumption that Oz and Morghane had met somehow and that the werewolf had proposed to drive the Guardian to her intended destination.

The young hacker didn't know what had transpired in Angel's apartment that morning, but she had been told of the possible involvement of the First and she was scared out of her mind for Oz - caught in the battle between two such powerful forces. Not to mention the fact that the weather seemed to have gone crazy on them and the streets of L.A. started to resemble Nome, Alaska in December. Definitely unfriendly.

Willow was a bit put out that Oz hadn't tried to call or left a message. He should have known that she would be deathly worried.

"I'll go with you," volunteered Xander.

No one tried to stop him.

Angel let go of Buffy to face his partner. "Whistler?"

"No good," answered Doyle. "I've gone through all the usual channels - and a few creative others - but I can't get in touch with him. I hope nothin' happened. I'm supposed to meet a... friend, in half an hour." He got up from the couch. "In fact, I'm gonna go now. I'll call you if I learn anythin'. Ye do the same."

"I'm coming," said Cordelia. "You'll need... assistance."

None of her friends even bothered to call her on that one.

Giles swiftly assessed the mood brewing between the two vampires and the Slayer.

They needed some time alone.

"I'm going upstairs. I'll call you as soon as Willow gets something."

Buffy watched Giles leave the apartment, puzzled. "Did I say something?"

Angel frowned. "I think he's just... concerned."

Spike snorted.

Vampire and Slayer raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You two are so dense sometimes, it's breath-taking." He shrugged under their dubious gaze. "Well, it would be if I breathed." He casually lit a cigarette. "The Watcher wanted to give you some private time to deal with your problems."

They looked at Spike as if he had grown a tail.

"What are you blabbering about?" asked Buffy, defensive.

Angel kept silent.

Spike smirked, unfazed. "Right, Slayer. You're not fooling anyone. So you get your head out of your arse right now, stop acting like a brat and start facing the truth, okay?"

"Watch it, Spike," growled the dark-haired vampire, coming out of his reserve.

The blonde disregarded his Sire's warning. "Don't get your black silk boxers in a twist, mate. She's a big girl, she can take it."

Buffy hissed. Indignation flared in her eyes. "Alzheimer finally catching up with you? 'Cos I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's because I'm the only one with a brain cell left in this room, luv."

The Slayer smiled nastily, relishing the opportunity to fight. Finally. "And I see a full frontal lobotomy in your near future."

"Nice going for someone who thinks Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is a documentary."

"This discussion is certainly lacking something in the intelligence department, but it ain't my fault."

"Uh, yeah? Explain that one."

"I don't do charity."

Angel took a step closer to the wall.

Nice crossbow hanging there. Could come in handy if the situation degenerated further. He could always shoot one of them.

But which one?

Decisions, decisions.

Interestingly, it was Spike who turned out to be the voice of reason and he raised both hands in an appeasing gesture.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Time out."

Buffy froze, more dumbfounded than if he had just gone all out and hit her.

"We're all stressed here, Slayer, I didn't mean to start a fight. I just... We don't have much time and if we must work together to save Morghane you guys have to face the facts and talk." The vampire dragged a tired hand over his eyes. They had all been exhausting themselves over the last few days and tempers were running high. "You can't even look Angel in the eye. How do you reckon you can go into battle with him at your side if you can't even face him?"

Angel's brow furrowed and he looked at Buffy, inquiring.

The Slayer refused to meet his gaze.

Spike growled in exasperation. "Okay, you want me to spell it out? I will." He turned his back on the young woman to confront his Sire. "Guilt's eating her up." Buffy's head shot up as if she had been sucker-punched, but he ignored her. "Since we shared the dream... she's feeling bad 'cos she finally had to face the results of what she did to you when she sent you to Hell. It wasn't real to her 'til now."

Angel shook his head, his hauntingly sorrowful eyes searching Buffy's frozen expression. "Buffy, no. Don't... don't punish yourself. I never condemned you. Never. I only admired you more. For accomplishing your duty despite the personal cost to yourself." His voice wavered, like quicksand. "I don't blame you. I don't."

Tears streamed down Buffy's face.

"Five..."

A gasp.

"Five hundred years of..."

Each breath was another uphill battle, laced with pain.

Angel couldn't take it. With a few quick steps, he covered the short distance that separated them and swept her up tightly against his chest.

"Shh. Don't cry. Please don't cry."

She murmured haltingly, muffled by Angel's shirt, beating lightly on his shoulder with her left hand.

"You're doing it again."

"What?" he asked, confused.

"I hurt you. I hurt you more than any person ever hurt another in the entire history of civilization. And... and you're drying my tears, easing my pain..."

Angel gently lifted her chin with a long finger.

"You didn't hurt me, Buffy. I love you."

It was the only explanation he would ever need.

Incapable of words, the Slayer snaked her arms around his waist, lying her cheek on his breast - eyes closed.

Soaking up his strength.

She couldn't even begin to comprehend how he still managed to be so strong. She had no frame of reference, nowhere to start from and try to understand. She was shaking - both from delayed fear and unexpected relief. Because he did not blame her, because he still loved her. Yet her incapacity to share, to appreciate what he had been through in Hell - this unexpected, invisible distance between them - cut so deeply. Hurt so terribly.

Angel searched for his silent Childe over Buffy's blonde head.

A feeble smile graced Spike's lips.

"If you can forgive her, you can forgive yourself, you know."

The older vampire's expression clouded over and he felt Buffy stiffen against him. But she remained huddled in the shelter of his arms - not quite ready to face disturbing reality again.

Spike forged on. "The Guardian didn't leave just 'cos for a few minutes this morning you couldn't give her forgiveness and understanding. You'd just awaken from Hell, so cut yourself some slack. She was ready to leave anyway."

Angel took a ragged, unnecessary breath.

It had been a hard night.

And an even harder morning.

"I should have..."

"She knows, mate." Spike laughed hollowly. His voice was strained. "Sometimes I think she knows us all better than we know ourselves."

Oz stopped at a red light, trying to juggle the map and grip the wheel at the same time. This town was a maze and the sudden fog which had just fallen over the city, like a theatrical curtain after the comedians last bow, didn't help matters any.

He was lost.

The sky had this peculiar luminosity of early mornings in the Highlands. Despite the penetrating cold, people strolled along the streets - delighting in the unexpected weather. The smell of snow came up from the ground. A light drizzle covered the dying vegetation of a thin glazed layer of wetness.

A gigantic elm appeared through the mist, ghostly vision of the ram of an icebound expeditionary ship - its crew condemned to a slow agony.

All in all, not your typical Californian fall.

The light turned green and Oz decided to park for a while, hoping that the fog would lift eventually. He turned slightly in his seat to look at his passenger.

Morghane was sleeping, holding her duster tightly wrapped around herself. The weak daylight flowing through the windshield accentuated the twin bruises under her eyes. She had stopped shivering some time ago.

He didn't want to wake her, although he knew that he had no other choice. Time was of the essence. Yet he couldn't help but think the Guardian shouldn't be huddled in the cold seat of his van but warm and safe in a bed - being coddled by two motherhens who just happened to be vampires.

He considered turning around, taking her back to Angel's apartment while she slept, but thought better of it. He had no right to make any decision for her.

Just as he was getting ready to turn the engine on again and give one more shot at finding the address Morghane had given him, she stirred.

"Oz? Are... are we there yet?"

He shook his blonde head. "I think I'm lost."

She smiled faintly. "It happens."

"The weather is getting worse."

She squinted, trying to distinguish something through the frost-covered window. "Performing High Magick on this plane does that. Disturbs the climate. It's going to get worse as the spell gets closer to completion."

Oz nodded. "You look...better."

Morghane shrugged, massaging a sore shoulder. "I performed a small strengthening spell this morning. Earth magicks, not Guardian magicks. A strengthening spell is a lot like sniffing a line of coke." She frowned. "Without the psychotic side-effects." She smothered a yawn. "Where are we?"

"Montrose and Madigan. I think."

"Then make a right after the next light," said Morghane, stretching like a cat. "Falson street should be a couple of blocks down on your left. We have to hurry. Angel and the others should have regained consciousness a while ago. They could still track me down."

Oz engaged the van back on the street. "Maybe you should let them help."

"There's nothing to do, Oz. You shouldn't even be here. Why don't you go back to Willow? She must be worried sick waiting for you."

"She understands."

Morghane looked at Oz oddly for a few seconds - he felt like an open book under a scholar's gaze - then pushed a red strand of hair away from her right eye. "We know we're on the wrong side of ironic when half the good guys feel the need to redeem themselves for stuff they aren't even responsible for."

"Didn't Alanis say something like that?"

"Funny, ah, ah, Oz."

"I'm trying."

Morghane kept silent, but as they approached their final destination, she lightly brushed his hand on the gear shift.

"When this is all over, you should have a good long talk with Angel. Learning to deal with your wolf is much like sharing your body with a demon, Oz. You two are very much alike in many ways."

"Oh."

Deadpan.

She laughed.

"Willow told me that werewolves and vampires didn't get along well," said Oz.

"Hm. Yeah. I could tell you stories about the last werewolves v. vampires war. It involved a lot of intestines spread out over a vast field in the middle of Dobershire." She mused out loud, perplexed. "Why Dobershire of all places? Nobody knows. Well, no one who's still alive to tell the tale anyway." She sighed wearily. "Divided we fall, Oz. The feud between your two species go back to the time when human souls lost mastery of the vampire body in favor of the demons. But this could all change, you know? Vampires could win control back from the demon. Werewolves could subdue the beast..."

Oz parked in front of 67 Falson street without a word.

"Talk to Angel. Talk to Giles. You'll see, Oz." She opened her door, and her words went up like ephemeral clouds, lost in the fog. "There might be hope for all of us yet."

Morghane walked up to the old building, Oz at her side, and her boots disturbed the glum stillness of a small puddle. She found herself outside with relief. She filled her lungs with icy air and enjoyed the cold mist caressing her cheeks and threading through her hair. She found the weather comforting. It reminded her of the fields and the moors of her childhood - a few fleeting, cherished memories that she held close to her heart.

The cold was her element.

She considered the heavy wooden door in front of her. The sign announced "Colm Newman - Ancient Books".

"Oz. You should leave now."

He did not answer or acknowledge her words in any way and she didn't bother to repeat herself.

Morghane liked Oz.

He was gifted with a surprising acuteness for one so young. He understood that words were often powerless to express an idea essential and immanent. He was of such a rare intransigence that he often chose to remain silent - precocious wisdom that only came with an arduous past. Life hadn't always been kind to Oz, she could tell, yet he had remained fiercely loyal, generous and compassionate. A good man. She could have wished him a gentler future - but it would have been futile.

She knew what awaited them all.

She slid her hand in her duster's inner pocket and revealed a small silver key.

"You've got the key?" observed Oz. "Cool."

"This place belongs to the Council. They have one of those in all major cities and the lock is standard. Some kind of sanctuary for use by either Slayer or Guardian. Wesley gave me a contact number for Lisandra - I called her and fixed her a meeting here tonight. We're early, but I had to get away when I had the chance."

Morghane inserted the key in the lock, opened, pushed the heavy oak door and stepped in.

She let herself be surrounded by the sweet, heady aroma of old parchments, leather bindings and worm-eaten wooden shelves. The shop was dark, narrow but deep. Thick volumes with pine-green or faded-brown covers lined the walls. Distractedly, her gaze lingered on the red and gold publications of 'Murray & Sons'.

"It's a real bookstore?" asked Oz behind her.

"Yes. I called ahead and told them to close for the day. We should have the place to ourselves. Let's go back there."

They squeezed between the piles of codex, in quarti and other incunabulae. Massive shelves hid showcases sheltering manuscripts illuminated with fine gold, fourteenth century volumen and Latin editions in octovo.

A flight of stairs led to another level, but they ignored it. They entered a second room larger than the first. Other showcases displayed Italian daggers, misericords, damascened blades, rapiers with half guards and nineteenth century Scottish schiavonas.

"Wow. Buffy's heaven," said Oz.

Morghane nodded absentmindedly. She leaned over a schiavona *Republique of Venice, stamped by Piccinino* and took the sword by the guard. She caressed the cold steel of the blade.

Which battles had it seen? How many lives had it taken? A history that Morghane hadn't really experienced, yet memories that she shared nonetheless. She had participated in so many wars. And they were all the same.

She closed her eyes.

Napoleon's army stranded on the banks of the Moskva. The screams of the fighters, the groans of the dying, the uproar of cannon fire, the horses neighing in fear - blood mixing with snow and mud... other images. Battalions of Highlanders sacrificed, charging under the fire of the Old Guard. And the perjured supplications of the fallen, heckling a god who had forsaken them.

Alone at the instant of their death.

She knew all the subtle nuances of solitude. To be alone in the middle of a crowd, to be alone surrounded by her family, by her friends, to be alone in the embrace of a lover. To be alone with her fear, her sadness, her pain, her anger, her joy too - which was maybe the worst of all. She was familiar with the unhealthy, comforting attraction of isolation.

There are mute prayers and silent requiems.

She would be alone at the moment of her death too.

"Morghane."

She laid the sword down respectfully, opened her eyes and lifted her face to look at Oz.

"Don't cry."

Morghane's eyes widened. She lifted a trembling hand and was surprised to find her cheek damp.

Oz took her elbow gently and led her to a plush wing chair. He went down on one knee before her.

"Can I help?"

"I... no. Thank you, Oz."

She stood on shaky legs, took a few steps away from the werewolf and faced an engraving illustrating Saint John's Revelation 12:7 - signed by Drer himself. The Guardian contemplated her reflection in the glass. She would have liked to live like one of Shakespeare's characters, study the flow of reality in the mirror and learn the rhythm of the tides. But she had never been given the leisure to indulge herself.

"All this time, I've lived life like a traveler condemned to other customs and a strange language. The nature of humans - which is to die - brings them together. It has always marked me as being apart." She shrugged. "Not anymore."

A knock resounded from a third room behind them and they jumped.

"There's another entrance?" asked Oz.

"Yes. These places are always designed with the words 'hasty exit' in mind. There's probably an entrance to the sewers in the back."

Whoever it was knocked again.

Morghane frowned. "If it's Lisandra, she's early."

"A sewer entrance... vampires?"

The Guardian shook her head. "Can't get in. Not invited. Stay here. You've taken enough risks..."

The young man stood in front of her without pronouncing a word. Didn't look like he would budge any time soon.

Morghane sighed. "Very well. Just... be careful. If you get hurt, Willow might just find a way to summon my soul back or something."

Oz almost smiled.

"You know what Lisandra looks like?"

"No idea. But I should be able to tell by looking at her, feel her magick. And Guardians are marked." She pulled on Angel's shirt to expose her left shoulder. A small symbol was tattooed on her light skin. "It's a magickal seal." She smirked. "Kind of like a tag. It directs the magick to the Guardian. The Rapture activates it."

Oz nodded and grabbed a sword at random.

"I'm ready."

Morghane pushed open the door of the third room and switched the lights on. No windows.

Again, someone knocked on the back door.

The Guardian turned the knob and pulled.

The door opened on a flight of stairs which, like Morghane had predicted, led to the underground.

And at the top of those stairs stood a stunning blonde woman who looked to be about twenty. She was dressed much like Morghane usually was - in black. She wore a long flowing dress, a leather coat and high-healed knee-high boots.

She smiled. A beautiful smile.

Morghane stepped back in shock. "Dia liom."

Oz looked confused but brandished his sword just the same.

Slowly, deliberately, the attractive newcomer crossed the threshold.

"Being successor to the Guardian, Watchers tend to let you in on your word alone."

Morghane clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palm. "Oh my God."

"Yes, you said that already, darling."

"Oz. Run."

The werewolf had no intention of leaving Morghane behind to face an enemy - whoever this woman was. Sure wasn't a friend judging by the Guardian's horrified expression. He turned his head around to gauge their avenues of retreat.

A dozen vampires blocked their escape route.

He faced the woman again. She stood closer to the Guardian now.

"They were waiting upstairs all along, Morghane. The things the Sepulcher can do to your senses. Tsk, tsk."

"Lisandra..."

Lisandra grinned wickedly.

Her smile revealed a lot more teeth.

And Oz - who knew enough to understand that an apprentice Guardian turned vampire spelled disaster of biblical proportions - felt fear.

"Time to make room for the new generation, Guardian." Shooting an arm out, Lisandra closed a clawed hand against Morghane's throat - breaking the skin. "And leave a bloody-looking corpse."

*

The church was modest, undoubtedly old European architecture. From what Buffy had been told, some crazy Californian billionaire had bought the ancient Cistercian abbey from the French and had it reconstructed here in the middle of Los Angeles.

Buffy could understand why Angel liked this place. She knew of his fascination with Christianity. Of his nostalgia, his yearning, his longing. He had been raised Irish Catholic and this legacy still meant a lot to him. He wanted to belong, to find comfort in the forgiving embrace of his God, but his shame alienated him from the solace such a place could have granted. Angel viewed himself as the most despicable, the most repulsive of all creatures in the eyes of his Lord. His skewed, twisted self-image kept him from asking for the peace and absolution God promised all repentant souls.

Still he was the one who had chosen this church. He had told Buffy that the priest was a friend of his, someone he trusted. The vampire hadn't been more forthcoming. And the edifice benefited from an access to the sewers - which meant that Angel could safely meet her downtown even though the sun hadn't yet slipped past the horizon.

Buffy crossed the small enclosed garden which opened on the church square and entered. The nave was almost empty. A few candles burned in the absidioles. The light fell in the choir through the central rose window of the apse. At this time of day, the edifice was plunged in an appeasing half-light.

The priest - a gray-haired, tall, imposing sixty-year-old man - was half-way through the afternoon mass, giving the orison to a few scattered faithful.

"My friends. Be thankful to the Lord, our Father, whose goodness makes us capable of sharing the fate of the Saints in the light. He saved us from the Prince of Darkness to lead us to the Kingdom of His beloved Son, whose blood absolves us and purifies our sins."

"Deo gratias," answered the faithful.

A servant carried the missal. The faithful stood. The priest pronounced the ritualistic words before reading from the Gospel according to Saint John. 18:33- 37. 'Christ is our King'.

"Dominus vobiscum."

"Et cum spiritu tuo."

Following the priest, the faithful traced the shape of the cross with their thumb on their forehead, their lips, their heart.

"Laus tibi, Christe!"

Buffy listened, not even trying to understand the words. She had never attended a mass in Latin before. Yet the language wasn't totally foreign to her. Giles and Willow used it often enough.

She followed like in a dream the canonical prayer and the chant of the communion. She came out of her daze when the priest proposed that the assembly sung at the request of a dying member of the congregation.

The faithful stood up once again and launched into the Te Deum.

Te Deum laudamus : - te dominum confitemur. - te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur. - tibi omnes angeli, tibi Coeli, et universae Potestas, - tibi Cherubim et Seraphim, incessabili voce proclament : - "Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, dominus Deus Sabaoth! - pleni sunt coeli et terra majestitatis gloria tuae!"

The chanting grew in its intensity, submerging the erratic palpitations of Buffy's heart. She pushed her mind to free itself from matter. Or maybe it wasn't an emancipation from the flesh, but an extreme mastery over her own body - so that it became the receptacle, the catalyst transcended and submissive of her slightest thought.

In te, Domine, speravi : non confundar in aeternum. - Benedicmus patrem et filium cum Sancto Spiritu! - Laudemus et superexaltemus eum in saecula!

She tensed and her toes curled. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

He was there. He had entered the church.

With her eyes closed, she walked up the side of the nave. She entered the presbytery through the transepts. She was still in front of the heavy oak door when his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist.

She opened her eyes.

"Angel."

He trailed a hand along her arm and deposited a small kiss on the top of her head.

"You look exhausted."

She giggled. "Thanks."

Angel led her into the presbytery.

Golden light dispersed in lateral rays over the furnishings. There were books everywhere, shelves climbed along the walls with the enthusiasm of Virginia Creeper. There was stone, wood and dusty leather. A statue of Saint George watched over an old four-poster bed.

"No luck?"

Buffy let her forehead fall on her lover's breast. "Nothing. I went to the address Willow found with Giles and Xander. Squat. The place was deserted. I don't even think anyone ever lived there. Willow's wigging because Oz's still missing. She contacted the Wiccan community through the net. She says that the spell involves such powerful magicks, some of the most sensitive witches are bound to notice. They could help us locate Morghane. I... I just don't think it'll be soon enough. You?"

She felt Angel's sigh through his shirt.

"No one knows anything about either Morghane's location or the First - in any case, they're not talking. I'm still waiting to hear from Doyle. There's another nest not far from this church. We think those vamps might be tied to the cadre of Nehemiah. They are old blood, won't be easy to take down. Spike will meet us in the sewers in half an hour and we'll go after them."

"Okay."

"We should go underground, now. With the sun going down, I can't..." - he pointed to the side windows - "keep out of the sunlight here."

Buffy nodded. Angel took her hand and led her through an anteroom to a manhole in the stone floor. He opened the cover and went down first. Buffy was close behind him. She jumped when she reached the bottom of the ladder and he caught her. She tripped and had to grab his arm for balance.

"You really are tired," Angel whispered, concerned.

"I'll be okay. Don't worry about me."

Angel sat down on a somewhat dry spot and patted his lap. "Cm'ere. You might as well rest while we wait for Spike."

Buffy sat with a nod. She slid her arms around his narrow waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. His fingers traced slow, calming patterns along her spine. "Hm. Feels good."

"Shh. Relax. Don't talk."

The Slayer closed her eyes and concentrated on the cool, pale skin next to her lips, on the silence deep in his chest, on his clean, earthy, male Angel scent. She had missed this. The reality of his physical presence, the solidness of him. His inhuman beauty.

"Buffy?"

She blinked. And realized that her mouth had strayed. She was kissing his jaw, tasting his skin, and she couldn't stop. She didn't want to.

"Buffy..."

She sweetly caressed his lips with her own and buried her hands in his dark hair.

His hair. It was his only vanity. He spent several minutes each evening putting it in place. It tended to curl and he liked it straight. Either way, she still loved to thread her fingers through its silky depths.

She looked at him. His head was thrown back against the wall behind him, his eyes closed. Like a big cat disturbed during his sleep, he stirred, exposing his throat in a show of submission.

She dropped a rain of small kisses on his brow, his temples, his structured cheekbones, the exquisite angle of his jaw, his chin, voluntarily neglecting his mouth. His mouth wasn't the least of his assets and she didn't want to get lost in him. Not quite yet. She had waited for this despite herself since she had set foot in L.A.. She needed this now. She craved it like she craved air. All this wanting was driving her insane. And that made her tired too.

Unhurriedly, her lips drifted to his neck. She followed the path of the jugular, biting lightly, licking the skin. Her teeth closed over his Adam's apple - and Angel offered her the gift of his first moan. She smiled - relishing the deep husky sound of need.

His hands came up as if to seize her shoulders and push her away, but fell back uselessly at his sides. Buffy understood that he was powerless to renounce her. She would be the one steering the helm.

She didn't take the responsibility lightly. He was trembling beneath her and her throat closed up.

He was so scared.

She resisted the need to crush him to her chest until he disappeared inside of her - where she would finally be able to protect him. She kissed him. Deeply. Soothingly. Her small, delicate, strong hands smoothed the lines that marred his angelic face. She fell into his distressed eyes, then kissed each lid tenderly.

The shaking stopped.

Without warning, she closed her teeth around his left nipple through his shirt.

Angel gasped.

His hands gripped her hips of their own volition.

Raising herself on her knees, she threw one leg over his lap to straddle him - facing him. She bit her lower lip deeply, fighting the urge to devour him outright. Ignoring the tingles liquefying her lower abdomen, she took the time to draw the shape of him with her hands - the rightness of him, the ideal harmony of his defined frame and sculpted muscles, lithe but substantial. His body made her wish that she could create a cult to his effigy - a religion of one.

She put her hands on his thighs with the smile of the cat fantasizing about dissecting the canary. She opened the first few buttons of his shirt slowly and exposed his chest. She leaned forward and rolled her tongue around the hard, sensitive nub of a male nipple - nibbling at the flesh until Angel convulsed under her. She felt his stone-hard erection fighting against the restriction of his pants between her legs.

She cupped him intently through the material.

Angel's throat closed around something that might have been a word in some dead language.

"Yes, beautiful?"

"Buffy, please, st..."

His voice had a desperate quality that she couldn't ignore.

Sadly, Buffy drew her hand away.

His fear was so strong. Like a living thing between them. She couldn't blame him. She didn't want to hurt him, to torture him with an impossible mirage. He had already lived through so many deceptions. He shouldn't have to pay for her uncontrollable hormones.

She started to back off - trying to keep the pain and regret off her face - but he stopped her.

"Wait, love."

She stared into his bottomless dark eyes, her expression blank.

Angel smoothed away the blonde tresses which had fallen in front of her eyes.

"Let me."

It was both a plea and a question.

Buffy unbuttoned her own shirt and unhooked her bra, exposing her breasts.

Angel made a tiny, yearning sound.

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and brought his hand to her skin.

He bit his lip and Buffy had to smother a groan. She spread her hands against the small of his back. Tilted her head, and he kissed her like a dying man. A shudder rippled through her body and she panted. "Don't forget... Spike."

Angel chuckled as his lips closed around her nipple and she puffed a warm breath of air.

"If he shows up early, I'll stake him myself."

He nuzzled the soft valley of skin between her breasts, taking in mouthfuls, licking, nipping, gnawing, biting lightly.

"Angel, please..."

The vampire took her supplication very seriously. They would have time to indulge themselves later. If there was a later.

But he didn't want to think about that just then.

He lifted Buffy off his lap, helped her to stand and leaned her against the wall.

It was Buffy's turn to shake.

Angel's hands stopped at her hips to steady her then hiked along her waist to her breasts. His long, elegant fingers traced concentric circles around her nipples, never touching, merely following the shape of the dark aureoles.

Buffy's insides contracted sharply when Angel's fingernails scrapped the tight, erect nubs then were replaced by his expert mouth. And while his tongue excited her right breast, his hand delicately stroke the left.

Buffy's heart pounded madly and the heat that spread from the depths of her belly hungered for a quick conclusion. Angel was aware of it. He drew away from her chest. A cold draft of air grazed her humid breasts and Buffy arched her shoulders. She murmured something incomprehensible.

In an instant Angel was kneeling in front of her, pushing her skirt up around her waist, kissing the inside of her knees reverently.

Unexpectedly, his mouth found its ultimate destination through her panties and she cried out hoarsely. He pushed the silky underwear down on her knees and she closed her eyes, biting down on her tongue to distract herself away from the tension building up between her legs.

Angel concentrated on the soft inside of her thighs again and she had to hold onto the wall to keep from grabbing his hair and force him back between her legs. He licked and nibbled the silky skin. He blew a puff of cold air along the outer lips of her sex. Buffy's muscles tensed and she quivered. Her belly and her thighs erupted with goose-bumps. She cambered her lower back, pleading, beseeching Angel to give her a liberation - desperate to feel his lips where she really needed to be touched - and she rocked a little.

In the midst of her laborious breathing, Buffy became aware of sounds and voices. She raised her head slightly. The noise came from above.

She had forgotten to close the cover of the manhole after them.

She lowered her gaze to Angel, trying to alert her vampiric lover to the presence of others in the presbytery a few feet above their heads. She was surprised to meet Angel's twinkling gaze. He had heard, too.

She froze like a deer caught in headlights, left dizzy by the quickly dissipating wave of pleasure spreading from her core. She blushed, trying to remain quiet - paralyzed by the specter of discovery. They were under a church after all.

Angel pressed her lightly against the wall and murmured against the taut skin of her stomach. "Shh. Don't make a sound. The smallest noise echoes in these old buildings."

Buffy nodded frantically and stopped breathing.

She swallowed back a scream when she felt Angel slid one questing, long finger, then another inside her slick, ardent channel. Reflexively, her fingers closed around his shoulders, digging in like claws, and she heard him grunt.

He started moving his fingers in and out of her and she struggled to keep enough oxygen in her starving lungs. His thumb found her clitoris and applied circular pressure on the moist bud.

She gripped his shirt with a soft whimper then stiffened - the voices above where still there.

She began to shake again, needing to release the pressure that rose inside of her in superheated waves, yet incapable of uttering a sound for fear of attracting attention. She wanted to crucify Angel with a stare, but she couldn't keep her eyes open.

She ground her teeth savagely when Angel's lips closed over her clitoris and her hips bucked wildly. His tongue slid around the heated, sensitive center of her pleasure and that was almost enough to push her over the edge. She was sweating and trembling. She knew she wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. She let go of Angel's shirt and buried her fingers in his hair, bringing him closer.

When Angel's blunt teeth closed around her clitoris, nibbling, she bit her own wrist to keep from yelling his name.

The orgasm lifted her away from the wall, her muscles strained to the snapping point. A kaleidoscope of colors exploded behind her lids.

Angel kept his mouth between her legs. He licked her sex carefully, accompanying, sharing in, prolonging her orgasm, welcoming her sweet honey in his throat. When Buffy's breathing lost its asthmatic quality, Angel raised himself off his knees, burying his face between her rounded, perfect breasts for a minute before finding her mouth with his own.

She held onto him for dear life and he enfolded her in his arms.

She whispered against his ear.

"You'll pay for this."

He chuckled. "I know."

"It was... it was..."

"Shh."

She quieted, enjoying the peace, his presence, her fulfillment.

"Oh, God."

Angel pulled away with a frown. "What?"

Buffy met his eyes, shame permeating her expression. "What about... Morghane? How could we...?"

Angel smiled softly and kissed her hair, pulling her tightly against his chest.

"I'm terrified for Morghane," he murmured. "I want to know her safe, and contented and loved. I'll do anything in my power to find her and save her. But... as uncharacteristic as it might sound coming from me, I don't regret what just happened. I'm not ashamed." He raised Buffy's face to his, sliding a finger under her chin. "Morghane always accepted me for who and what I was. She never asked for anything... With her, I was free to just be. She made sure that I was ready for happiness - so that I could accept that gift when you offered it to me." He kissed her deeply. "I'm not ashamed, because I know that Morghane would have been the first to rejoice."

Buffy nodded meekly. "I'm getting scared, Angel. We're not getting anywhere. We're no closer to finding the successor, we're not even sure that the First is involved. Now we've lost Morghane and Oz... And even if we find them, we still don't know what the counterspell is." She swallowed. "We don't even know if there is one."

"We'll find a way," assured Angel, emphatic.

"Do you... do you think she's still alive?"

"Yes, she's alive." Angel closed his eyes. "When she dies... I'll know."

It was dark, it was cold, and she had lost all sensation in her hands.

She wished she were unable to feel her arms and shoulders as well.

How long had she been abandoned here for?

A few hours maybe.

Back at the bookstore, they had been outnumbered. The vampires subdued them quickly without any unnecessary violence. They threatened Oz when she made a move towards the closest weapon. And in the end, she yielded.

Lisandra had been snickering all the while.

They were restrained and dragged through the sewer system to a large warehouse. The place was a maze and Morghane had been quickly separated from Oz.

Now she was alone in some kind of cell. The floor and the walls were made of naked, wet concrete. The massive steel door in front of her was locked from the outside. The light was activated from the corridor. She was surrounded by complete obscurity, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms bound securely behind her back. Her coat, boots and socks had been confiscated and she was only wearing Angel's shirt and her 501s. Both had seen better days.

Goddess, she felt like screaming.

The creak of the lock preceded the return of the light by a fraction of a second. She narrowed her eyes, trying to force her vision to adapt faster to her new environment.

When she identified the features of her visitor, she regretted the effort.

"Lisandra," Morghane whispered, not bothering to hide her weariness.

At least there was no First in sight. That was always good news.

She dropped her eyes to the floor because she was going to get a stiff neck, looking up like that.

She sighed. "Why don't you get on with it?"

The vampiress leered at her.

"Get on with what?"

"Just connect the couple of neurons that pass up as your brain and come back to me with an answer when the smoke's cleared up, okay?"

Lisandra stepped away from her.

"Listen," murmured Morghane - dropping the sarcasm. "Just... I'll do whatever you want me to do. Please, leave Oz out of this. He's of no interest to you."

The young blonde ignored her completely.

"Is it... is it time?"

That triggered a reaction. "No. Their orders are to keep you alive as long as possible." Lisandra giggled. "They'll just make you wish for death."

The Guardian frowned. "What?"

Lisandra turned around and exited the cell without a look over her shoulder. She left the door opened.

This could only herald bad things.

Two burly vampires entered the room. They sported matching three-piece suits and she found that funny.

Less amusing were there thick construction work shoes. And she didn't feel like laughing at all when her gaze fell on the weird little wooden bat one of them held in his right hand.

The impromptu image of a cricket game in England flashed before her eyes.

This was going to hurt like hell.

The one whose hands were empty leaned over her and pulled her roughly to her feet without a word. He grabbed her hair in a closed fist and yanked back. She smothered a groan. With his other hand, he seized her bound wrists and pressed them together against the small of her back - slowly pushing her hands up along the path of her vertebrae. She felt like her spine was going to snap in two at any time.

Since she couldn't do anything else at that moment, she concentrated on biting back an instinctive scream - waiting for the blow which was undoubtedly going to land on her ribs.

"My legs are gone!"

"No, Princess. Your legs are right were they're s'posed t'be... and they're damn fine legs too..."

"You just wan' me for my body! And now my legs're gone so you won't" - hiccup - "won't love me" - hiccup - "anymore."

Whine.

Doyle rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and tried to keep Cordelia from falling down the bar stool she was precariously perched on. Looking for her legs.

As if anyone could not see the shapely limbs that her very short skirt did nothing to conceal from the avid stares of the bar's patrons. Cordelia's loud, drunken voice didn't help them maintain a low profile either.

Why couldn't he have a nice, painful vision of Morghane's whereabouts, so they could go find Angel and stop this insanity?

"They're gone," Cordelia sniffed daintily. "Bye."

The half-demon shook his head and turned towards the barman, nursing his beer.

They had been at it for hours. The meeting with his contact that morning had been a bust. The Bra'ch demon had no information on either the Guardian or the First. In any case, he wasn't ready to share. Unwilling to go back to Angel with nothing to show for their efforts, Doyle had dragged Cordelia on a tour of all his informants. It just happened that all of them were either bartenders or booze drinkers. To them, showing good faith meant sharing a pint.

Now they visited their fifth establishment. Five Guinness were hardly enough to bother Doyle, but Cordelia...

"D'you think m'breasts are too small?"

Doyle sputtered, snorting beer out of his nose all over the counter. He quickly grabbed a napkin to wipe off the mess he had made. "What?" he asked in a strangled voice, looking at his girlfriend with eyes like saucers.

Cordelia wobbled on the stool, a hand on each breast - absorbed.

"D'you like their shape? D'they look 'kay?"

Doyle nodded emphatically. "They are perfect, Princess. Like the rest of ye."

"Oh, yeah," concurred the bartender, openly ogling Cordy's cleavage.

"Hey! Keep yer eyes to yerself, will ye?" growled Doyle. He took his jacket off and deposited it on Cordelia's shoulders. She didn't even notice. He addressed the barman, keeping a possessive arm around his girlfriend. "So spill it. Ye said ye knew someone who could tell us where to find the Guardian. Where is he now?"

The man pointed his chin towards a back room and leaned a bit closer to Doyle, whispering.

"He's a bit off his rocker, but I don't think he's dangerous. Just keep an eye on the lady."

"Cheers, lad."

Doyle put a twenty on the counter and helped Cordelia up.

"Let's go, Princess. Can ye walk?"

She grinned. "My legs are back."

"Good, good. Ye hold onto me and we should be fine."

"Okay, Doyly."

*Doyly?*

She tottered but remained standing - which, considering the height of her heels, was a miracle in and of itself even when she was sober. They made their unsteady way to the back room and Doyle pushed the door open - holding Cordy up with his other hand.

The place was dark and it stunk.

"Ew." Cordelia delicately brought her hand in front of her nose. "Somethin' died 'ere."

"Someone 'ere?" asked Doyle.

A shadow twitched in the far corner of the room. A ragged murmur broke the heavy silence. "We're doomed... all doomed."

"Stay 'ere." The half-demon took a few steps away from his girlfriend and hoped she would obey his command. He squinted, trying to detect a shape in the darkness.

"Don't... don't come any closer!"

Doyle raised a appeasing hand. "Okay, friend. I'll stay right 'ere. Right 'ere. I just want to talk. Good?"

A small, scared silence.

"Okay."

"Now, what do ye know about the Guardian?"

A low, plaintive moan echoed between the dingy walls. "Shh. Don't pronounce that name. It... It'll find me again. They'll find me again."

"Who?"

A panicked movement.

"I didn't know... I swear I didn't know, and then it was too late. But I escaped..."

"Calm down," said Doyle, growing impatient. He twisted his neck to check briefly on Cordelia. She sat on the floor, quiet, looking at her nails. He faced the living shadows again. "Remember to breathe and explain to me slowly what happened to ye. We'll help ye, I promise."

"No one can help me," the silhouette murmured resignedly. "I don't deserve to be saved."

Now that it was quieter, Doyle was sure that the voice was male.

"Tell me."

A sniffle. "I... I was the one who told it where to find her. I'm... I was a Watcher. I didn't know, I didn't realize... I thought..."

"Wow, wow. Slow down."

"S... sorry. My name is Duncan Nesbit. I was sent by the Watcher Council to keep an eye on the Guardian in training. A lot of mages are taught at one time, but only one is marked. That's just the way it's done. If the Guardian doesn't die during the successor's lifetime, nothing happens. They never go through the Rapture. But if... A man came to see me, a friend of mine, another Watcher. I don't know how they found me... who told... I realized too late that it wasn't my friend. Just a thing with his face. And I had already..."

Doyle brought a tired hand to his forehead. "Given the name of the successor."

A meek, agonized "Yes" answered him.

*Dear Lord in Heaven.*

"What happened? Do ye know?"

"I... I tried to call my friend again. A relative of his told me... told me he had been dead for a week. Vampires."

"So yer friend had been turned."

A indignant growl. "No! I'm a Watcher. I'm not stupid. I never invite anyone in, even close friends. But that... thing, whatever it was, it didn't need an invitation. I didn't suspect..."

Doyle's voice softened. "Ye said ye escaped..."

"I guess it wanted to get rid of me before I talked. Vampires set my house on fire... but I made it to the sewer entrance." The shape rose slowly and the meager light spilling from the only window illuminated a face out of a B horror movie. No hair, no eyebrows, the skin was charred, one eye missing. "Think I was lucky?"

Cordelia gasped. Doyle swallowed painfully. "Let us take you to a hospital, man."

"I'll take care of myself. I had to hide... I can't trust the other Watchers anymore. I just don't know... who gave my name. But I knew someone would come looking for the Guardian or the successor. You have to find Lisandra. If she's turned, if the Guardian dies..."

"Any clue?"

Duncan retreated into the shadows again - and Doyle felt uncharitably thankful.

"I can give you an address."

Morghane tried to huddle up closer to the wall but she couldn't. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. Trembling had given way to shaking. A convulsion once in a while.

Goddess, it was so cold.

Her teeth clattered violently. The movement spread through all the muscles in her body. She opened her eyes. It didn't change anything. It was still as dark. She closed them again.

She had gotten a couple hours of sleep after the first torture session. Well, sleep was a large concept. The cell was so small she couldn't lie down.

She listened for the rattle of heavy, thick-soled boots down the hall.

They would come back. Laurel and Hardy. They would open the door and drag her into the light to torture her until she lost consciousness - all without making a sound, without uttering a word. That's why she had nicknamed the two vampires Laurel and Hardy... stars of a silent, sadistic film.

They knew how to hurt her without inflicting any serious injury - and that didn't make any sense to her. She expected them to beat her to an inch of her life. Hasten the spell, speed up the process. But no. A few contusions, but no blood, no broken bones, no internal hemorrhage. Just pain.

Morghane turned her face against the icy cement wall and struggled not to throw up.

She didn't flinch when the door opened.

She didn't say a thing when Hardy dragged her out of the cell to another room, an arm around her waist. She didn't have enough breath left to speak. He let go of her and she fell on her knees.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and waited.

The bite of the leather took her by surprise and she moaned. Unbalanced, she put her weight on her hands.

The rhythm of the hits was slow. No hurry. First her lower back, then her shoulders. She felt each burning laceration - until the pain melded in some indistinct, feverish wave. Each blow forced her towards the floor, and soon her torso rested on her thighs, her arms abandoned in front of her.

And when she thought that she could finally entrust her fate to the welcoming darkness of unconsciousness, a foot digging between her ribs forced her on her back.

She bit her lip deeply and choked on a whimper.

She vaguely saw Laurel's imposing shape looming above her.

He stepped back and she turned her face away, disinterested.

She just wanted to feel sheltered again. To leave the cold behind. To sleep, finally. Sleep, sleep. A black eternity where Oz was safe, where they were all safe. Where Hardy's hands couldn't find her; where there was no leather snake, in fact detached from the grip of her tormentor, a demon with its own will, like in a dream, giving its owner an illusion of control, yet more than a simple leather strap - a vicious creature, living, breathing, feeding off the blood of its victim, always knowing where to find her.

But the snake would be powerless to follow her in the private haven of this dark infinity where her mother, her sister - long-dead relatives - and Angel - her newfound family - always waited for her. The quiet, still territory of her own mind - where she waited for the sweet numbness of death.

The leather lacerated the fragile skin of her stomach. She winced but did not cry out.

A few minutes later the whip came down across her breasts - and she passed out.

Oz was pushed forward yet he did not stumble, and the door closed behind him.

She did not react to his entrance. She was huddled in a tight ball in a corner of the room. Angel's ragged shirt couldn't protect her from the cold and the humidity. Even unconscious, she shivered desperately.

He sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She moaned, pressing herself closer to the wall, as if she could blend with it if she wished it strongly enough.

She was a mage, so maybe she could.

He wrapped around her the cloak he had been given and drew her against himself. She tried to push him away but she was weaker than a child and he easily quelled her feeble resistance. He was really careful not to aggravate the wounds on her back and her shoulders. They had finally stopped bleeding.

After a while, the warmth soaked all the way to her bones and she began to relax.

"Aingeal... Aingeal?"

"Morghane, it's Oz. Hey, try to drink this."

Careful, he pressed a small cup against her mouth.

"Go ahead. It's just cognac. I tried it first. It'll warm you up."

Her dry lips parted on instinct and Oz helped her drink. When the liquid trickled down her throat she coughed, hard.

Oz waited for Morghane to get her breath back before he gave her some more.

Morghane suddenly felt like she could fly without the help of any device known to man. Alcohol on an empty stomach. Added to the pain and an unexpected sensation of warmth - she was ready to weep.

Whoever or whatever held her in their arms, she pressed herself a little bit closer to them. It could have been Laurel, she wouldn't have been any less grateful.

Eventually, she recognized the voice murmuring softly against her temple.

"Hold on, Morghane. Hold on."

She shuddered but did not cry.

Throughout her long life, she had always allowed herself the simple comfort of healing, cleansing tears. Over a millennia ago, she'd acknowledged that expression did not equal weakness, but humanity. And now there were no tears. Just lethargy.

And she understood that, Sepulcher or not, it was time to let go.

"Why... why are you here?" she asked with a spasm, exhausted.

A hand caressed her cheek, her damp hair.

"Lisandra let me come to take care of you. She gave me the coat and the liquor."

She let her forehead drop to the smooth slope of the werewolf's shoulder.

"Are you... did they hurt you?"

Oz paused.

"No. If think they... need me. To control you."

She took a deep breath and her ribs howled in agony.

"Yes." It was almost a sob.

Oz offered her more cognac. Some of the fiery liquid spilled over her lips, down her chin, and he wiped it off gently with a corner of his shirt.

"If you get the chance to escape, go, Oz. Don't look... don't look back."

He held her tighter.

"I can't... protect you," murmured Morghane. "And Giles must be warned... about Lisandra."

"Any chance you can... contact the others some way?"

"I..." Gasp. "Yes. Angel, through the link, maybe. I could... lead him here." She gripped Oz' hand. "But I won't. I'm sorry. I can't allow them to take that risk."

Oz nodded.

"I understand."

Morghane smiled, mournful. "They would try to save me and fail. I must die, Oz. Soon. I don't really... care. I hoped for a quick, painless death - but it doesn't look like it's on the menu. I'm just sorry... sorry to take you with me." She shook her head slowly. "Willow is never going to forgive me."

Oz had nothing to say to that.

"You need... to help me."

"Anything."

"Help me die?"

Oz sat very still behind her. "When you put it that way..."

"If I kill myself they won't have any more use for you. I understand that and I'm... sorry. That's why you have to escape. I can't allow the spell to come to completion." She was panting. "Lisandra has been marked. I don't know if an undead Guardian can channel Guardian magick. It's an extraordinary circumstance... as you can imagine."

Morghane breathed laboriously.

"But... demons are no strangers to magick. The dark crafts that still subsist today come from the age of their reign, before mankind drove them out... Corrupted magick, but magick nonetheless. That's why Guardians were created in the first place. To fight them. If there is any chance at all that Lisandra can..."

She gasped in pain.

"We're fucked, Oz. That's all there is to it. Lisandra must be destroyed... and I just can't do it. I'm not strong enough."

She swallowed. She could sense Oz' resolve to fight, feel his deep love for Willow, his even deeper fear for her, for their friends. Fucking empathy. She didn't want to share all this. She was comfortable with her own current lack of emotional response.

"If I died but my soul was spared... it would link to Lisandra's on the ethereal plane. That's what happens when a Guardian shares accumulated knowledge with their successor. That's why they want to make sure the spell runs his course. Together... our souls might be able to regain control of her body. It would... give Angel... and the others, a fighting chance..."

Unhurried, high-healed, feminine steps echoed in the hall outside the cell and they both tensed.

Without a word, Oz slipped out slowly from behind Morghane and leaned her gently against the wall.

He stood between the Guardian and the door. His head took on a determined tilt.

Morghane raised a hand. "Oz, don't."

The knob turned and Lisandra walked in unescorted. She didn't consider them a threat.

The Guardian looked down at herself.

*With good reason.*

A deep shiver raked her body.

Lisandra ignored her, addressing Oz. "Time's up, Oz. Now let's go."

"No."

Lisandra grinned, delighted. "Really?"

Morghane dragged herself up, holding onto the wall for dear life. The cognac rushed to her brain and she swayed - but remained standing.

"Oz. Please. I... I need you to be okay."

The vampiress nodded earnestly. "Oh, right. I forgot the magic word. Please, Oz. Do come out."

Morghane's jaw was clenched so tight it was painful. It wasn't anger, it was frustration. Anger left you weak - and she had precious little strength left.

"Why the games, Lisandra? Why not finish it?" Her voice broke under fathomless sorrow. "Who did this to you?"

Lisandra batted her lashes at her. "I'm having fun while we're waiting for an acquaintance of mine... and some friends of yours."

"You'll never get them, Lisandra."

The vampiress laughed insanely. "They are coming."

She raised her hand.

Laurel and Hardy appeared in the doorway.

"But in the meantime..." Lisandra turned around to face her underlings. "Now people, be brutal." She scowled. "But no blood games." She wrapped her tongue around her long, perfectly manicured fingers, licking her chops with a smirk. "That comes later."

*This time, this is it.*

Morghane could see it in Hardy's gaze. If the two bastards had been entirely lacking in expression so far, they couldn't keep from drooling all over themselves now.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

*And on the bright side, it will be the last.*

They had tied her up and she was lying on her back - wrists crushed against the cement and the cuffs by the weight of her own body. It didn't help when Hardy sat down on her waist, leaned forward and forced his tongue inside her mouth.

A terrible pain ripped her apart from the inside - she was suffocating, and her stomach rose up to her throat.

Hardy's hands hiked up towards her chest, ripping away the last button of Angel's shirt. His fingers closed down cruelly around her breasts, pinching the nipples which tightened against her will. Her insults died in her assailant's mouth.

She felt another pair of hands pulling her jeans down on her knees, parting her thighs roughly. Someone ripped her panties off and it was stronger than herself. For the first time since the torture had started, she tried to resist.

It was futile.

An object, long and cold, glided between her legs and stopped at the entrance of her vagina, playing with her clitoris. A primal terror invaded her, an unprecedented panic attack.

"No! Assholes! Fucking bastards! Leave me alone!"

She felt like she would just stop breathing and asphyxiate. She couldn't stifle a shriek when it penetrated her.

Since Hardy had left her mouth to bite her breast bluntly, her scream ricocheted inside the cell.

Laurel forced the object deeper inside of her.

Excruciating agony.

She closed her eyes.

Angel swayed and grabbed onto the first support he could find.

Spike's shoulder.

"Slayer!"

Buffy heard Spike's frantic call and backtracked quickly.

When she reached the two vampires, Spike was on his knees, holding Angel tightly against his chest. The older vampire seemed unaware of his Childe's frightened embrace. His face was turned upward, his expression vacant, but his eyes... his eyes glowed white.

Buffy pushed away the dirty, mated hair that stuck to her face. She threw herself next to her lover, trailing her hands all over him, unconsciously looking for injuries.

"Angel, Angel what's wrong? Angel, answer me." Her voice cracked."Angel, come back to us."She drew the outline of a cheekbone with the tip of a trembling finger. "Angel! Please!" Forceful now. When he didn't respond, she slapped him. Hard.

The big vampire quivered and his irises regained their profound, more usual sable tones.

A tear rolled with agonizing slowness down his pale cheek and he gasped.

"Morghane."

Morghane heard the vague jingle of a belt buckle followed by the whistling of a zipper.

*Please, no, please. Haven't I deserved that much dignity? Why couldn't you let me pass away in peace?*

Hardy's fist closed around her hair, forcing her head back.

"If you bite me, you'll be begging for my friend and his bat."

*What...?*

Hardy forced his erect cock in her mouth - guiding himself with one hand and sadistically twisting a nipple between clawed fingers with the other.

She struggled to let her muscles relax, taking more of Hardy down her throat to keep from choking and he twitched against her tongue.

Laurel was still busying himself between her legs.

A hand closed around her neck and another over her nose. Hardy's cock swelled inside her mouth. He rubbed himself against her lips, pulling her hair, fucking her mouth, and she knew he was going to spill his cold, bitter seed down her throat.

She convulsed as her lungs cried out for oxygen. Tears of fright, pain and exhaustion slipped passed her lids.

The door opened suddenly.

"Enough. Leave her now."

*Lisandra.*

An arrogant chuckle. "I know you like to fuck them dead, Johann. But I warned you before... not her, not now. Be a good boy and bring her out, will you?"

Morghane expected Laurel and Hardy to protest but they moved away from her soundlessly. She gasped for air. The object that had so savagely invaded her withdrew and she realized that Laurel had used the handle of the bat. Hardy - Johann - stood and she could breathe again. She turned on her side and threw up, but she had ingested almost nothing in the last few days. Her stomach was empty and she dry-heaved painfully.

She rolled on her back. She stayed there, motionless and silent, incapable of protecting herself from another assault, staring at the ceiling. She was going to lose consciousness. Soon. She only saw a vast white nothingness circled with black.

Hardy untied her rudely and pulled her up. After straightening her clothing somewhat, he literally hauled her out of the cell, along a corridor and into a much wider room. She tried to find her feet, but she couldn't. She felt blood dripping between her thighs, staining her jeans.

When the vampire let go of her, she fell to the floor in a heap.

Solid, familiar arms slid around her shoulders.

"Oz..."

"Still here."

The werewolf's voice was strained.

Was it anger?

A cool, clean cloth brushed her face - delicately wiping away the evidence of her humiliation.

"Water...?" she murmured, hopeful.

"I..." This time, she definitely heard Oz' voice crack around a whisper. "I don't have any."

Her vision cleared a little. Laurel and Hardy were nowhere to be found and for this small blessing she was grateful.

Lisandra sat regally a few feet away from the two of them huddled on a thin blanket.

"This is boring," hissed the vampiress between her teeth. "Why won't you fight?"

Morghane tried to sit up and bit back a gasp. Oz helped to settle her between his legs, against his chest. She heard the rattle of chains and looked to her right. Oz' ankle sported a thick steel cuff. He was shackled to the wall behind them.

She turned contemptuous eyes on her nemesis. "You're small, Lisandra. Not quite worthy of my consideration, I'm afraid."

The young woman chuckled - undaunted.

"Cheap taunting?" Lisandra snorted, unladylike. "How the mighty have fallen."

She retreated behind a predatory grin.

The Guardian was unimpressed. "You're not trying to mind-fuck me, Lis, right? Or do we need to bring up my ripe old age again?" She smiled. "I don't play games."

She felt Oz tense behind her, but to his credit the werewolf didn't utter a sound. She sent up a quick prayer that he be spared the violation of being turned after she died, but he was on his own to escape. She couldn't wait any longer.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

Morghane didn't have enough energy left to summon a weapon from the ether but telekinesis required very little power expenditure. A simple command and the knife that had been forgotten on a table across the main room of the warehouse found itself in her hand and she was ready to bring it across the soft flesh of her own throat.

She never made it.

Before she even realized what had happened, Lisandra had crossed the room and ripped the blade out of her hand. Enraged, the vampiress grabbed her by the throat, pulled her to her feet away from Oz and threw her against a pillar.

Morghane didn't even have the luxury of sliding down to the floor. A thick metal chain wrapped itself around her at Lisandra's forceful command, securing her tightly to the column of concrete, arms pinned at her sides. She struggled vainly against the restraints.

Oz was standing up a few feet away from her, straining against the cuff imprisoning his ankle. He growled low in his throat - and Morghane acknowledged the wolf in him.

Delighted, already back in control of herself, Lisandra strolled disdainfully towards her prisoner and sniggered.

"What a pathetic little display, Guardian. And desperate, too." She smirked. "But I can't let this rebellion go unpunished, I'm afraid." She smiled hungrily. "So, hm, Oz..."

"No, Lisandra, please don't. Take it out on me, I don't care... just, please, I'm begging you..." A defeated whisper. "Just... just let him go. I'll do anything..."

Lisandra looked like she was seriously considering it.

"Oh. Okay."

Morghane sagged in her chains. "I... I told you. I won't play your games."

The vampiress seemed offended. "No games, Guardian. I will let him go... in a few minutes." She caressed Morghane's cheek, softly. "In a few minutes. But first..." Lisandra glided long, unhurried hands over Morghane's shoulders, then down her throat, gently pushing away the tatters of Angel's shirt - exposing her

breasts.

The Guardian drew a ragged breath in.

Lisandra brought her lips across Morghane's mouth. The Guardian turned her head away.

"You did say anything..." Lisandra taunted.

"I..." She smothered a whimper. "I..."

The vampiress' eyes flashed and she uttered a simple, sharp word.

The chains tightened, pressing on her ribs, and this time Morghane couldn't stifle a moan.

"Think of Oz..."

"W... why?"

Lisandra smiled hungrily. "Just because I want to."

"Please, let Oz go now..."

She heard the rattle of the werewolf's shackles, but couldn't bear to look at him.

"But I want him to watch," whined Lisandra.

Beaten, Morghane closed her eyes - hanging in her chains.

"That's better," murmured the vampiress, trailing a hand around the Guardian's exposed left breast. And this time, when Lisandra leaned forward, Morghane let her invade her mouth without resistance. The vampiress nipped at her lips, almost gentle, then traced a path of moist kisses down her throat, lingering over her jugular. She raked her nails down Morghane's shoulders, not breaking the skin - fingering a bruise or a lash mark here or there. But the Guardian didn't flinch.

When Lisandra reached her breasts, she fastened her mouth to the Guardian's right nipple and pressed her against the pillar with all the length of her body. She unhooked Morghane's jeans blindly and slid one hand inside the rough material, between her legs. Three crude fingers slid inside her sex - she wasn't wet - scratching the oversensitive skin, but the Guardian didn't even jerk.

Morghane leaned back against the concrete, ignoring her burning back, her painful nipples, the brutal invasion of her core, the nails scraping the fragile skin of her mound. She slumped in Lisandra's embrace, like dead.

At first, her tormentor didn't notice her lack of reaction. Lisandra slowly glided down the length of her thighs, moving her fingers in and out of the tight channel. She growled softly, following the glistening shape of the outer lips of her sex with the pad of her thumb, and closed blunt teeth around Morghane's clit.

The Guardian barely shivered and turned her eyes away. She looked at Oz.

The young man was facing away from her, head bowed.

She almost wept - deeply touched by this small gesture of respect.

A hard slap brought her face back around and she stared into Lisandra's maddened, vampiric visage.

"Look at me, bitch." She snarled. "And you, Oz, if you want to make it out of here in one piece, you better turn around this way and watch."

Oz didn't budge, his shoulders shaking slightly.

"Oz..."

At Morghane's quiet whisper, he stilled.

"Oz, turn around, please."

He did as she bade him. Slowly, he raised his eyes to her, shying away from her exposed chest and thighs. His eyes were gleaming, his expression was hard and lost at the same time.

She smiled gently for him - yet didn't say a word.

She knew he understood. Now was not the time to test Lisandra's patience. If there was one chance that the vampiress would keep her word and let him go, they had to take it.

Satisfied, Lisandra grinned around her fangs.

"Now, where were we?"

Without warning, she sunk razor-sharp teeth in the Guardian's left nipple.

Echoes resounded inside the confines of the warehouse long after Morghane's scream died.

*

"Anything?"

Willow lifted her tired gaze away from the computer screen to answer Giles. Oz' absence showed in the dark circles around her eyes.

"N... not yet. I'm getting dozens of messages from witches and psychics who are picking up backlash effects from the Sepulcher spell, but nothing specific enough to isolate a location. They say something is... interfering or something. As if some dark power was smothering the city."

Giles frowned.

"That supports our hypothesis regarding the involvement of the First."

Willow nodded earnestly. "I remembered what Buffy told me about the First and the Harbingers. I've been contacting everybody I could think of, asking them for reports of dying vegetation and the like. I'm still waiting."

"Very good, Willow." Giles sighed, massaging his sore eyeballs. "Now, I have one piece of good news, and another not so good."

Xander perked up, emerging from an unsteady pile of thick volumes - his hand bringing further disarray to his already tousled hair.

"Go with the good, G-man. I could do with a happy right about now."

"I've found mention of a counterspell."

"What?" asked Xander, stunned.

Willow started jumping up and down on her desk chair, like a bunny on poppers. "That's great, Giles. It means there's a chance Morghane doesn't have to kill herself to save her soul."

"Wait," Xander interjected, bringing Willow's victory dance to a screeching halt. A bitter memory of the last time they had found a miraculous cure popped up. "What's the bad news? She has to drink the blood of a Slayer too?"

"Nothing as drastic, Xander."

"Then... then it's okay..." babbled Willow.

Giles shook his head slowly. "The allusion to the spell is extremely obscure and I have been unable to cross-reference it with any of my other volumes. The spell isn't even described in details. Its existence is mentioned as well as the fact that it has never been cast successfully."

Willow's face dropped. "That would be the bad, then."

"Does the book explain why?" murmured Xander, laying a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"From what I was able to decipher... the counterspell requires the presence of the original spellcaster."

"So?"

"So, assuming that they even knew who the caster was, it stands to reason that a Guardian who had been attacked with the Sepulcher would have been too weak to go after their assailant and prevail." Giles' expression darkened. "Now that I think about it... We've been so absorbed with first finding a counterspell then locating the successor, Morghane and the First that we've forgotten to ask ourselves one fundamental question..."

The Watcher trailed off, lost in thought.

"And that question would be?" wondered Xander, restless.

"What? Oh, uh, sorry... We never asked ourselves why Morghane's attackers let her go free after assaulting her in Sunnydale. Keep in mind that the Sepulcher hasn't been used that often... but from the few accounts I have found in the Diaries, the Guardian has always been kept prisoner in some remote location after being attacked. It... it stands to reason that their aggressor would want to hasten the outcome."

"In other words... torture them," concluded Xander, subdued.

"Yes. But also ensure that the Guardian would be unable to find assistance elsewhere."

"Like the Slayer?" piped Willow.

"Precisely. There's an instance of a Guardian escaping and committing suicide - one of Morghane's predecessors who sent the Sepulcher back to the ethereal dimension. That's all. I can't see why anyone or anything would go to all the trouble of getting the Sepulcher out of the spiritual plane, drawing Morghane to Sunnydale, attacking her - mobilizing a whole cadre of vampires in the process - and beating her up, only to let her go, knowing a Slayer guards the Hellmouth in the exact same town."

"You're right, Giles," said Willow, leaning back in her chair. "And why lead her to Sunnydale in the first place? Why so close to the Slayer?"

"The old 'two birds, one stone' routine?" Xander speculated out loud.

"You mean whoever did this is going after Buffy as well?"

"What Xander just proposed makes a lot of sense, actually," mused Giles, absorbed. He ignored Xander's little 'why, thank you' theatrical bow. "Think about it. You have Morghane, Buffy and Angel all in one city - soon in one place if we succeed in locating Morghane. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that our mysterious opponent would have taken the Guardian as bait sooner or later."

"Morghane knew this, didn't she?"

Giles looked at Xander, an eyebrow arched in question.

"That's why she left, isn't it? Buffy said she didn't want any of us involved in the first place - except when it came to protecting the successor. She must have suspected that the First was behind the attack and she knew we had no chance of defeating it. So she left... she probably planned on sending the successor to Buffy... and then ending her own life."

"Do you think she's dead?" asked Willow - her voice wavering a little.

Xander frowned. "I think something happened." He looked warily at Willow. "Or... or Oz would have contacted us already."

The young witch paled. Xander's words echoed her worst silent fears.

"Which also means that they are still alive," Giles hastened to point out, lightly touching her arm. "They'll... they'll want to keep... to keep Morghane alive as long as possible."

A small whisper from Willow. "What... what about Oz?"

Giles tried for a reassuring, compassionate smile.

Xander had to look away. He faced the wall, trying to come up with a comforting comment.

Something else occurred to him.

"Giles... if there ever was a counterspell to the Sepulcher... what are the odds that Morghane knew nothing about it?" He bit his lower lip, answering his own question. "Okay, if it's really obscure and the Sepulcher has been banished to this other plane so long ago, she might not have known what the spell was..." His lips tightened around a hard line, a frown etched on his face. "But the Watchers... the Council... Giles, they do this stuff for a living. Don't you think these guys would know about the counterspell... or at least about its existence?"

Giles blanched. "You're not suggesting..."

Xander shrugged. "Of course, I'm suggesting. It's the Watcher Council. Like anything could surprise me anymore coming from those people."

"It's... it's murder."

"And what do you call trapping a powerless Slayer with a mad starving vampire?"

Giles flinched.

"Giles!"

They heard Buffy's call coming up from the stairwell.

In an instant they were hurrying down the stairs to Angel's apartment.

They found Buffy by the sewer entrance, helping Angel up and out of the manhole.

Before asking any question, Giles rushed to assist her and together they led the dark-haired vampire to the nearest couch. Spike emerged next from the hole in the wooden floor. Immediately he came up behind his Sire, clasping a strong hand on the older man's trembling shoulder.

Angel was pale, sweating and shaking weakly.

"What happened?" asked Willow, hovering nervously behind Giles.

Angel shook his head and gently swatted Buffy's worried hands away. "I'm okay, now. I'm okay," he husked.

"Yeah, right," grumbled Spike. "That's what you said twenty minutes ago and then you collapsed again."

"He was coming in and out, Giles. And his eyes... his eyes were glowing - like Morghane," explained Buffy, holding Angel's hand.

"The link?" asked the Watcher.

Angel nodded carefully, looking down at Buffy's death grip on his fingers.

"It was never like that before. I... I've felt emotions, sometimes. N... nothing like this..."

Giles had never seen the vampire so distraught when Buffy's life wasn't in immediate danger.

"Morghane possesses natural shields to protect herself from psychic attacks. But... not... not anymore, I'm afraid. That's... that's why..." He didn't try to explain in any more details. "What... how was... what happened?"

Angel lifted his eyes to Giles' face.

Sad, frightened, lost eyes - Morghane's eyes.

And Giles surprised himself, wishing that Angel would just close them or turn his head away again.

"There... there was pain - overwhelming pain - and... and hopelessness. I... It felt like Hell all over again."

"Was it... the end?"

Angel swallowed painfully. "Someone... someone was hurting her. Badly."

Willow hid her face in the crook of Xander's shoulder and whimpered in anguish.

Buffy and Spike looked grim and worried, still holding onto Angel as if their lives depended on it.

Giles trailed a tired hand over his creased brow. "She's been captured." He caught his breath. "Do you still... feel her?"

"N... no. I... I think she's beyond feeling now. She must be un... unconscious."

"Do you know where...?"

Angel shook his head.

Giles crouched in front of Angel, grasping his knee to get his attention. "You're the one who will have to put shields up now, Angel. We can't have you... incapacitated by Morghane's pain."

"But she's alone..."

"Oz isn't with her?" interjected Willow, frantic.

"I... I don't know."

Angel's mouth was tightly drawn in grief.

This, this sharing of Morghane's suffering, still clouded his eyes like the phantom pain of a missing limb. Still there - and yet not. He felt hollow and full at the same time. Overflowing with both rage and despair. Emotions that weren't his - and yet were.

"Hey, guys. Why with the long faces? What happened now?"

They all turned to face the latest visitors.

Doyle and Cordelia stood in the doorway that led to the stairs. The former May Queen swayed slightly. They were both dripping wet. It was raining again.

"It looks like Morghane's been taken prisoner by whoever is behind this little nightmare," explained Buffy - not bothering to get into more details. "What have you found?"

Doyle faltered for a moment, then directed a somewhat green Cordy to the closest chair. Xander disappeared in the bathroom for a second and reentered the living- room with two dry towels in hand.

Doyle thanked him with a short nod.

"Someone contacted us. A Watcher."

"What?" exclaimed Giles.

"Yah, the lad was assigned to the successor, Lisandra. I'll spare ye the details, but he was tricked into releasin' her identity and whereabouts to some demon, shapeshifter or other. A bunch of vamps tried to silence him afterwards, but he escaped. Barely."

Cordy shuddered.

"Dear Lord," murmured Giles, visibly stricken.

"Said he didn't want to get in touch with the Council, because someone gave the vamps his name in the first place - so he didn't know would he could trust."

"Better and better," growled Buffy, softly.

They had met their share of rogue Watchers before. Sometimes she wondered if Giles was the only decent Watcher out there.

Okay, so maybe she could add Wesley to the very short list.

"When did this happen?" asked Angel, struggling to his feet.

Spike got closer and Buffy stood by her lover, steadfast.

"From what we could make out, a short time before Morghane was attacked in Sunnydale."

"So what does it mean?" wondered Willow out loud - and her worried gaze found Giles.

Giles sighed wearily. "In a way, it reinforces our initial suspicion that the First is somehow involved. From what I've read, the First is limited in the manner it can manifest itself in this plane. It needs to empower others so that they'll do the dirty work in its place. It needs the Harbingers to summon spirits of the dead. Just the same, it would have required some sort of vessel or an intermediary to perform the Sepulcher spell."

"And what would be better than a powerful mage?" inserted Buffy, comprehending.

"Indeed," approved Giles. "Yet, I can't see the successor voluntarily assisting the First in such an endeavor. Which means..."

"Lisandra has been turned."

Eight heads shot up brusquely and mouths hung open in surprise.

Willow gasped, startled, then shot out of her seat and into the arms of her boyfriend, ignoring his wet clothes.

Oz stood where Cordelia and Doyle had already made their entrance a few minutes before.

Willow, consumed by the relief of having him back alive and well, didn't notice his disheveled appearance, the grim set of his mouth or the burning deadness in his eyes. She didn't even realize that he hadn't brought his own arms around her to return her fierce welcoming hug.

The others did though.

Angel was torn between giving the two lovers a moment of privacy and his raw need to grill Oz on Morghane's location.

Could the werewolf have escaped but left the Guardian behind?

For one blazing second, Angel felt the demon stir and roar - fueled by his desire to grab Oz and shake him until the young man explained his presence here alone. But the vampire ruthlessly crushed his instinctive response. Oz wouldn't have left Morghane alone and hurt if he had had any other choice. Angel knew that much about the werewolf and he respected Oz too much to doubt him now.

Gently but firmly, Oz pushed Willow away and took a few steps forward - stopping in front of Angel.

The dark-haired vampire steeled himself against Oz' next words.

"We have to go now, Angel."

The vampire tensed. "Do you know were she is?"

Oz shook his head.

"They dumped me somewhere in the sewers. But I think I can track her."

"Can we take the tunnels? There's still an hour to go until sunset."

"Wait," objected Willow. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"They didn't touch me."

Spike repressed a growl of fury. It meant they had touched Morghane.

"How did you get away?"

Oz' face closed off even more than it already was. "Lisandra let me go."

"So she's been turned," confirmed Giles, fighting to keep the defeat out of his voice.

The werewolf nodded.

"I met Morghane at the door when she left Angel's apartment this morning and I drove her to a bookstore on Falson street."

"That's the address the Watcher gave us," observed Doyle.

"It's a sanctuary of sorts for both Guardian and Slayer - at least that's what Morghane said. She'd called Lisandra and they had agreed to meet there. When Lisandra arrived, Morghane realized immediately that she had been turned, but it was too late. We were surrounded by a dozen vampires and we couldn't escape. They took us to an abandoned warehouse and... kept us there."

Angel flinched, and the torment on his face was painful to behold.

Giles had to look away.

"What did they do to her?"

"Angel..."

"Did they... torture her?" asked Buffy.

Oz nodded, slow and reluctant.

The dark-haired vampire looked deeply into Oz' eyes - and not for the first time, the werewolf felt the pull of a kindred spirit as he returned Angel's intense gaze. He might take Morghane's advice after all and talk - really talk - with Angel. If they survived this insanity.

He still couldn't close his eyes for more than a fraction of a second.

What Lisandra had done to Morghane... He had no words.

He focused on Angel again. Knew that the vampire had found all that he needed to know in Oz' troubled orbs. And then some.

The vampire bit his lower lip to keep from keening in anger and despair. He had known. Since he had collapsed in the sewers under the onslaught of Morghane's psychic projection - he had known.

He felt more than heard Spike growl low in his chest. Buffy held his hand tightly and released a shocked, muttered "Oh, God". His Childe and his lover had deciphered the shadows in Oz' eyes too.

Angel shouldn't have been surprised, really. Rape was a vampire's weapon of choice where torture was concerned. He knew from personal experience that Morghane had suffered this indignity before.

A shiver of disgust and self-hatred snaked down his spine.

She would survive and go on - because she was that strong. Or maybe just because she was that old. Jaded. To her, to him, to Spike - sex was a weapon like any other. Yet he would have given anything to spare her this kind of pain again. He didn't doubt for a second that Lisandra hadn't restricted her own brand of torture to sex.

And his last words to Morghane had been of anger and loathing. He couldn't bear the thought of her dying thinking he hated her.

He couldn't bear the thought of her dying period.

"Is she badly injured?"

"She was... in a lot of pain. But Lisandra insisted that they made sure not to... damage her. Lisandra herself took very little... blood."

Buffy frowned. "I thought Guardian's blood would restore a vampire's soul."

A flash of something very much like pain crossed Oz's face, but he shrugged. "Then Lisandra's immune."

They turned to face Giles - who had been uncharacteristically quiet so far.

The Watcher became aware of their inquisitive gazes and cleared his throat - trying to appear less alarmed than he truly was.

He didn't fool anyone.

"That's... that's a possibility. I've never heard of this happening before... It's..."

He couldn't go on, drowning in the dreadful implications of Lisandra's change.

"Come on, Giles," said Buffy, impatient, "what does this all mean for us? Can an undead successor channel Guardian magick?"

"I have no earthly idea," confessed Giles, defeated. "A Guardian is always marked - a magickal seal that directs the magick to them during the Rapture. Guardians are marked much like Slayers are chosen. We don't know how or why it happens. The only thing that we do know is that only two mages are ever marked at one time. The current Guardian and the successor. If the Guardian dies, the successor goes through the Rapture immediately. If the Guardian doesn't die, the successor goes on living their lives until their mortal death. When the successor dies, another mage in training somewhere receives the mark." Giles started pacing. "What we need to do is contact the Council again and have them look for a mark among the other mages. That way, we'll know. If none of them bear the seal, it'll mean that Lisandra is still an active successor despite her undead status." He swallowed painfully. "The fact that she's impervious to the traditional effect of Morghane's blood is... not a good sign though."

"If Lisandra is the next Guardian, it's a win-win situation for the bad guys," concluded Xander. "Whether Morghane ends her own life or not doesn't change a thing."

Oz' eyebrows drew together. "I don't think so. Morghane was pretty adamant about that. She said that if her soul was saved, it would link with Lisandra's on the ethereal plane - and together they could take over the successor's body."

"A vampiric Guardian?" observed Doyle.

He was holding Cordelia's hand. His girlfriend still looked a bit green around the gills, but the seriousness of the conversation was doing wonders to sober her up in record time.

"I guess it would allow for Morghane's experience to be preserved until it could be passed on to another mage."

"That makes sense," agreed Giles.

"She tried, didn't she?"

The question came from Spike and the room fell silent once again.

"Yes," was Oz simple answer. "That's why Lisandra..." He took a good look at Angel's drawn, pale face, and didn't continue down that path. "But I think she's too weak, now. She's got nothing left."

"Until we hear from the Council, we must plan our strategy as if Lisandra was still the successor," advised Giles. "Prepare for the worst-case scenario."

Xander looked at Giles tiredly. Didn't they always?

"You must go to Morghane right away," said the Watcher, addressing Angel and Spike.

The blonde vampire snarled warningly.

"You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Watcher."

Angel tensed next to his Childe. In his grief, the older vampire had missed the dark undertones of Giles' command.

"Spike, I don't like it anymore than you do, but we must plan for all eventualities. There's so much at stake here..."

"No."

Angel's cold injunction surprised them all. Even Buffy jumped.

"I don't want to hear it, Giles. We'll go there to get her out of Lisandra's clutches - but certainly not to act as the Council's assassins."

"Angel."

"No." He shook his head roughly. "No. I won't allow it."

Buffy's eyes widened. "You're... Giles, you can't... You would ask them to... to kill Morghane? It's cold-blooded murder."

The mere thought of it made her skin crawl. She couldn't even begin to imagine how Angel felt.

Giles straightened, trying to gather some authority around him. "I don't want Morghane to die. We will do anything in our power to save her." He scowled. "I thought that went without saying." Buffy had to look down, sheepish. "But Morghane's life is not the only issue here. She knows that. Better than anyone. If we discover that Lisandra is the successor or if we fail in locating a counterspell, we'll have to resort to such an extreme measure - or we will have an apocalypse on our hands."

Giles' voice had risen steadily as he got closer to the conclusion of his tirade. He was practically shouting.

He stopped and consciously forced himself to lower the volume of his voice, breathing deeply.

"It doesn't mean that we're not going to keep looking for all and any alternative solutions. As I was telling Willow and Xander before you got back, I have found mention of a counterspell." That brought everyone to attention. "However, I didn't find a detailed description of it. I know it requires the participation of the caster - that would be Lisandra. In what capacity, I have no idea. But it adds yet another twist to this little nightmare. We can't kill Lisandra."

A reluctant murmur from Oz. "Morghane insisted that Lisandra had to be destroyed, just in case..."

"I'm sure she did," acknowledged Giles. "We'll just have to take this one step at a time and reevaluate the situation as we go along. Right now, we must focus on finding this counterspell if it does exist. By my count, we have a little over three days left. We must also evaluate the exact strength of our adversaries."

He didn't bring up Xander's suspicions about the Council. Now was not the time. The situation was discouraging enough as it was.

"Lisandra is protected by a whole battalion," said Oz. "I didn't see anyone else. But Lisandra did say that she was still waiting for a friend. That could have been the First. I don't know."

He seemed uncertain on how to continue.

"Oz," asked Spike, calmly, "why did she let you go?"

The werewolf closed his eyes against the pictures rushing in front of his irises. It didn't help.

"Lisandra was using me to control Morghane. Subdue her. And then she said something about counting on your presence. She released me because she knew I would find you and lead you to her lair. I also think that she wanted me to tell you... what she was doing to Morghane. She... insisted... that I watch."

Willow gasped.

Oz only had eyes for Angel. "I didn't want to leave... but I had to get help if I could, and Morghane knew it."

The vampire nodded slowly, incapable of uttering a word to comfort the younger man. Torn between the relief that they had a lead on Morghane's location thanks to the werewolf's presence - and the knowledge that his friend was now facing her tormentors alone.

"So what do we do now?" Doyle wondered out loud.

"There's only one thing to do," murmured Angel, eyes downcast. "Spike and I will go to Lisandra's lair and surrender ourselves to her."

"What?" shrieked Buffy. "Are you insane?"

Giles said nothing. He could see where Angel was going with this.

Oz nodded approvingly. He had expected as much from the dark-haired vampire.

Spike didn't seem concerned that his Sire had taken upon himself to play so liberally with their unlives.

Angel turned a placating, pleading gaze towards his lover.

"Buffy, listen to me."

"There's no fucking way in Hell..."

"Listen." He didn't raise his voice, but she quieted nonetheless. "We can't attack the warehouse up front. It's a trap. Lisandra is obviously waiting for us. She'll be prepared, she's still an incredibly powerful mage - and the cadre of Nehemia is nothing to be trifled with. Launch a major offensive and we risk Morghane getting killed in the crossfire or Lisandra whisking her away before we can get to her. Furthermore, the First is still an unknown quantity. We can't send all our forces in one go. If we fail, there'll be no one left to bail us out. The only way to do this is from the inside."

"So you want to go in there to make sure Morghane is okay until we find a counterspell, distract Lisandra, hoping that she doesn't kill you, and then you want me to come charging with guns blazing when we finally know how to restore Morghane and destroy the successor," stated Buffy, coldly.

"More or less."

"What if we don't find the spell?"

"Then we'll have nothing to lose. We'll have to throw all our forces against Lisandra and hope that we can destroy her. But that should be our last resort."

Angel raised his eyes to catch Giles' gaze.

The Watcher nodded his approbation. It was the only plan that made sense.

The only one Morghane had any chance of surviving.

Angel's voice lowered to a mere whisper when he faced Buffy again.

"I won't let her die alone, Buffy. I won't."

*

"Oz, please, don't go."

"Willow..."

The young witch raised pleading, moist eyes towards her lover, holding onto his hand like she was drowning - shaking.

"There must be another way. I could try a locating spell, I'm sure..."

"Willow."

This time she quieted and Oz wrapped her in his arms, kissing her hair softly.

They had retreated to Angel's bedroom to say their good-byes, but they didn't have much time. And Oz didn't want to spend it arguing with Willow.

"We don't have time to devise such a spell. Morghane needs us now."

"You just came back to me..."

"I'll come back again. Angel won't let me do more than lead them to Lisandra's lair. But I'm the only one who can track her down."

Willow's embrace became crushing.

"I'm scared."

"I know, baby. It's gonna be okay."

A tear hiked down Willow's pale cheek and Oz' heart tightened in his chest. He couldn't bear to see Willow so afraid.

But he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Morghane alone in Lisandra's clutches either. He had abandoned her once already.

Never again.

"Nice contraptions you have here," murmured Buffy.

She was sitting on Angel's desk in the study. The vampire was busy strapping some weird-looking sheaths to the inside of his forearms - from what she could see, some kind of automatic stake-throwing devices. He had hidden more stakes in the folds of his coat and in his leather boots.

Spike sat in a corner of the room, wrapped in darkness - only the amber glow of his cigarette betrayed his presence. He was uncharacteristically quiet.

She wondered about the blonde vampire's constant shadowing of Angel. Whatever the consequences of the gais, it had strengthened - or was it revived? - the bond between Sire and Childe. Was it because Spike was now able to empathize with Angel in a way he had never been able to since his Sire had been cursed? Or had Morghane's binding spell merely revealed some deeper relationship that had always been there?

By now, Buffy was well acquainted with the inner workings of the vampire underworld. She knew the difference between Childe and fledgling and she understood that the status of Childe wasn't granted lightly.

Spike and Angel had a history. All kinds of histories. Dru's presence had torn them apart after Angelus' restoration but she had the feeling that Spike had been as wounded by his Sire's degrading treatment of him than by Drusilla's infidelity.

In the last few days, Buffy had had many opportunities to observe Spike's increasing possessiveness of Angel.

And the reverse was, to a certain extent, true. The older vampire treated his Childe with care and concern. Despite the dreadful circumstances, Angel even seemed lighter for Spike's presence. Spike was someone who understood. Who Angel could relate to and who could relate to him. The dark-haired vampire needed that, and he certainly deserved a companion - someone who would alleviate his immutable, constant loneliness.

Buffy's presence granted him a reprieve. Contentment, if not happiness. But the curse was still there - like a starving, slavering beast between them. Rearing its ugly head each time they got too close. Snarling at them.

There was none of that with Spike. The curse wasn't an issue between them, and Angel acted so much more confidently around his Childe.

Buffy wondered if what she felt were the first stirrings of jealousy.

Angel and Spike had been lovers - before the curse. You had to be blind not to realize that after observing their interactions for five minutes in a row.

She didn't think Angel would ever invite Spike in his bed again.

He loved her. He was nothing if not loyal - and certainly, for all his vampiric status, he was one of the most decent persons she had ever met. But Spike touched something in Angel that she could never hope to reach. At least not yet. The weight of a century of shared experience. An acknowledgment and acceptance of his nature that could only come from one of his own.

She couldn't fight that.

And maybe she shouldn't. Maybe she was going about this all wrong.

Look at herself. She cherished Angel beyond all reason. Yet she had Giles, Willow and Xander. Each of them had access to parts of her that she did not necessarily share with her lover. If only because they never interacted in the light of day. It didn't mean that, if they ever found a way to live together, they wouldn't share everything.

It was just a question of time.

Except that, in the last few days, time had become a real luxury item.

Right now she was trying not to drown in her own fear - and not quite succeeding.

"I'm going with you."

Angel stopped working on his little gadgets and fixed darkened eyes on her.

He enunciated each word carefully.

"Out of the question."

Buffy jumped on her feet, full of nervous energy.

Spike kept on smoking - having wisely chosen to keep out of that particular conversation.

"Look," said the Slayer, as if she was talking to a slow child, "I won't go with you inside the lair. I'll just escort you through the sewers."

"Buffy..."

"And someone has to make sure that Oz makes it back here unscathed to give us the location of the lair." She smiled thinly, resting her case. "What good will this little expedition do if he gets trapped with you guys and we can't find you once we discover the counterspell? We'll be back to square one." She paused. "In fact, we'll be back to whatever comes before square one because Lisandra will have four hostages rather than one."

She refused to linger on the frightening mental pictures that thought brought up. She could just imagine the kind of torments Lisandra had in store for Angel if she ever got her little psychopathic hands on him.

"You guys try to get Morghane out of there. We'll wait for you. If we don't see you coming back..." Her throat closed up but she fought the feeling down. "If it looks like you're trapped in the lair, we'll go back to Giles and gather reinforcements."

Angel sighed. He opened his mouth to formulate an objection but nothing came to him.

Buffy grinned. She could read on his face that he had already given in. He wasn't the only one who could play stubborn - and there was no swaying a Slayer away from her course of action when her mind was made.

"Okay. But whatever happens, you stay back, Buffy. Promise me. Or Spike and I will take you down, tie you up and stuff you in a closet, okay?"

"Kinky..." came an amused voice from the dark corner. "I'm all for it."

Angel sent a warning glare to his Childe.

Spike made the gesture to seal his own lips.

"Okay. I promise."

Angel nodded slowly. Unhappy, but resigned.

"Let's go then. No need to waste any-more time. You're armed?"

Buffy whipped out Mister Pointy. Spike had returned her lucky stake with an amused smirk after getting back from Sunnydale.

"Ready and willing."

Angel and Buffy turned simultaneously towards a leering Spike.

"Not a word, blondie."

It was near to her now.

Morghane could feel its overwhelming stench enveloping her, smothering her, and she didn't even care. In fact, she preferred it that way. Face her arch-nemesis one last time. If she had to be tortured, she'd rather it was by a familiar adversary - not some nameless vampire. If you couldn't pass away in the caring embrace of a friend, better to die in the arms of an enemy. And not disappear in indifference.

Death... Was the freedom from destiny worth it? Would there be rest for her? Or yet another unending struggle tied to Lisandra's soul? It might be better if she just let the spell run its course - and fade quietly into nothingness.

No. She couldn't do that to Angel. Wouldn't. Not in a million years.

The little lines around her eyes tightened in shame.

She had to fight.

*When has life become nothing more than an endless struggle not to give in?*

She opened red-rimmed, deadened eyes to survey her surroundings. She was still alone, had been for a while. She felt numb. Disconnected. Lisandra had left at some point after she lost consciousness and now Morghane could hear nothing but the sluggish beating of her own heart.

Yet the First wasn't far. She could tell. She had no doubts now as to the identity of the mastermind behind this little plan. Then again, she never really had any in the first place.

She wanted to curl up tight to comfort and protect herself, but Lisandra had left her hanging in the chains. Her knees couldn't support her and she slumped forward. The steel pressed into the shallow gashes the vampiress had gouged along her sides, but she didn't care. She could very well remember being in that much pain several times before. Nothing new there.

That didn't help at all.

She could feel Angel hovering at the edge of her consciousness. He was coming - and there was nothing she could do to dissuade him.

It was just as well. Spike would accompany his Sire, she was sure of it. She wouldn't ask Angel to kill her. It would be more than the souled vampire could handle. But Spike. Spike was another matter entirely. She would have no qualms about demanding that of him.

"Hello, sister," murmured a soft, Celtic-accented voice to her left.

Morghane did not blink, did not flinch. She had expected as much.

"At last. It's been a long time."

"Considering... the dimension I usually... inhabit," answered Morghane, haltingly, "it hasn't been... nearly... long enough."

"Come on. Is that the proper way to welcome your sister after all these years?"

"Fuck you, First," growled the Guardian between clenched teeth.

"Language."

At last, the figure entered her field of vision, but Morghane already knew what face would great her. Despite the control she had mastered centuries ago, she couldn't help but shiver.

"My sister had... a soul. So don't bother... fucking with my... mind."

"But it's so much fun."

The red-head standing in front of her pouted comically, but the Guardian didn't feel like laughing at all.

The young woman lifted a gracious hand. Her fingers glided almost reverently along Morghane's naked shoulders, down between her breasts to her waist and tugged lightly on the chains securing her to the block of concrete.

The Guardian bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning.

She tasted blood.

"I'd like to apologize on behalf of Lisandra. She wasn't supposed to be so... rough with you. She shouldn't have beaten you like that in Sunnydale."

"Only because... it hastened the outcome of the... spell. Wouldn't want me to die... quickly, now, right?"

The thing that wore the face of her sister giggled. "No, wouldn't want that." She quieted. "She almost messed up my plan, and for that she'll be punished, have no fear."

"You won't get... Angel," Morghane ground out, with more confidence that she felt.

The young woman shrugged, undaunted. "He's too noble for his own good. He's coming. Can't you tell? And he's bringing your new pet along. What's his name? Spike."

"No."

"Yes. And the Slayer too."

"You can't take them... both. You tried that already... remember? You failed... then. You'll fail now."

The First smiled wolfishly. "But this time I have you."

"I'll be dead... soon."

"Not soon enough." She shook her head. "You should have let him die in Sunnydale, Guardian. He's more trouble than he's worth."

"Speak for... yourself."

"A soul is so strong - and so fragile at the same time. But I don't need to tell you that, now, do I? Angel could loose his so easily. You know as I do that the demon incarnated in Angel is among the great champions of our side. His cruelty coupled with Angel's sophisticated mind make him one of our best weapons in this world. Does Angel know that?"

Morghane didn't answer.

"Of course not. He would kill himself rather than let such threat live inside of him. We've seen that already."

Morghane's eyes flashed dangerously. "Angelus is insane. He's been... driven mad... by a hundred years of forced cohabitation with Angel's... soul. There's nothing left of your... champion."

The First snarled. "That may be the case. Yet, if Angelus returned, the synergy between Angel and the Slayer would be forever lost to the ethereal community. That makes for a weaker Guardian. Much weaker. And you know I will just as soon destroy Angel than give them the chance to strengthen humanity."

The Guardian's expression hardened.

"Angel may still be a risk as long as his soul is not... anchored. But I wouldn't destroy him... just because of a... remote possibility. If only because that would make me too much like... you."

The First laughed openly.

"You always believed Angel would be your redeeming grace just because you said so, Guardian. And your arrogance will destroy you."

Morghane smirked. "I have two words for you, First. Pot... Kettle."

Enraged, the First slapped her, but the Guardian barely felt it.

"Even the Watcher Council have forsaken you, Guardian. They have had the counterspell all along. Do you see them around?"

"I told them not to try. I knew that... if Angel and Buffy learned of the counterspell they would rush to help me... and fall into your trap."

"But you hadn't predicted the fact that Lisandra could be discovered and turned, had you?"

Morghane refused to rise to the bait and waste precious energy. "They'll find a way to... destroy her. They always win, First. Haven't you... realized that by now?"

"Keep on deluding yourself, Guardian."

The First trailed a questing hand between her thighs.

Lisandra had divested her of all but the ragged remains of Angel's black shirt.

"Even if Lisandra is destroyed, you still die. You still lose. Your knowledge is lost. The Council keep on acting like the morons they are. They continue to sacrifice the lives of their Slayers because the situation is so desperate that they lose all common sense... Their idea of instituting this stupid test on the Slayer's eighteenth birthday had me in stitches for centuries, by the way."

"Things will change... when they realize that Buffy's incredible strength and unprecedented longevity stem from her ties to humanity. Her friends."

The evil smile that twisted what looked so much like the face of her long-dead sister made Morghane shudder with distaste.

"I intend to remedy this situation."

"Angel won't let Buffy take... the risk of coming... here."

"Ah. But, my dear Guardian, they are already on their way."

Spike had spent a significant portion of his life roaming the sewers in the four corners of the earth, but it didn't mean he had to like it. His every senses were on full alert - but so far there had been nothing to report but rats. Lots and lots of rats.

Oz led the way, flashlight in hand. Angel followed in his footsteps, Buffy behind him. Spike brought up the rear. They had taken the tunnels all the way to Falson street and the Watchers' sanctuary. The werewolf reckoned he would have an easier time tracing Morghane from there. The army of vampires that had escorted them to the warehouse had left an unmistakable smell.

They hadn't crossed the path of anything more threatening than a colony of rodents so far - yet Spike felt uneasy. Something was amiss.

It might have been the fact that he wasn't used to moving around so much during

the daylight hours. Although no rule forbade vampires from traveling during the day as long as they kept out of direct sunlight, it still felt slightly unnatural. Each movement seem to require just that much more effort.

Spike felt a bit sluggish.

Daylight and lack of rest. It didn't make for a reassuring combination.

Still, something was nagging at him.

The Slayer called it her spider sense. Spike called it plain old-fashioned experience.

Oz stopped ahead and Spike almost ran into Buffy's back. Not that he would have minded. The Slayer was a pretty tasty morsel. But he didn't think Angel would let him cope a feel so blatantly. And for some reason, pulling his Sire's leg just didn't have the appeal it used to.

Spike's vampire hearing allowed him to pick up on Oz's murmur.

"Just another rat."

Spike growled.

Buffy jumped, startled.

"Sorry, pet. I just hate rats."

The Slayer threw an amused glance over her shoulder but didn't call him on it. She brushed his arm lightly, and her considerate gesture took him somewhat by surprise. He crossed his Sire's gaze over the Slayer's head. Angel was smiling knowingly and Spike wondered for a minute if the older vampire had guessed his earlier thought.

He didn't have time to consider the matter however, since Oz started walking again - more determinedly than before.

Angel noticed the werewolf's newfound urgency too.

"Oz?"

"Morghane's scent is getting much stronger. That way." He pointed to his left. "It's just..."

"What?"

"I can't seem to pick up on the vampire pack's smell anymore."

Spike couldn't see his Sire's face, but he knew the frown was there.

"That's odd." Angel turned to consult his lover and his Childe. "What do you think?"

Buffy shrugged, at a loss. "Maybe they moved her?"

Spike chewed worriedly on his lower lip - a nervous tick that had disappeared around the time he had taken up smoking. But he couldn't very well light one up now and announce their presence.

"It's possible. I don't see another explanation. And whatever it means - we still have to go after the Guardian. Oz' nose is still our best guess."

Angel nodded curtly. "Let's go then. But if anything happens, you two" - he looked pointedly at both werewolf and Slayer - "run for the closest manhole. The sun's still up. You'll be safe."

He didn't need to add anything and voluntarily ignored Buffy's rebellious stare.

Oz turned left.

They followed the tunnel for a few minutes. Vampires and Slayer could tell that Oz got more and more tense as they progressed - nearing his goal. Their taut muscles were strained, ready to take on invisible assailants.

The path widened significantly and Oz halted again.

"There's a cave up ahead."

Buffy squinted. "There's light."

Spike fetched a stake in one of his pockets. "Let's go."

They proceeded in utter silence - four predators acutely aware of their hostile surroundings.

Acutely aware that they could become the prey in the blink of an eye.

They reached the entrance of the cave. It was impressively large and deep. They were overcome by the stench of decaying earth. It was a miracle Oz had been able to smell anything at all. There were torches scattered here and there along the stone walls. As far as they could tell, the cavern was empty.

There was only one other entrance - across the cave.

Angel looked up, but couldn't see any other access. The threat couldn't come down from above then. He threw a glance at Buffy. She shook her head. She couldn't sense any vampire nearby.

Oz waited for the conclusion of their silent communication.

"We have to go through there."

Angel acquiesced and the werewolf took a few steps forward.

Nothing happened.

They entered the cave one after the other, hurrying to the other side - feeling exposed.

A few feet from the exit, Oz froze. He bent slowly and picked something off the ground.

A black cashmere coat and a pair of 501s.

"Morghane's," murmured Oz, shaken. "I can smell... her blood."

Spike nodded at Angel. He had picked that up too.

His Sire's face closed off.

"It's a trap."

As if they had been waiting for their cue, at least ten vampires appeared through the entrance they had just vacated.

More surged through the opening they had been walking towards.

The group fell back in the middle of the cave, back-to-back, battle-ready.

The second group of vamps parted like the Red sea and the striking figure of a young blonde woman appeared before them.

"Lisandra," whispered Oz.

The others had guessed as much.

"My, my, my..." the vampiress gloated. "Spike, Buffy and the infamous Angel... Is it Christmas or what?"

Muscles tightened to the snapping point.

"A little magic can cloud the senses of even the most powerful Slayer... But we will have ample time to chat later." She shrugged. "Take them. Try not to damage them too much. You can kill the werewolf."

Vampires and Slayer sprung into action. They might not be able to save themselves - but Oz would have to be killed over their dead bodies. They didn't have to exchange a word. They ran towards the pack guarding the entrance of the cave, away from Lisandra, Oz between them.

"Remember where the closest manhole is?" Angel ground out, shoving a stake in the werewolf's right hand.

"Yes."

"Then run. We'll hold them back as long as we can."

Angel forged ahead - Buffy to his right, Spike at his left - and the sheer fierceness of their attack startled the other vampires enough that a breach opened in their lines. They threw themselves brutally against their opponents - not trying to wound or kill. Just attempting to distract them away from Oz.

The werewolf ran mindlessly, ignoring the nagging little voice pointing out that he was abandoning his friends in the middle of a life-threatening situation for the second time that day. But he knew better than to falter. Once again, it was up to him to gather the reinforcements.

Although with Buffy, Angel and Spike out of commission, he had no idea who that might be.

He made it through the ranks of snarling vampires with little more than a scratch and took off running at full speed.

He obviously wasn't that important to the bigger plan - because no one went after him.

Back inside the cave, things were predictably going downhill.

Fast.

Spike was the first to go down, smothered by five burly vampires armed with bats.

What was it with vampires and baseball bats these days?

He couldn't see for the blood in his eyes. He felt them pulling his arms roughly behind his back to tie him up. One shoulder dislocated, and he howled. He heard Buffy's cry not far from where he lay. But he couldn't even help himself - let alone rescue the Slayer.

He heard Angel's roar and pitied the poor chap who had laid a hand on her.

Buffy tried to get away from yet another set of claws ripping her back, but there was just too many of them. She had dusted two and they kept on coming, undaunted.

They barely made a sound. For some reason, that disturbed her. She was used to bragging, cocky bloodsuckers. Not those insensitive, MIB-types from Hell.

Spike was down, but there wasn't much she could do for him. He had been restrained - so chances were they had no intention of killing him right away.

At first, Angel had been covering her back, but they had been separated by the overwhelming number of their attackers. She had spotted Lisandra in a corner. The vampiress had been grinning, enjoying the show. Now she couldn't see anything anymore because her opponents had her backed against a wall. She felt the hopelessness of their situation, but ruthlessly pushed the thought away.

A vamp rushed her, bashing her head into the rock, and she stopped feeling all together.

Angel heard Buffy's cry of pain and saw her slid to the floor out of the corner of his eye. She was surrounded by half a dozen vampires.

Enraged and frightened, he roared, whipping out a stake. The devices attached to his forearms had already done some damage - but he had lost the advantage of surprise. It was back to the old-fashioned stake.

He held his ground a few more minutes, trying to edge his way towards his lover, but he knew the fight was lost. He made a last desperate attempt at reaching Lisandra.

A chain wrapped itself around his calves and he fell on the hard floor at her feet.

Another chain found its way around his neck, and he was pulled roughly on his knees.

He grabbed the links that were cutting off the blood supply to his head, struggling against the loss of consciousness.

Lisandra approached like a lioness on the prowl.

He snarled.

The chain tightened around his throat.

"The mighty Angelus brought to his knees." The vampiress giggled. "What a wonderful picture."

She snapped her fingers.

"Take them to the lair." She grinned. "Morghane was starting to feel lonely."

*

When he was roughly shoved through the door, Spike stumbled but righted himself up gracefully. The Slayer had regained consciousness quickly after the fight and she struggled behind him - cursing. He could feel his Sire as much as he could hear him. Angel was giving a hard time to his captors as well - except without the flowing string of insults and obscenities.

Spike almost smiled.

*Didn't know the Slayer possessed such a colorful mastery of the English language.*

When he finally focused on the scene before him, he didn't feeling like laughing anymore.

And the smell.

The cloying scent of blood, sex and fear.

He sensed Buffy and Angel at his side - suddenly quiet. The Slayer gave up a small, strangled sound of despair.

"Oh God."

Angel snarled.

Spike felt his fangs drop.

Lisandra sashayed past them and waved her hand lazily towards the middle of the room with the disdain of bored royalty. "I have other matters to attend to, but I'll be back shortly."

Angel roared, in game face, going for her throat despite the fact that his arms were tied behind his back.

Two vampires intercepted him before he could reach their mistress. He was brutally shoved against a wall, an elbow pressing against his throat.

Spike and Buffy rushed to his aid but were quickly subdued - outnumbered.

Lisandra stood in front of Angel, regal. Her long, clawed fingers snaked inside his coat, along the seam of his shirt, and ripped the material apart, sending buttons flying everywhere. She pressed her palm against his firm, flat stomach, an eyebrow raised in obvious appreciation.

"You are truly deserving of your name," she murmured, leaning towards him.

She aimed for his mouth, but he turned his face away.

With a delighted laugh, the vampiress bent towards his left breast and slowly licked his nipple, over his unbeating heart.

Angel flinched despite himself - repulsed by her touch.

Buffy was fuming - biding her time.

Lisandra smirked, condescending. "You are more than welcome to try and escape. Not that I will ever need an excuse to discipline you, Angelus, but... Good luck."

She signaled her fledglings with the same air of annoyed superiority. Angel, Spike and Buffy were pushed forward. The door closed with damning finality behind them.

Angel's eyes were riveted to the silent figure chained in the center of the room.

Spike nudged his Sire gently - coaxing him out of his daze of fury and sorrow.

"Get my bonds, Angel."

The dark-haired vampire blinked slowly and nodded.

They stood back to back. Angel's agile fingers wrapped around the rope securing his Childe's wrists. He made short work of the knots. In a few minutes, all three of them were untied.

As soon as he was freed, Angel rushed forward - Spike and Buffy one step behind him.

Tentatively, he brought a hand up to Morghane's face and lifted her chin.

Her eyes were open. Tiny slits of darkness.

"Why did you come?" she rasped out.

Angel shushed her tenderly. "Spike, we have to get rid of those chains."

"I'll take care of it," murmured Buffy.

Horror was written on every line of her face.

Spike and Buffy went around the pillar to check the links.

"This is going to hurt like hell," whispered the blonde vampire.

Angel's eyes met the Guardian's - a question clear in their sable depths.

"Do it."

Her voice was so faint, he barely made out her words. Carefully, he put his arms around her shoulders.

Spike grabbed one of the links. The Slayer took hold of the next.

Together, they pulled.

The chain snapped.

Morghane collapsed forward in Angel's embrace with a small cry.

The vampire brought her to his chest. He carried her away from the one and only door - giving them enough space to survey the return of the enemy.

He let her feet slid to the ground and held her up with one arm.

"Buffy, help me get my coat off."

He held an arm out and the Slayer tugged on one sleeve - then repeated the process with the other. His coat came off. Angel kept on supporting Morghane as Buffy assisted the Guardian in putting the thick duster on.

The Slayer couldn't help but shudder. Morghane seemed to be swallowed by the garment - three times too big for her. She was so thin Buffy could count the ribs on her side. Under the bruises. Was that a result of the spell? When there was no magic left, would everything that was Morghane just... vanish into nothingness?

Amid the overwhelming avalanche of disasters this day had shaped up to be, this thought was too depressing to contemplate.

Angel gently settled Morghane on the hard ground, her back against a wall.

Spike offered his own leather jacket to cover her legs. The Guardian was shaking. Her lips had a bluish, unhealthy tinge. The cold, or lungs too exhausted to draw in sufficient oxygen - Spike couldn't tell.

Buffy sat on the floor next to Morghane and slipped an arm around her friend's waist. She was careful to keep Angel's coat closed. She was very aware of the Guardian's nakedness, of her wounds - grim testament of the abuse she had suffered at her captors' hands.

Buffy had seen the blood between her legs, and on her left breast - the twin holes of a fresh vampire bite. They all had. It called out to the vampires and, at the same time, made them want to heave.

Spike crouched in front of the Guardian. He lifted a hand to her cheek, then thought better of it and let it fall in his lap. She looked like a slight breeze could snap her in two. Her eyes were now closed as she lay - almost lifeless - huddled in the Slayer's embrace. Buffy was softly caressing her tangled hair, murmuring soothing, senseless words of comfort in her ear.

Spike settled for carefully massaging a chaffed, bruised wrist.

That provoked no reaction at all.

Angel loomed over them like the emissary of some forgotten god's divine wrath, both enraged and impotent.

"Kill me."

The words had been uttered in a whisper.

Spike started nonetheless.

"What?"

Spike raised his hand to silence his Sire. Icy blue eyes caught the bewildered stare of the Slayer then focused on the Guardian's drawn face. Morghane's eyes were still tightly shut.

"I won't kill you," Spike said quietly.

"You... you must."

"No."

Green irises flashed at him - the only sign of life he had seen in the Guardian since he had entered the room.

"I command you. Kill me."

Spike shook his head slowly, bringing mournful eyes to the Guardian's face.

"There is no more gais, Guardian. You're too weak. You can't command me anymore."

Grating breath.

"Please."

The blonde vampire had to avert his gaze. Morghane's fingers emerged laboriously from a too long sleeve and grazed Angel's pant leg. The older vampire went down on one knee next to her.

She wet parched lips with the tip of her tongue, searching for words.

"Angel..."

"Don't ask this of me."

"Please, listen..."

"You don't have to give up yet, Morghane. Giles is closer to finding the counterpell. We just need a little more time..."

"There isn't anymore... time."

Dreadful certainty.

Her eyebrows were drawn in pain, her voice quivered - desperate, pleading, exhausted.

And still Angel kept on bargaining with her.

"Just give us a chance, Morghane."

Suddenly, she wished he wasn't there. That she had left this world without having laid eyes on his beloved face again. "You don't understand." Her stare hardened. The experience of every single day of her 1700 years coming to the front. "You are not listening to me," she bit out as vehemently as she could.

Which wasn't much.

"I'm going to die. Even if Giles gets hold of the spell - which means going through the Council, by the way - he won't make it here in time." She breathed deeply. Buffy's hold tightened around her ribs to the point of painfulness. "If I'm out of the equation, Lisandra will be out of your way and you just have to worry about the First. There won't be too much of the three of you." Her expression softened as she traced the smooth planes of Angel's face. "You'll have to severe the bond between us. You're strong enough. I'm not."

"But Morghane..."

She ignored him.

"I don't want you to share this with me. My death."

Angel shook his head, but she was already lost in a world of her own. She rambled on.

"I was selfish, you know. I could have broken the bond sooner. But I wanted to keep you with me. Now it's too late. I'm sorry."

Her eyes shone unnaturally.

She whimpered. "I needed you with me to stay strong."

Angel's lips thinned on a sorrowful smile. "Morghane, you're one of the two strongest people I've ever met."

Her eyes fell shut.

"If you're not going to kill me,, then I have nothing left to say to you."

Angel flinched away from her, stunned.

"Go away. All of you." She struggled out of Buffy's hold. Not knowing what to do, the Slayer just let her go. "I want you to leave me alone. Don't you understand what is going to happen now? What It will do?"

There was a vice around her heart which hadn't been there before. Before she saw Angel and had to convince herself to let go all over again.

Her last hope had suffered an agonized death the minute Spike, Angel and Buffy had been shoved through that door. How dared they? They had no right to risk themselves like this on her account. Too much rode on them making it through the next few years for them to take such a foolish, unnecessary chance. She thought Angel would have known better than to let Buffy tag along.

She crawled to the closest corner, leaving Spike's coat in a puddle of leather in her wake.

Angel took a step towards her and she snarled at him. Well, it was more of a pitiful sob.

The dark-haired vampire froze. Torn apart between concern, anger, hurt and helplessness.

Morghane curled up tightly on herself, pulling Angel's coat around her small frame like a shield.

Steeling herself against her own pain.

Against theirs.

For all her experience, she had dealt with the aftermath of the Sepulcher like any other human stricken by an incurable disease. First fear, then anger, and finally resignation. She had reconciled herself with her fate, had come to relish the idea of her own demise - of putting an end to the anguish.

Closure.

The intervention of Angel and Buffy had forced her one step backward.

All this grief. No doubt the First would be here soon. Like a slobbering hound maddened by the smell of blood.

*Now's a good time to pass out, Guardian* she thought, a bit hysterically.

She closed her eyes, shivering. The thick cashmere duster could do nothing against the cold that pervaded her soul. She gasped out, struggling to breathe, her throat closing up, sweat shining on her brow, and for the first time in about as long as she could remember, she felt the warning signs of a panic attack coming on.

Powerful arms encircled her and she fought instinctively against their gentle hold. Something was shoved over her mouth and nose and she struggled in terror.

"Calm down, Morghane. Breathe slowly... You're hyperventilating. Shh... Breathe, breathe..."

Finally, the words spoken close to her ear started to make sense and she breathed deeply into the end of Angel's shirt.

"It's okay. Shh. It's okay."

She quieted, and the shirt was removed.

"You have to trust us, Morghane. We'll get you out of here."

She shook her head weakly, overwhelmed by the anguish in Angel's voice.

And her soul fractured a little more.

Another arm wrapped around her waist. A hand soothingly caressed her bare calf.

Spike. Buffy.

"You don't... understand," she protested haltingly. "The First is... here. Lisandra can't... touch me... anymore. I could die... too soon. They will... they will... torture you. All of you. To get to me. Make me...feel. Your pain. I can't... I can't..."

"Shh." Coming from Buffy. "We can take anything the First can dish out, Morghane. It doesn't matter. Angel is right, you have to trust us. You're not alone in this. We'll make it. And Giles will find us. He never failed me before."

The Guardian refused to find any comfort in the Slayer's confidence. Her large, gleaming eyes bore into Angel's.

"Why did you come?" she asked again. "I was... ready. I wanted..."

"I know," Angel murmured against her temple.

"I'm... I'm so old, Angel. And I'm so tired. " She grabbed his shirt with what little strength she could muster. "I want it finished. I want to... rest. Why won't you let me?"

Pleading.

The large vampire softly kissed her brow.

"Because we are not ready to let you go."

It was snowing. Of all things.

In fact, this night gave a brand new meaning to the expression 'snow storm'. Not only frozen flakes fell heavily from the sky, but random lightning also erupted here and there - giving an otherworldly, slightly psychedelic aura to the deserted streets of Los Angeles.

Not that it was that big of a change, from Oz perspective.

The werewolf was presently hiding in a foul-smelling alley - identical to thousands of other such alleys in all the major cities of the world - scanning the streets for vampires. A radio nearby broadcast yet another report from some poor, dumbfounded meteorologist who rambled on about the freaky weather L.A. - and only L.A. - had been experiencing over the last forty-eight hours. And there was no way to predict if it would end anytime soon.

Oz had a little idea about that.

Personally, he didn't mind the weather so much, despite the pervading cold and the fact that he was pretty much soaked to the bone.

It meant that a certain spell hadn't completed itself.

And that a certain friend was still alive and kicking.

Now, to keep her that way...

Oz threw a quick, cautious glance around the corner of the alley, surveying the forsaken avenues of downtown L.A.

No minions of the fangy persuasion around.

All of the good.

Ignoring the twitch in his side and the blood dripping steadily from his hairline, he ventured out of his hideout, holding onto a makeshift stake like it was his new religion. Might as well have been - considering all the faith the gang constantly put in those little pieces of wood.

Walking hastily, his senses in full alert mode, Oz dashed across the street. The door of Angel's office beckoned to him like a sweet promise of heaven, for the second time that day.

They attacked as he reached the stairs leading to the entrance.

Three of them.

More than he could handle. Didn't mean that he was going down without a fight, though.

He raised his stake with frightened determination, legs slightly apart, falling back on the fighter stance he had seen Buffy adopt so often. He wondered if the others would hear the racket from the basement.

It wasn't quite a prayer, but it was answered anyway. And Oz was damn glad God wasn't too hung up on protocol that night.

The door burst open and Giles rushed through like some sort of British superhero, a crossbow in each hand.

*Robin Hood?* Oz took the time to puzzle out this sudden flash of trivia. *Or was it Ivanhoe?*

Without a word, Giles fired. That took care of the two vampires closing down on Oz nicely. The third must have had half a brain, because it took off without looking back.

Giles rolled an arm around Oz's shoulders, mindful of any hidden injuries.

"Oz! Giles, is he okay?"

"Get back inside, Willow," the Watcher ordered tersely.

A few steps and they reached the relative safety of Angel's office.

Xander barricaded the door behind them, using various pieces of furniture.

"They'll come back," explained Oz. "This is a public place."

Giles shook his head, guiding him towards the elevator. "Don't worry. Willow took care of that with a spell. As long as there's a living person in this building, they won't be able to get in uninvited."

In a small corner of his mind, Oz took note of that fact. Someone would have to inform Angel of that little tidbit of information the next time he tried to enter his own apartment.

"Oz?"

The werewolf smiled at his girlfriend, who hovered worriedly in front of him.

"I'm good."

"But... the blood."

"Just a scratch."

"We'll see about that," said Giles, not ready to let Oz walk around without support.

Three people was the maximum capacity of the elevator, so Xander took the stairs running and reached the apartment slightly ahead of them. Giles led the werewolf to a chair in the kitchen, where the quickly depleting first aid kit was open and ready to use. Willow wet a white terry cloth and gently cleaned up the wound on his forehead, while Giles hunted for some disinfectant and yet more bandages.

Oz frowned.

"Not that I want to rain on the people's parade but... why aren't you asking about Buffy?"

"Doyle had a vision."

Oz finally noticed the presence of the half-demon. Cordelia and him were busy securing the place, putting locks on the sewer access.

Invitation or not, better safe than main course.

The werewolf nodded thoughtfully. Doyle had a vision. It explained why the gang had been ready for him upstairs.

"What did you see?"

"Angel, Spike and Buffy. Captured."

The Irishman's voice was tight with badly restrained anger and frustration. His visions were usually sent as a warning of some impeding disaster by the Powers That Be.

This one felt more like the bad guys wanting to brag.

Doyle tugged on the lock with more force than necessary. Once again Angel, his friend, was in jeopardy, not to mention Morghane and the Slayer - even Spike - and there was nothing he could do. He snorted derisively to himself.

He was only the 'messenger'.

In a rare demonstration of empathy, Cordelia hugged him tightly from behind - not shying away from the unusual public display of affection.

Oz looked up into Willow's pale face. He could tell that she had been terrified by the fact that Doyle's vision hadn't mentioned him at all.

He deposited a sweet, soft kiss on her still trembling lips.

"I'm here. I'm okay."

"Oz."

The werewolf tore himself away from Willow's relieved smile and met Giles somber gaze.

"Are you well enough to share with us the details of what happened?"

Oz nodded.

"We were trapped in the tunnels, before we reached the warehouse. Lisandra was waiting for us with a full battalion. She lured us in a cave. Buffy, Angel and Spike made sure I could escape." No need to mention in front of Willow that the vampiress had coolly decreed that he should die. "I got away, and I realized no one was following me. So I backtracked." Willow grasped his hand tightly. "Their scent was still strong, so I was able to trail them back to the warehouse. That's when the vampires guarding the place noticed me. We played hide-and-seek for a while. You know the rest."

"Could you find the lair again?"

"No problem. I had to go above ground to lose them, so I have a fair idea of its location."

"Good."

Xander handed Oz a towel and a dry shirt stolen from Angel's closet, then sat heavily at the kitchen table.

"That's all well and good," he said, letting his head fall in his hands with a sigh, "but admitting that we can infiltrate the place without getting ourselves killed, we're no closer to finding the details of the counterspell."

Giles growled softly under his breath. "I'm going to try and contact the Council again. I hope the bastards will have the decency to at least take my call."

"I think I can help with that," announced a deeply British-accented voice from the stairs. "I had to force a window to get in. My apologies. I made a lot of noise upstairs, obviously not enough."

Without any of his customary flourish, Wesley Wyndham-Price dropped his slightly bedraggled person in the closest chair.

*

Buffy had had dreams like this one before - dreams of being an observer inside her own head - but something was wrong here. Her internal landscape had never looked like the Master's lair. Well, it didn't anymore. Not since she had dealt with the aftermath of her near-death experience - a long time ago.

She was paralyzed, incapable of even blinking, but she was able to survey all her surroundings at once. As if she had eyes in the back of her head. As if she was everywhere simultaneously.

The experience left her nauseous. Queasy.

She heard something and she didn't have to turn or even concentrate. She was engulfed by the scene unfolding inside the lair - both a part of it, and yet not.

She began to panic but recognized a familiar voice in the dark - and she quieted. She had no notion of time, no sense of what she was doing here, but none of that mattered at the moment.

She knew that voice.

It was Angel's.

She was inside his mind.

She was several minds all at once.

She became aware of other observers around her. Sleepers, Dreamers, like herself. But she couldn't see them.

"Just give up, Angelus. We're not going anywhere until you drink from me."

Buffy frowned - or thought she did, anyway. Morghane? What was Morghane doing here?

She felt a chill snake down her spine when her brain processed the full implications of the Guardian's words.

*Angelus.*

Buffy didn't want to be here anymore.

A tall, dark figure detached itself from the wall and stalked inside the room. A man. His movements were sharp and angry.

That smirk.

Buffy would have recognized that smirk anywhere.

Where was Angel?

"I'll kill you, Guardian."

A dry, contemptuous laugh.

"Can't quite do that now, Angelus, can you?"

"Then I'll make you regret being immortal."

A new silhouette emerged from a deep pocket of shadows and Morghane walked up to Angelus, her eyes glowing faintly.

"Can we dispense with the cheesy lines and get down to business?"

The Guardian's voice was strong and steady, her bearing proud, her expression one of calm and determination. Buffy started slightly. She had never seen the Guardian so self-possessed, so serene. Realization dawned, and the Slayer came to understand the full extent of the damage wrecked by the Sepulcher. How it had stripped Morghane of her defenses, ripping away all that made her the Guardian, cutting off her ties to the ethereal community, the bonds that sustained her - undermining her soul, destroying the humanity inside her. The essence of her.

Buffy looked at Morghane now, and she could see the power, the strength rolling off of her like some overwhelming, suffusing tidal wave. Buffy felt it in every last one of her cell, in her core, in that deep, intricate part of her that was the Slayer. It called out to her - that power - and the warrior in Buffy acknowledged one of her own.

"Finally. You're showing yourself, Guardian. Got a little tired of playing hide- and-seek? Nice glamour you had working there. But I can't bite you if I can't see you, right?"

Now Buffy perceived the fear in Angelus' voice, underneath the anger. He was frantic. She could feel the demon's unadulterated terror like it was her own, his dread of having to relinquish control to Angel's soul once again. She shared his emotions - any and all emotions released in that place - and it was like an annoying scratch deep inside her brain.

"You know what I've got in store for you, Guardian."

Despite the wicked grin, the fear was mounting in Angelus' tone.

Morghane appeared accepting and collected, and her gaze did not waver. All Buffy could sense from her was profound, infinite sadness.

"Yes, Angelus. I know."

The vampire growled around a mouth full of fangs.

"Then let's get this show on the road."

Angelus let go of a straight punch to Morghane's face but the Guardian effortlessly ducked out of the way. He followed with a high kick, and she parried.

The fight went on for the best part of an hour as Angelus grew more vicious and Morghane more tired - both weakened by hunger.

Buffy grew worried, and this time the emotion was her own. Morghane was good but, physically or technically, she was no match for Angelus. Not when the vampire was fighting for his life.

As if to confirm Buffy's forgone conclusion, Angelus managed to grab Morghane's left arm and projected her face-first against a wall. Stunned, the Guardian slumped to the ground. Blood trickled at the corner of her mouth.

Infuriated by the scent of the Guardian's blood, fighting against the impulse to drink, Angelus closed his fist in her hair and dragged her on the uneven, rough stone floor towards the center of the cave.

Buffy could sense the Hellmouth, its proximity calling out to the vampire, driving him slowly insane.

No cold calculations. Nothing but blind fury and mindless fear. He was driven by the torment of starvation - an agony he looked forward to sharing with the woman clinging to consciousness at his feet. He kicked Morghane ferociously in the kidneys and she gave up a small cry.

"Remember the good times, Guardian?"

Morghane laughed softly. It sounded almost like a giggle.

"I believe you've got yourself confused with someone else, Angelus. That was Aingeal... You just happen to share his memories. So stop deluding yourself, asshole."

Angelus leered at her.

"I also happen to share his body."

"And what a body it is, too. It does look better on him, though."

Buffy wanted to laugh out loud at that one - delighted by the look of utter dismay and wounded pride on the demon's face.

"You bitch."

"Insults," Morghane chided. "Ultimate refuge of the brainless."

"I also share his mind," Angelus spat, not amused.

"A shame that you don't have a clue on how to use it, though."

With a snarl, Angelus bent over Morghane and ripped her shirt open.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

"Don't cum yet. I knew how this would end," the Guardian rasped out - reading Angelus' smug expression. "Why waste perfectly good underwear?" she wondered out loud, not even sarcastic.

Not trying to resist, or flee, or shield herself.

Angelus tore away her light gray flannel skirt, infuriated. No panties.

His eyes glowed an unholy gold and Buffy was instantly swamped over by his rage. She smelled the intimate, intoxicating fragrance of Morghane's skin through the vampire's senses. Angelus wanted to taste that skin. Then open that delicate ribcage with his bare hands. And tear off her beating, warm heart with his fangs. But he couldn't risk being exposed to her blood. It was poison. It was also the driving force of his unlife.

The conflicting drives of those two urges - poison and cure, drink and don't - were tearing him apart at the seams. He grabbed Morghane by the back of the neck and hauled her to her feet - bringing her face up to his. Her feet barely touched the ground.

Spitefully, he crushed his lips to hers with bruising force.

"You want it, Guardian, hm? You play the part of the brave little sacrificial lamb - but the truth is, you missed it. You missed me."

"I miss him, Angelus. Him. I can hardly stand to be near you."

Angelus erupted in fury.

He closed his hand around Morghane's throat, cutting off her air supply. He punched her in the stomach several times, shaking her like she was nothing more than a rag doll. She tried to shout, but the cries died in her throat. The vampire slammed her into the nearest wall, using the full length of his body.

Angelus kept on pounding her back into the rock, until Morghane's eyes rolled back in her head.

"Oh no, love. You're not getting out of this so easily."

He slapped her before throwing her to the ground.

He started undoing his belt, and Buffy shared Morghane's involuntary burst of fear. The Guardian was struggling against her instinctive need to call onto the magick to protect herself. Her determination faltered a little but she clamped down firmly on her temporary weakness.

She closed her eyes.

When Angelus snapped the belt down on Morghane's exposed breasts, Buffy released a strangled moan that never made it past her lips, yet seemed to echo inside the confines of the lair. Angelus was in a frenzy and Morghane barely had time to draw breath between the lashes. The vampire was using the flat of the belt, not drawing blood, but raising painful-looking bruises. He was methodical in his madness, not one inch of her body was spared.

Eventually, the vampire tired of the whipping.

He dragged Morghane to a table of dark granite - where frightened minions had once tied down fresh, helpless, equally frightened meals during the Master's reign. Manacles were screwed at the four corners of the table and Angelus had Morghane chained spread-eagle in a matter of seconds.

The Guardian was silent, saved for a few ragged breaths.

Angelus wasn't in the mood to waste anymore time with idle chit-chat anyway. He was rapidly loosing control over the hunger and he wanted to make the bitch pay for luring him to this hell, before the call of her blood overcame his instinct of self-preservation. Yet he tried to master his anger. He wanted her conscious until the end.

Buffy gasped softly.

Angelus wanted to insure that Angel would be incapable of ever withstanding the Guardian's gaze again.

Buffy didn't think she could bear to watch anymore. Angelus' cold scheming, the feel of his perverted thoughts, brought back too many painful memories. Yet there was nothing she could do to tear herself away from the scene. She wished Morghane would at least know of her presence, feel her, so that she knew she wasn't alone. But in a corner of her mind - the self-aware part of her - the Slayer realized that the Guardian wasn't really chained naked in front of her, being tortured to the brink by the evil twin of her lover. Someone or something was replaying this memory for Buffy's consumption - and maybe for Spike's and Angel's as well - with surround sound, 360 screen and psychic-link-from-hell to boot.

With the tip of his index finger, Angelus traced a lazy path from Morghane's hip to her breast, along her arm to her wrist, lingering on a bruise here and there. When he reached her hand, he caressed her little finger before seizing it firmly in his grip.

He pulled back.

The bone snapped.

Morghane arched off the table, straining against her bonds, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

Angelus broke her ring finger in the same fashion.

The Guardian fought against the tears of pain springing to her eyes.

The vampire leaned over her and kissed a pale cheek softly.

"Let me go, Morghane, and we'll call it even," Angelus murmured against her mouth.

She gasped.

"The door is closed from the outside."

"Like that could even stop you."

"Fuck off."

"In a minute, love. I'm not done yet. Still a few fingers to go."

He broke her index and middle fingers at once, before repeating the process with her other hand.

By the end, Morghane was convulsing in pain, panting and shivering. Sweat glistened on her alabaster skin and Angelus bent to taste a salty patch between her breasts.

Buffy watched Angelus reach a hand to his zipper. He fumbled with the top button of his leather pants but his erection eventually sprang free. Buffy wanted to scream, to warn Morghane, to plead. The Guardian's glazed eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unfocused.

The demon jumped on the table lithely, straddling Morghane.

He entered her with one rough, hard stroke, goring her.

Buffy's stomach rose to her lips.

Angel's heart shriveled inside his chest.

He could try to remind himself that the tragedy unfolding in front of his eyes was nothing but a sadistic manipulation of his tortured mind. That the rape - and what had come after - had taken place two years ago.

That Morghane had forgiven him right away - had even insisted that there was nothing to forgive in the first place.

None of those rationalizations really altered the fact that he would be gouging his own eyes out in shame if he could. But there was no escape, and the one thing worse than having to watch himself gleefully torture and violate one his closest friends was knowing that Buffy was here to witness his darkest hour. He couldn't see her, but her beloved, familiar scent reached his nostrils now and then. A sensual fragrance - sun, warmth and daffodils. He listened attentively to her heart constricting in disgust and sorrow, beating in tandem with Morghane's.

Although Angel had no clear awareness of his own body, he didn't doubt for a minute that tears were flowing steadily down his cheeks. He struggled to keep Angelus' feelings distinct from his own, but it was an exercise in futility. For he had known those feelings once before, and they had the hauntingly familiar, bitter taste of unwanted memories.

He found himself wishing that he could at least keep Morghane's emotions out of his mind, but as soon as the thought took form, he knew abject remorse once again.

This was his penance. Expiation in all its hurtful, realistic details. He deserved this punishment - deserved to accompany Morghane on her journey through degradation and pain, every step of the way.

Amidst the poignant clarity only ever conferred by intense suffering, Angel remembered the Guardian's first and foremost lesson. That controlling the demon was the key to power. The path to fearlessness. But watching Angelus revel in Morghane's torment only comforted Angel in his determination to lock the demon far, far away. To keep it at bay. To deny his most basic nature.

Morghane whimpered as Angelus fucked her, plundering her mouth, pulling and twisting her nipples - and Angel gasped uselessly.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he _felt_ Angelus' hard, thick length pounding punishingly inside of _him_.

Angel wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his own skin. He was on the verge of throwing up, or passing out. There was pain, and tearing, and overwhelming horror. A primitive, instinctual terror in the face of Angelus' ruthless invasion of her - his - core.

And then a wave of something warm, and luminous, and comforting - it might have been love - broke through the nightmare. Angel trembled as Morghane raised her head off the table, bringing herself closer to Angelus' fully-clad body.

The demon paused in his mindless assault, cocking a questing eyebrow, leering at her. He opened his mouth to taunt her, but the Guardian's earnest, naked gaze stopped him cold.

She looked tenderly up at her aggressor, and the expression of calm on her face was eerie.

Angelus froze - expecting magick.

A small, bright tear coursed down Morghane's temple, before getting lost in the fiery mane of copper locks spread out like an autumnal sun around her face.

"I want you to remember something. I want you to remember that it was my choice and that I forgive you." Angelus frowned, too far gone to comprehend where she was going with this. "None of this is your fault, but I know you need to hear it, so I forgive you. I love you." She gasped as Angelus twitched inside her. "Aingeal."

The vampire's eyes glazed over. Raising his game face to the ceiling, he roared, then thrust madly, ravaging her more savagely than before.

Exhausted by sorrow and despicable shame, Angel couldn't take much more of this.

Watching this perfect reflection of himself torture and humiliate Morghane - and sharing the experience from both sides at once - was driving him, slowly but surely, insane.

Spike had no notion of how long he had been - standing? - here, the unwilling witness of Angelus' folly. It seemed like hours had gone by. Or it might have been days. Angelus' hunger intruded on his perceptions, painting everything with a bright red halo.

Spike was pretty sure he sported his game face right now. Just as he was convinced that the hunger was getting to his Sire too. Angel, not Angelus. The older - souled - vampire was nearby. Spike just couldn't see him.

He had watched Angelus rape Morghane again and again, until the demon had spilled his cold seed between her legs. Sharing that experience had left Spike reeling with disgust. Angelus had proceeded to break Morghane's ribs slowly, methodically, taking his sweet time. Letting her heal a little, letting the bones mend before starting all over again. He had already broken her fingers twice. Angelus seemed to think that torturing an immortal mage was a riot.

Even humans weren't that much fun.

Eventually, he had untied Morghane and dropped her broken, shredded form on the ground - retreating to a far corner of the lair to try and subdue the hunger for a little while longer. He wasn't finished with her yet.

The Guardian's laborious breathing resounded inside the cave. Harsh tremors shook her small frame and she rocked a little, curled into a tight ball. It looked like the Guardian was beyond feeling, beyond pain, but Spike knew better. He shared her awareness, her struggle against the ocean of grief trying to smother her, as she lay on the cold, unforgiving stone, limp and quivering.

Angelus staggered towards Morghane again, his vampiric features distorted by hunger, his yellow eyes burning with the need for blood. A fledgling would have caved in long ago, but Angelus was a master vampire, and that explained his endurance.

Morghane groggily came around at his approach.

"This is the... oh, I've stopped counting the rounds after six. You ready to go?"

The Guardian basically ignored Angelus' lewd smile, and it pissed him off.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"No, no, no... No retreating inside your own head, love. It's just getting interesting."

Grabbing her shattered hand in a crushing grip, Angelus tugged Morghane up and threw her sideways, face first on the table. She thrashed a little and he pulled her arms apart taut in front of her, imprisoning her wrists inside the manacles. Crushing her breasts to the stone.

He patted her bottom affectionately.

"Now, now. You never minded before." He shrugged when she didn't retort and nudged her legs apart. "Sorry, baby. No lube. I'm sad to report that this is gonna hurt like hell."

Angelus draped himself over Morghane and she moaned when his weight smashed her damaged ribs and battered stomach against the granite. He pushed her forward and Spike distinctly heard a grating, cracking sound.

Morghane coughed up blood.

Punctured lung.

"It's the end," growled Angelus, raking his claws down her soft sides - not caring anymore. Blood welled up. "And I'm gonna make you regret this until the day you die."

His claws gouged the delicate lips of her sex at the exact moment his cock forced open the tender flesh of her ass.

She howled.

Her scream of agony was smothered by the crashing of the door Morghane herself had conjured up at the entrance of the lair after trapping Angelus.

Half a dozen vampires rushed in, followed by Drusilla.

Spike suddenly wished himself blind and deaf. Or, even better, dead.

"Bad Daddy. What are you doing up the mean Guardian's ass?"

God, she looked pissed.

Angelus took a minute to recover, then smiled smugly up at the vampiress - immediately seizing up the infinite potential of this new situation.

"Does she look like she's enjoying herself, Dru?"

Saying that, he grabbed the tangle of red tresses in front of him and tugged forcefully to expose Morghane's ravaged face.

The Guardian groaned.

Drusilla smiled happily, clapping her hands in joy.

"She looks in a lot of pain."

"That's the basic idea. Now, Dru, I need to feed."

The vampiress shrugged. "I knew that. You've been gone a long time. But I had a vision, so I came to help you. Spike couldn't make it down to the sewers though."

"I'm sure we can manage without Crazy Wheels, Dru. But I need blood. Now."

Dru frowned, then grabbed a minion at random and threw it at Angelus.

The vampire grabbed the fledgling before it even understood what was happening and buried his teeth in its neck with a sigh of contentment. It resisted unsuccessfully and Angelus kept on drinking, unfazed, still inside Morghane - loving the feel of it.

The fledgling turned to dust in his arms.

Angelus smacked his lips. "A bit stale, but it will do for now." He smiled. "Send the boys home, Drusilla. There's still fun to be had around here."

He slapped the rounded globes sheathing his cock with a delighted grin.

Dru waved the minions away and they retreated obediently, scared out of their wits. She strolled up to her Sire with an excited giggle and without warning slipped three fingers inside Morghane's sex.

The Guardian whimpered.

Drusilla removed her hand and lazily licked her fingers. She clasped the back of Angelus' head and kissed him deeply, sharing the Guardian's taste with him.

Spike tensed, enraged, when Angelus brought his hands up to cup Dru's breasts through the lace of her black dress. It hurt so much - the memory of betrayal. Why did it hurt so much still?

"Oh, Daddy," she sighed. "I'm so glad you're home."

With a happy little laugh, she walked around the table and slid a hand between Morghane and the table, finding and twisting an abraded nipple. She inserted her other hand underneath her dress and produced a small, wicked-looking dagger.

"Can I play too, Angel?"

"Be my guest, Dru." The dark-haired vampire smiled, feral. "Be my guest."

"Wesley. What in God's name are you doing here?"

"The Council learned of Lisandra being turned and..."

Giles' blood ran cold and he walked over to Wesley, towering over the seated Watcher.

"'The Council learned of Lisandra being turned'? What about Morghane being attacked in Sunnydale? I tried to get in touch with the Council then, but they wouldn't take my calls. What's changed?"

Wesley resisted the urge to turn his head away, to evade Giles' condemning stare. He had heard of Ripper. He was almost a legend among the Watchers. Yet not one of them would have ever mentioned it to Giles' face. They valued their existence too bloody much.

"Giles, I wasn't made aware of what was going on until Buffy called me. I looked into it since then and... after what I discovered, I had to come myself."

The older man frowned.

"Discovered? What do you mean?"

Xander rose slowly out of his chair - sensing some momentous disclosure coming up. It was standard procedure by now. What was one more earth-shattering revelation? If he was susceptible to massive coronaries, he would know already.

"I... I have the counterspell."

Willow gasped softly then whooped with joy, hugging Oz. Xander seemed to just deflate.

He hadn't expected good news.

For some reason, Giles didn't seem relieved. "Xander was right, then. You had the spell all along."

Wesley's eyebrows drew together. He didn't understand the Xander reference. Giles' accusation, however, was easy enough to grasp.

"Indeed," Wesley answered quietly.

He lifted his head, feeling the hard, unforgiving eyes of every last person in that room throwing daggers at him.

"Look, Giles. I didn't know. I started making inquiries after Buffy's phone call. It seemed unbelievable to me that we didn't have access to the counterspell if such thing existed. I discovered that there was, in fact, a ritual. Then Morghane called and I proposed to send it to her. She refused. She was adamant. I couldn't go over the Guardian, Giles."

Giles appeared somewhat pacified. By now, he knew not to underestimate the Guardian's determination.

"But that isn't all."

Xander groaned. Of course. This was too good to be true. Should always check out that gift horse anyway.

"I realized quickly that I had been left out of the loop for a reason. The Council... the Council never intended for Morghane to be saved."

"What do you mean?" asked Cordelia, gripping the arm of someone Wesley did not recognize.

"The Council never even tried to get in touch with Morghane after she was attacked. They just wanted to be rid of her."

"Because she defied their authority for so long," murmured Giles, aghast.

Wesley nodded slowly. "Yes. A rogue Guardian was bad enough. Add a rogue Slayer to the mix... and the Council felt they were loosing control over the battle field."

Willow was appalled "So they chose to let her die?"

The young Watcher sighed. "There's a hard line, a trium vira of sorts, inside the Watcher Council. They were ready to take the risk of losing Morghane's experience if it meant that the next Guardian would be more... manageable. Lisandra was marked. They believed she would be easy to control." He cast his eyes downwards. "They also counted on Morghane killing herself when the time came."

"How thoughtful," observed Giles, coolly.

"I tried to get through to them. To no avail. And then came the news that Lisandra had been turned... The trium vira was deposited from the Council and I was sent here to help."

Giles indulged in something that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

Oz put a calming hand on his forearm.

"Don't shoot the messenger."

Giles looked at the werewolf oddly for a moment, then shook his head. "You're right. I'm glad you're here, Wesley."

"So we're good, right?" asked Willow. "We... we have the spell. That means we can save Morghane and things will get back to normal."

Xander sat right back down.

"It's not that easy, Will. Sorry to remind you, but we've already lost the first wave."

Wesley looked at Giles, askance. "The first wave?"

"Angel, Buffy and Spike have been captured by Lisandra, along with Morghane."

"Spike?"

"It's a long story. Suffice to say, we believe the First is behind all this. We have a pretty good idea of the place where they are detained, but Lisandra enlisted the help of the cadre of Nehemia. Without a Slayer, I don't see how we can get through their defenses."

"FUBAR," Cordelia breathed out softly, still clutching Doyle.

"Well," interjected Wesley, puffing his chest up a little, "I believe I might be able to help with that too. I have two special units awaiting my orders outside of town. About fifty men. That should give us an edge."

"Special units?" echoed Xander, perking up.

Giles took his glasses off, absorbed. "The Council maintain a small group of trained fighters, paramilitary units, to handle matters of internal security. They are very efficient - from what I have been told."

Wesley nodded earnestly and Xander whistled under his breath.

"Watchers' black ops."

"Interesting," commented Oz.

"Then it's settled. We go in guns blazin' and blast the fuckers six ways from Sunday," said Doyle, glad to finally be able to partake in the action.

"And you are?" asked Wesley curiously, standing up.

"Doyle. Friend of Angel's. Details later. Let's get a move on."

"Wait a second," interjected Giles. "We need a plan. Lisandra won't be easy to subdue by any means - and shall I remind you that her presence is quite central to the successful completion of the spell? Oz has been inside the warehouse, so we can draw basic blueprints. Wesley, you should send a few men to reckon the area - make sure they don't get spotted by any sentinels. We need a detailed map of the sewer system in that sector. We also have to gather weapons. We will make our move at dawn. We can't attack at night. We need the advantage of sunlight, to cover our retreat."

Willow raised worried eyes towards both Watchers.

"The sun just set, Giles. Dawn is hours away."

She didn't need to voice her fears any further.

Giles' expression darkened. But his mind was set. "Then we have to trust that they can make it through the night on their own."

When Angel came to, he was curled up in a tight little ball, tears streaming down his face.

The afterimage of Angelus impaled in Morghane, swelling inside of her, ripping her apart, his belt wrapped around her neck, literally riding her while Drusilla carved intricate patterns on the Guardian's chest with her infernal blade, was imprinted on the back of his lids.

It took him a moment to remember where he was and why, but when he did, his first thought was to check up on his companions.

He found Spike stirring next to him, in game face. He raised his head a little and his eyes fell on Buffy's hunched form. The Slayer lay in Morghane's arms, crying softly while the Guardian murmured soothing reassurances, caressing her blonde hair. The scene was a startling, reversed reflection of his last recollection of Buffy comforting the wounded mage.

Reaching back further, Angel went over his memories of being captured, finding Morghane, arguing with her and then searching their prison for means of escape - in vain.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but then again, the drama he had just been forced to witness had hardly been a dream. More like a hallucinatory flashback.

This little production had the First written all over it.

He lifted a trembling hand to Buffy's shoulder, then thought better of it. He didn't see her as being able to look him in the eye anytime soon - if ever again. Not after watching him rape Morghane so ruthlessly.

He retreated against the wall, brought his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and willed himself to stop shaking.

He was in shock.

He didn't even know a vampire could be in shock.

Wasn't that a medical condition?

He rocked a little, falling back on the age-old gesture of self-comfort. His thoughts were a maze, scattered in a million different directions. He still struggled with the somatic memory of Angelus' cock - his own cock for the love of God - skewering his insides.

He felt sick and dirty, tainted.

Raped.

*Oh God, Morghane. What did I do to you?*

How could she even bear to be in the same room with him?

To touch him? Let him touch her?

A sob broke free and Angel brought a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes tightly shut, tears spilling over his lids.

He didn't want to burden the others with his anguish. He had no right. He deserved every last shard of pain, he deserved to be abandoned and scorned and humiliated.

He wasn't worthy of the gentle hands even now soothing his fevered brow and lightly stroking the nape of his neck. He heard a profound rumbling sound and instinctively leaned towards it. It felt safe. And despite his never-ending shame, now more than ever Angel wanted to feel protected and cared for.

His cheek encountered a firm, cotton-clad chest and he nuzzled into it, lost in the chaotic labyrinth of his own mind. He fought to keep the demon in its cage. Its dark shape rattled against the bars of its virtual prison, excited by the reenactment of Morghane's violation, wanting Angel to share its arousal and pick up the Guardian's punishment where it had left off.

Angel wanted to vomit.

The rumbling deepened, as if reacting to Angel's agitated state, and the dark- haired vampire recognized the sound for what it really was.

Spike purring for him - like a mother cat consoling her kitten.

The tears fell harder.

He clutched Spike's shirt like a drowning man.

"Shh, Angel. It's... it's okay. We're not mad at you. We love you, Angel. Shh."

The tremors subsided a little and the older vampire blinked like a tired child - the tears coursing down his cheeks now slow and quiet. But he didn't move. He felt hollow, drained, exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, and Spike's embrace was familiar, solid.

Peaceful.

It felt good to relinquish for a while the responsibility of being the strong one, the stoic one. Angel thanked whoever was watching down on them from above for Spike's presence. It meant that he wouldn't have to burden Buffy while he went ahead with this little mental breakdown.

Just how much guilt was he expected to heap on his own shoulders anyway?

He knew what Morghane had meant now.

Rest. Oblivion. Death.

Death sounded really inviting right about now.

But, after last Christmas he had sworn to himself that he would never go down that path again. At least not while Buffy was alive. It would hurt her too much, and he had hurt her enough.

"Angel, you're scaring us. Please... Sire..."

He stiffened.

"Angel."

*Buffy.*

The fragrance of daffodils enveloped him.

A soft palm fell loosely on his breastbone and just stayed there. Not stroking, not caressing, not coaxing. Just resting there.

An anchor.

There was silence and the hand did not move. Just laid over his heart as if something was supposed to happen - as if the dead organ would miraculously start beating somehow.

"Angel, you're not alone." Buffy's voice was steady and clear. "Please, come back to us. There's nothing to fear."

He burrowed more deeply into Spike's lean chest.

"I can't... I can't..."

Was that his voice? This pitiful croak?

"Yes, you can." Morghane. It was barely a murmur, but she kept on. "You can... look... at her. You can look at... me. Nothing's... changed, Angel."

"I'm..."

He choked.

"You're what? Worthless? A... monster? Undeserving?"

A sharp laugh.

There was life again in Morghane's voice.

Hands pulled roughly at his shoulder, dislodging Buffy's palm. Morghane threw herself in his face, gasping shallow puffs of air, and Angel thought fleetingly that she must have exhausted herself, trying to drag him away from Spike.

More guilt.

"Look at me, Angel."

He did, and there was life in her eyes too.

"Do I look... stupid... to you? Do you... think I'm some sort of... m... masochist?" she stammered. "Do you believe I would tolerate... your presence - call you... my... friend - if I thought for one... minute that you had... anything... anything to do with Angelus hurting... me?" Deep breath. "Answer me, Angel."

Buffy squeezed his hand lightly.

"No."

"No... what?"

"No, you don't look stupid?" he murmured, hopeful.

Like an abused child who needed to be persuaded over and over again that he hadn't deserved to be hurt by those he trusted the most.

"Glad... to hear it."

"What an entertaining little display."

They should have pulled apart at the interruption, startled that not one of them had managed to pick up on the rattle of the opening door, but they didn't bother.

Just tightened the ranks around Angel.

A young red-headed woman, no taller than the Guardian, stood at Lisandra's side, backed by half a dozen vampires.

She was smiling.

"Hi. I'm Maureen. Morghane's sister."

"And I'm Xena Warrior Princess," Buffy replied, baring her teeth.

Maureen laughed. A clear, chiming sound.

"Did you like my little guided trip down memory lane? It took some work to summon all those delightfully powerful emotions, but Lisandra here was really helpful."

Spike growled, clutching his Sire. Incandescent gold flecks lit up in his icy blue eyes.

"Sod off, First."

"Why, Spike. Such a shame. You had so much potential. Who would have thought that you would turn out like your pathetic Sire over there because of that pesky gais? But I'm sure we can work out some sort of understanding."

"Get a dildo, you skanky bitch."

"Now, now. Is that a way to address the Guardian's sister?"

Angel pulled away from Spike and rose to his feet, gritting his teeth. His Childe stood behind him, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to charge whoever threatened his Sire at the slightest opportunity.

Buffy made a move to follow, but Angel shook his head imperceptibly. She nodded, understanding, and remained by Morghane's side.

Maureen chuckled derisively.

"Straight to business. No pleading for your life." She frowned. "How disappointing." She shrugged. "No matter. What I want is actually quite simple. We're going to stay here until Morghane dies and my dear Lisandra gets through the Rapture. Easy as that."

The First threw a few wisps of hair out of her face and inspected her nails distractedly.

"However, since Morghane has been a real thorn in my side for quite a while, now - as have you, Angel - and since I'm the kind of, shall we say... - person? - to hold a grudge, well... in the meantime, we get to play." She giggled. "And then, when Lisandra is the Guardian and Morghane's soul is destroyed, we'll see what we can do about bringing back my sweet Angelus." Angel growled. Maureen ignored him all together. "I figure Spike can still be... reeducated. As for Buffy..." She licked her lips, drawing it out. "The idea of a vampiric Slayer greatly appeals to me." Her eyes lit up as they fell on Lisandra. "A matched set. What do you say?"

Spike and Angel tensed, ready to protect the Slayer.

The First appeared vastly entertained.

"Don't panic. I won't do that right away. Why, we have this exquisite Greek tragedy which puts Eschyle to shame, staged like some private divertissement. Angel here is bonded to Morghane. Spike is his Childe, Buffy his lover."

She pointed at each one of them in turn, as if explaining some cosmogonic joke to a bunch of retarded children.

The Guardian's eyes glistened with tears.

Tears of rage.

*One step backward.*

There was no more room for self-pity or resignation. Just stark, all- encompassing anger.

The First had really calculated its every move. By hurting Angel, it hurt them all. The Guardian would be lucky if the emphatic emotional backlash didn't land her in a coma. The aftereffects would shake the ethereal community to its core.

Blinding rage.

Morghane didn't mind Lisandra fucking with her. She could take it. She had been through much, much worse over the years. Her _soul_ had been raped by countless entities during her battles. The last Millennial war... just did not bear thinking about. Being raped by Lisandra and Angelus had been tame by comparison.

What she couldn't take was Buffy and Angel having to endure what she had just been through.

Maureen's eyes locked on hers.

The bitch was reading her mind.

Yet another fucking rape.

Maureen glided towards them and Angel stepped in front of Spike, shielding them all. Morghane put a restraining hand on the Slayer's arm. Buffy wouldn't achieve anything by going after the First this way. The Guardian could only hope that the thing wearing her sister's face would be too taken with Angel to bother with Buffy. The First really had it in for the vampire since it had lost its bet last Christmas.

With any chance, it might just forget about Buffy altogether.

Maureen was practically on top of Angel and he tried not to cringe.

She snickered.

"To quote my favorite demon, sweet, sweet Angel," she paused with a smirk that put Angelus' to shame. "I really, really want to torture you."

"Thank you, Malcolm. I'll keep you appraised of any developments. You have my number here if you need to reach me, right? Thanks again. Goodbye."

Wesley let the receiver fall back in its cradle with a sigh.

"I assume things are still going downhill."

The young Watcher turned to confront Giles, his expression grave and resigned. "Nothing that we hadn't anticipated already." He took a deep breath. "As far as the Council is aware, no other mage has received the mark."

"In other words, Lisandra remains the successor, although she's technically dead."

Giles let himself drop in an easy chair, massaging his aching eyeballs.

Wesley appeared to notice the slumbering bodies scattered all over Angel's apartment for the first time.

"I ordered the children to get some sleep," murmured Giles. "They are exhausted. I know Xander and Willow have been running themselves to the ground worrying about Buffy. And Doyle and Cordelia have really become attached to Angel, over such a short time. I have a feeling he is sort of a father figure around here."

"He always was, wasn't he?" observed Wesley, keeping his voice low. "In Sunnydale. Maybe more of a big brother than a father though."

Giles yawned and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "He used to be. Before he... changed. Before he returned and we pushed him away." He closed his eyes wearily. "Dear, do I get maudlin when I'm tired."

Wesley let a moment pass by, respecting the older man's need for a little quiet.

He looked at Oz and Willow, snuggled together on the big couch. Xander had found a comfortable spot on the carpet. Through the doorway, he could see Cordelia turning restlessly in Angel's bed, tangled in a red coverlet.

He frowned. "Where's Doyle?"

Giles' lids stayed shut.

"He went out to gather the last ingredients for the spell. I proposed to accompany him, in case he encountered any... resistance, but he refused. I think Doyle has some underground friends who wouldn't take kindly to the presence of a Watcher."

Wesley let this go without comment. He was somewhat used to the shenanigans of the Sunnydale crowd. Obviously the L.A. gang had its own idiosyncrasies.

He opened his mouth to ask Giles about Doyle. Then he noticed how exhausted and pale the other Watcher really looked.

"Are you all right, Giles?"

The older man didn't move. Didn't even seem to be breathing.

"I'm just trying not to think about how much pain they might be in right now."

"It's awfully pleasurable to torture someone so devastatingly handsome, you know that? In case you couldn't tell, I'm of the pain-is-sexy school of thought. And by God, Angel, don't you just look yummy in those chains. What do you think, Buffy?"

The Slayer fished for a suitable snappy comeback, but nothing came to mind. She was already expending quite a bit of energy trying to keep her face blank. Seeing her distraught would only spur Lisandra on and the sadistic vampiress really didn't need to be encouraged.

Buffy gritted her teeth.

Spike wasn't showing the same restraint. Bonded to the ethereal community or not, the blonde vampire had never been and never would be a poster child for impulse control. His ankle was bolted to the ground, just far enough that Buffy couldn't touch him, and he angrily kept on testing the strength of the thick chain. Buffy was similarly restrained. Morghane was huddled against the wall not far from the Slayer, still wearing nothing but Angel's duster.

The vampires hadn't bothered to chain her down - she couldn't stand on her feet - but Lisandra had fixed a choke collar around her slim neck with a nasty smile. The end of the chain tied to the collar was never far from the vampiress' hand.

The three of them faced Angel.

The dark-haired vampire was hanging from the ceiling a few feet away from them, his wrists imprisoned in solid manacles, his feet barely touching the ground. Lisandra had ripped his shirt away from him. She was circling him slowly with eyes full of hunger and lust.

She stopped not far from Spike and winked.

"You recognize the set up, William? I thought it would be a nice touch. It's been two weeks, and look" - she stroked Angel's exposed chest lazily - "he's all healed."

The First had disappeared soon after they were chained up. They hadn't put up a fight, since Lisandra had explained with force details what Morghane would be put through again if they attempted to resist. According to Morghane, it took a lot of energy for the First to manifest in this plane. So on top of everything else, Lisandra made for a good surrogate tormentor. The First had clearly shared its intimate knowledge of its' prisoners psyche and memories with the vampiress - and Lisandra was milking the information for all she was worth.

Buffy could tell that the little game was getting to Spike.

Not enough time had elapsed. The guilt was so very close to the surface, and the younger vampire didn't have that much experience dealing with it. Let alone when it came to his Sire.

Angel was the center of Spike's world.

Buffy didn't want to see Angel in pain. The thought of it made her feel like howling in grief. But she knew Angel would survive. He was the strongest person she had ever met, and God knew he had been through so much worse in Hell. Under the circumstances, the smartest thing was to keep a low profile and not draw attention to herself. She wouldn't have a chance in Hell to get them out of this hole if she was injured or weakened by torture.

The cold, calculating, predatory part of her - her Slayer instincts - forced her to clamp down on the powerful emotions triggered by the vision of her lover, her mate, threatened and chained.

Angel had always respected and admired the cool-headed, sometimes ruthless tactician she knew how to be.

Buffy put her game face on.

Her eyes locked with Angel's and he smiled weakly at her. He would make it. He could go through anything as long as she remained out of harm's way.

She got the message loud and clear.

His Childe, however, was another matter entirely.

Spike tugged on the chain tying him to the ground. He could feel the metal biting into the flesh of his ankle, but he didn't really give a damn.

The sight of his Sire chained up, at Lisandra's mercy - a flawless reenactment of his own torturing of Angel - was hurting him in ways he never thought were possible or even existed.

*Cor, only a couple weeks ago...*

His fangs itched, every muscle was coiled, his stomach churned, and he could have sworn that there were tears at the back of his throat and behind his lids. He was torn from the inside, ripped apart to the very core of that soul he didn't even possess.

He missed Angelus.

He hated Angelus.

He loved Angel.

He couldn't bear to think of him in that kind of pain.

The conflicting signals were driving him out of his bloody mind.

Watching Angelus fuck Drusilla over Morghane's wrecked form. Flashing back on Marcus tormenting Angel while himself enjoyed the show in the background after having administered his very own brand of torture on the older vampire. His personal touch.

Too many antithetic forces.

His brain was on the verge of shutting down. And amidst the confusion, only one instinct made any sort of sense.

One searing thought.

*Protect the Sire.*

*

"Remember Hell, Angel?"

Lisandra trailed red-painted nails between the vampire's shoulder blades, and Angel shivered.

"Remember the pain, the torment, the solitude? The humiliation?"

Her hand followed the ripple of muscles along his side; he could not help but cringe away from her touch.

"You do realize that you have no one else to blame for those five hundred years of torture but Buffy."

Angel looked down on her with contempt.

Lisandra acknowledged her mistake with a small smile. "I guess Buffy's decision to forfeit your life can be justified by the fact that she was trying to save the world at the time... In fact, if we must try to put the blame somewhere, it should be on your soul. Or maybe on Willow? Had it not been for the little witch, Angelus would have been the one sent to Hell. And he would have enjoyed it too." Her moist little pink tongue emerged to lick her upper lip. "Demons like to mix some pain with their pleasure. Don't you, Angel?"

"Save your breath," the dark-haired vampire growled, grinding his teeth. "You'll never drive me to renounce my soul. It's been tried before."

Lisandra shrugged, undeterred.

"A shame, really. 'Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven', Angel. You're a well-read man. I'm sure Milton has no secrets for you."

"Been there, done that." Angel smirked. "Paradise Lost and the Divine Comedy sort of lose their appeal when you've got first-hand experience of the Fall," he commented conversationally.

The vampiress appeared to ponder his words.

"Really? I've always been partial to Dante Alighieri's vision myself. That Hell was this frozen wasteland. You struggle to feel something. And nothing happens."

"If you want to check it out, don't let us keep you here any longer."

"Amusing. Not."

Lisandra slapped him, but it barely registered.

"You know that if the First should fail to bring Angelus back, Hell is where you'll end up, Angel. And you don't want that. Being the sex-slave of a horde of horny demons loses its charms after the first couple of decades. Or so I'm told. " She grinned. "But you know that already."

Angel didn't answer. Those memories were way too close to the surface right now.

Another verse of Paradise Lost was seared into his mind.

'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.'

He didn't fear Lisandra's torture as much as he dreaded the mind-games - and things were heading that way fast.

He evaded Buffy's gaze. She tried to appear unaffected, but her compassion for him shone through the cracks of her composure.

God, he loved that woman.

Now, for his Childe.

The blonde vampire's irises were ringed with a hard edge of gold. Although Spike still sported his handsome human disguise, Angel caught a flash of fangs between his tightly drawn lips.

Lisandra once again invaded his field of vision, moving around him in circles like a hawk over its prey.

It made him nauseous.

Would she just start torturing him already and get it over with?

"Remember what I just told you about pain and pleasure?"

She cupped him through his pants.

Angel hissed an unneeded breath.

*The bitch.*

"Care for a little experiment? There's still so much of the demon in you, Angel." She moistened her lips again. "Isn't that right, Spike?" she taunted without bothering to turn around.

Had she known Spike better, she would have been able to read the warning signs.

With one hand, Lisandra caressed Angel's stomach right above his belt, fondling him through the material of his trousers with the other.

Angel bit back a panting breath.

No way this bitch was going to make him breathe.

"A little fairy whispered something to me, Spike. She told me that this was your secret trademark. Arouse them first. It only heightens the pain. How did you like going down on him, Spike? Did you miss your Sire that much? Should I let you wrap your mouth around his cock right now? Is his taste still on your tongue?"

She pressed a kiss over Angel's heart.

"What does he taste like, Spike?"

When Lisandra heard the growl, it was already too late.

She didn't see Spike rip the bolt of the chain. Didn't see him charge her with fangs bared.

When she realize something was happening, Spike was already on top of her. Snarling.

Mayhem ensued.

Four vampires - Lisandra's personal guard - rushed towards Spike, intent on pulling him off their mistress.

Spike was pounding her head into the ground, blinded by rage.

"Will."

Buffy pulled on the manacle locked around her ankle but it held strong. She inched closer to Morghane - determined to shield the Guardian with her own body should the situation degenerate.

The four vamps grabbed Spike by the arms and dragged him away from Lisandra. The blonde vampire kept on struggling and clawing.

He roared.

"Will."

Lisandra pulled herself to her feet more or less gracefully, looking pissed, and stalked towards the blonde. She closed a fist around his throat and her nails drew blood.

"You'll pay for this, asshole. I'll make you beg. I won't stake you. I'll rip you apart with my bare hands."

"Fuck you, you stupid whore."

"I'll..."

"William!"

Spike froze, looking past Lisandra's vampiric countenance to his Sire. Finally registering that Angel had been calling out to him all along.

"Will," Angel murmured again. His voice had taken on an almost hypnotic quality. "It's okay. You have to calm down. I need you to take care of Buffy and Morghane. Whatever happens, I'll be fine. You have to protect them for me, Childe."

Sanity returned to Spike's glacial blue orbs.

Lisandra laughed out loud, her mood experiencing a complete 180 once again.

"I think I'm going to cry."

Spike's expression dripped with hatred. Without warning, she punched him in the stomach and he doubled over.

"I want him secured. And this time, make sure the chains hold."

The vampires threw Spike to the floor, chaining both his ankles to the ground.

Buffy strained against her own bonds. The tip of her fingers grazed Spike's forearm and the blonde vampire smiled for her.

A small smile, full of agony and self-hatred.

"I'm sorry, Slayer."

Buffy shook her head, looking kindly at him.

"Don't be. You have to trust Angel."

Spike had to turn away from her. He could feel Angel's gaze on him, and his throat tightened. He had a pretty good idea of what Lisandra's next move would be.

His head sank to his chest. He couldn't watch. He just couldn't.

Lisandra sashayed past him. She bent to pick up something. Spike couldn't make out what it was. She clapped her hands and the door opened. A cart was wheeled inside the room and Spike smelled smoke. Embers.

Next to him, Buffy couldn't smother a gasp.

*No. No, please, no.*

He couldn't help but raise his head a little. Lisandra winked at him.

"Variation on the same theme. The hot pokers were a nice touch, but I like branding irons myself."

Spike's gaze was drawn to his Sire's face and he saw Angel tightly shut his eyes, steeling himself against the pain to come.

"Now, this gives me an opportunity to explain the number one rule of your stay here. In other circumstances, I would take a perverse pleasure in punishing Morghane for your little display, Spike. But I can't, because she's so close to death already. Although..."

Lisandra pulled onto the end of the chain she held in her hand. Morghane gasped as her breath caught in her throat, the unforgiving collar digging into the soft flesh of her neck.

"Doesn't mean that I can't have some fun," concluded the vampiress with a giggle.

"No, don't!" Buffy cried out despite herself.

"Spoil sport," whined Lisandra before letting go of the chain.

Morghane collapsed back on the ground, wheezing. Buffy drew the Guardian against her chest, her protective instincts sent into overdrive.

"Anyway," the vampiress continued, strolling nonchalantly towards the brazier full of live coals and branding irons, "you do something like that again, any one of you..." - she chose an iron - "Angel gets punished".

With a wicked grin, she applied the iron to the small of Angel's back.

The vampire howled, straining against his bonds, each corded muscle standing in stark contrast against his pale, glistening skin.

Buffy had to look away, physically unable to watch.

Morghane struggled to her knees and slipped an arm around the Slayer's rigid form. She knew that it would be useless to plead with Lisandra.

Spike sat. Motionless. Transfixed.

"On the other hand, you do nothing... " - Lisandra fingered the burn marring the vampire's perfect skin - "Angel gets punished anyway."

This time, she went for a perk male nipple.

Angel screamed before going limp - quivering.

Which was when Spike's eyes nearly popped out of his head. When he realized that the iron's head was shaped in the form of a cross.

Not big enough so that an old vampire like himself or a powerful one like Lisandra couldn't withstand its sight.

But enough to double Angel's agony.

The smell of burnt flesh rose in the air and Spike wanted to retch.

The Slayer appeared to have stopped breathing altogether.

"So, where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?"

Lisandra abandoned the iron and Buffy almost let go of a relieved sigh. She had to control herself better than this.

"Ah, yes," exclaimed Lisandra, pushing the anarchic mane of blonde hair away from her face. "I wanted to know what Angel tastes like. Any insight, Spike? No? That's all right. To tell you the truth, I can't wait to find out for myself."

Angel's eyes widened a little - overflowing wells of darkness. His gaze locked desperately with Morghane's. It was going to happen, there was nothing he could do to prevent it, and Buffy would be there to watch.

Morghane held Buffy tighter and was surprised to find the Slayer calmly watching her. She felt Buffy's emotions wash over her. The Slayer was determined to support Angel whatever happened next, and the only way she knew how to do that was to not show any emotion at all.

Lisandra's less than sane giggle brought them back to reality.

"Do you mind, Buffy?"

The Slayer glared. "Do I mind you raping my lover? Is that your question?"

"Rape. Tsk, tsk. Now that is such a strong word."

"Not strong enough, if you ask me," replied Buffy, in the same disdainful, sarcastic tone of voice.

"Well, you see, Buffy, that's the funny thing about us, vampires. Rape implies unwillingness, and it just happens that vampires... are always willing."

"I think Angel might have a thing or two to say about that."

"That's the whole point, Buffy. Have you ever stopped to think what being a vampire means? What those heightened senses really entail? We see in the dark, we pick up on the slightest whisper in a crowd, we can single out the scent of one hibiscus in a garden full of roses, and there are no words in the human language to describe the taste of fresh, living blood going down my throat. But people tend to forget about the consequences of an enhanced sense of touch."

Lisandra twisted Angel's wounded nipple, and the vampire writhed in pain, swallowing a shout.

"A light breeze on my skin feels like the caress of a lover. It means that arousal is, to us, almost a natural, constant state of being. It also means that, despite all his willpower, I can make Angel come in my hand."

Next to Buffy, Spike shifted in disgust, and the Slayer understood his discomfort. Realized that the torture was aimed at him as much as it was at herself and Angel. During their last encounter, Spike had used this ability to arouse Angel at will to torture him further.

Buffy felt a flash of anger submerge her, but subdued it quickly.

The vampire chained next to her on the cold ground of the warehouse, shaking at the sight of his Sire defenseless and abused, was not the same vampire who had reveled in Angel's screams of pain a mere couple of weeks ago.

She couldn't let Lisandra's scheme succeed in turning them against each other.

Startled, Buffy found Morghane nodding approvingly at her, and it only strengthened her determination to keep her emotions under control. The Guardian had no psychic shields left to speak of. She wouldn't be able to take the onslaught of anguish Buffy might crumble under if the Slayer let Lisandra get to her.

Meanwhile, the vampiress seemed to have tired of her little speech.

She leaned against Angel, rising on her toes to kiss him. He attempted to escape, but she seized his face between her hands, trying to force her tongue inside his mouth.

He bit her.

She pulled away, laughing, licking the blood off her lips.

"My, my. The lapdog's still got teeth. I will have to discipline you for that, Angel." She snickered. "Later."

She went down on her knees in a smooth flow of gracious limbs. She paused briefly to flick her tongue in his navel and he shuddered.

His eyes were trained on the ceiling, on the ground, even on the branding irons.

Anywhere but on Buffy, Morghane or Spike.

What the Guardian had been through when Angelus had raped her, then when the First had reenacted the whole experience for them to share, was further driven home.

"Angel."

It was less than a whisper, but he couldn't ignore the quiet plea conveyed in that small word.

He looked at Buffy.

The Slayer smiled calmly at him. Her gaze was clear, free of shadows and doubt. Her face was opened to him - and he found nothing but trust. Her beautiful hazel eyes shone with her love for him. She was inviting him in to share her every thoughts.

*I love you.*

*I'm sorry for your pain.*

*None of this matters to us.*

*We'll make new memories together.*

Lisandra undid the buckle of his leather belt and Angel flinched, biting down on his lower lip until he drew blood.

The vampiress pulled his pants and boxers down on his thighs, exposing his flaccid cock.

He expected Lisandra to close her fingers around his length, but she took him by surprise, teasing the sensitive patch of skin between his testicles with the edge of a nail.

He jumped, gasping.

She gloated. "Shh. We're just getting started."

She traced a path with the tip of her tongue, down the line of hair leading to his groin. Her hands gently massaged his balls.

Eventually, her mouth closed around the head of his cock.

He whimpered, pulling on his bonds, trying desperately to get away. But he couldn't escape the vampiress' expert touch. He could already feel himself stirring to life between her lips.

A lone tear rolled down his cheek.

At least, Spike's touch had had the comforting quality of an old lover's embrace.

He heard Buffy silently calling out to him, willing him to look at her - to let her share this with him, take some of the burden onto herself - but it was beyond his strength. He hung his head in disgrace, slumping forward. The metal of the manacles tore the skin of his wrists. At least the pain was a distraction.

Another kind of pain brought him back to the matter at hand. Lisandra was nibbling at his foreskin, her tongue hiking down the delicate underside of his cock, skillfully coaxing him to hardness. One hand lightly squeezed one of his balls, while the other closed in a fist around the base of his member.

His hips bucked forward of their own volition, and he moaned.

He wanted to scream, to plead with his tormentor - to stop, to leave him alone. He was prepared to beg, but he couldn't form a coherent thought. Not one word would pass his lips.

His panic rose, as did his cock.

God, he was breathing. Harshly, laboriously. He was breathing.

The bitch.

And still he could feel Buffy's forgiving, unconditional love.

Guilt and shame never seemed as insurmountable than in that moment. How was he supposed to trust himself around Buffy ever again? How could he ever hope to master the demon, when he wasn't even capable of controlling something as base as an erection?

Stolen blood circulated faster inside his veins, and his skin flushed. Hair on his thighs and forearms stood on end. His arousal was growing, unrestrained, and he groaned.

The sound reverberated inside the confines of the room, expending.

Beating what remained of his self-respect into the ground.

Lisandra smiled wickedly before engulfing all of him inside her mouth. She tightened her grip around his cock, building the tension, keeping him on edge. This time he bit down on his tongue to keep the moan in. To keep from begging for release.

He swelled further down Lisandra's throat. His sack tightened in anticipation.

The vampiress moved up and away from him, swiftly tucking him back inside his pants. The conspicuous hiss of the zipper brought him back from the brink of insanity.

His lips parted in confusion. His pupils were dilated, glazed.

"All this blood rushing inside, Angel. Flowing with arousal." Lisandra patted his cheek, amused. "Now the real fun begins."

Quickly, not allowing him the time to recover, she grabbed a branding iron and went for his inner thigh, burning the flesh through the soft cotton of his pants.

Angel shrieked in misery.

When the iron imprinted its mark on his other nipple, he wished he could die. It felt like Hell, like the First's infernal talons all over again.

Dimly, through the roaring haze of pain, he heard a soft, familiar growl.

*My Childe.*

He made out words.

"I'll kill you for this, bitch."

Then Lisandra's grating laugh, and the sickening sound of a boot hitting ribs.

"Don't worry, Spike. I'll let you fuck him properly when I'm done."

*

Angel had stopped feeling much of anything after the fiftieth stroke of the whip.

He hung in the chains.

Broken, eyes closed.

Blood dripped from his wrists, along his arms, down his spine, pooling at his feet, soaking what was left of his trousers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind lingered an echo of screams and profanities resounding loudly in the room - Buffy and Spike, unable to remain quiet any longer, pleading in vain with Lisandra to end his torment.

The vampiress had laughed with glee.

Angel clung to consciousness by a thread. He couldn't risk Lisandra tiring of him and turning against his lover or his Childe. But the vampiress had fed from him - the bite marks at his elbows and neck were still seeping blood - and between the blood loss and the pain, he felt dizzy, disoriented. He couldn't take much more abuse and remain aware of his surroundings.

He lifted his head a little, away from the mass of indistinct bruises, burns and lash marks covering his chest. He opened his eyes to small slits.

His vision was blurry, but he made out Spike's shape, crouched a few feet in front of him - the blonde vampire inhaling sharply, trying to keep himself under control. Buffy sat still, her back to the wall. She watched. There were no tears on her face, but he could see them shimmering in her luminous eyes - wide with suffering. For him. Morghane lay curled up in a tight ball in Buffy's lap. Her lids were lowered at half-mast. A dull glow masked the emerald irises, and she shook continuously in the Slayer's embrace.

It didn't look like she would regain consciousness again. The emotional backlash had gotten to be too much for the Guardian to handle. For all intents and purposes, she was gone.

"You still with us, Angel?"

Lisandra teased his slowly healing nipple with the tip of her tongue.

He shivered, but did not answer.

The cat-o'-nine-tails shredded the skin of his back and he jerked a little, away from the scalding pain.

"Angel?"

Patient. Relentless. Unforgiving.

"Go to Hell," he rasped.

His voice was no more than a croak. Being tortured for so long did that to a person. Had he been human, his vocal cords would have sustained permanent damage. As it was, he could barely talk.

Lisandra was perfectly aware of the effort it cost him to keep answering her questions.

"I'm getting bored, Angel." She pouted. "Restless." Her nails sliced through the skin of his shoulder. "I thought you would beg, at least a little. I'm telling you honestly, I don't know what to do. I could entertain myself with demon-boy here" - she waved at Spike's stormy expression - "but he might enjoy it. And Morghane..."

She jerked the chain, and the Guardian barely twitched in Buffy's protective hold.

The Slayer snarled.

"Well, let's just say that there's no fun in torturing someone who's not awake to plead. So.... Angel... that only leaves the Slayer."

"No!"

So his voice wasn't that far gone after all.

"Why don't you just go fuck yourself, you vapid cow!" Spike yelled, jumping on his feet with preternatural speed. He dropped into a fighting stance. "If you touch one hair of her head, I'll tear out your lungs and shove them up your arse, I swear!"

Lisandra ignored the raving vampire, marching up straight to the Slayer.

Buffy didn't even blink. She deposited Morghane gently on the floor and stood, fists clenched at her sides.

"You want me, Barbie Girl? You've got me. Give it your best shot."

Lisandra smiled.

Angel stood on wobbly legs, yanking at his bonds, rage and fright drenching the stolen blood in his veins with adrenaline. He could not wrap his mind around the image of Buffy enduring Lisandra's abuse just to steer the vampiress' sick attention away from him.

Which was exactly what Buffy was trying to achieve. It was enough for him to glance at her face. She was the Slayer. Her need to protect - to protect him - was overpowering her. It was more than she could stand.

"Don't do this, Buffy. Lisandra. Lisandra, look at me. I'll do whatever you want. Don't touch her. Lisandra, I'm begging you. Please. Please."

His throat closed up.

"Please."

There were tears of desperation in his voice now.

Without warning, Lisandra slashed her claws across Buffy's stomach. The Slayer went down on one knee with a shout. But she didn't lower her eyes.

"No!" Angel cried again.

The addictive scent of his mate's blood cloyed at his senses - leaving him in a frenzy.

Spike roared, straining against the restraints, falling on his hands and knees, trying to reach the Slayer. Fury distorted the handsome planes of his face.

"She's a feisty little number, that one," commented Lisandra, bending over Buffy.

She extended a hand to caress the Slayer's left breast through the tight black tank top she wore. Buffy knocked her arm away, reacting on instinct. Lisandra backhanded her wordlessly and Buffy fell backwards against the wall.

"Lisandra!"

Angel's voice was reaching the level of full-blown panic.

The vampiress turned with unnatural swiftness to confront Angel.

"You really care for the Slayer, Angel, don't you? How sweet." She kissed his trembling lips, and he did not dare move. "You said you would do anything. You meant it?"

He gasped. Shattered.

He bowed his head. "A... Anything."

"Angel, no," Buffy implored, raising haunted, shining eyes to him.

Lisandra disregarded the interruption.

"I don't want to torture the Slayer, Angel. It gets tiresome after a while and, anyway, I can play with her later. After I turn her. Tasty morsel. But we still have a little while to go before Morghane here bites the bullet. And I'm bored out of my skull."

He looked at her from under his lashes, panting.

Were was she going with this?

"The First asked me to take special care of you, Angel. Of you and Morghane. But considering that she's already, shall we say, out-of-order... Hm... I do so love to see you in pain, Angel. It's your beauty, I believe. You're so damn beautiful. It's addictive. And I like beautiful things. I enjoy the spectacle of your suffering. I crave it."

He heard Buffy's breath catch on a sob.

Spike looked at him. His Childe's eyes were dead.

Lisandra sounded so much like Angelus - it was frightening. Angel could almost believe that his demon had been reincarnated in her.

"When this is all over, and we bring your better half back, I'll make you my consort. And I'll give Buffy to Spike. But in the meantime... I want to see you on your knees. I want to see the legendary Angelus, taking it up the ass."

Dead silence.

Buffy clasped a hand over her mouth, looking like she was going to toss her breakfast. She was as pale as a ghost. And yet still, Angel could feel her struggle to stay strong for him. To appear unmoved, unaffected.

It was getting harder and harder by the minute.

Spike's gaze locked on him. Unwavering.

"I..." Angel lifted his eyes to the ceiling, defeated. Praying for strength - praying - wishing that his God had not forsaken him. Wishing that he had not renounced his God so long ago. "O... okay."

Spike moaned. The sound of a wounded, hunted animal.

Lisandra continued on circling the dark-haired vampire.

"But I am not heartless. Well, I am, but that's beside the point. I can either throw you to my boys, there." She gestured to the four vamps fidgeting by the door, licking their fangs. "They'll thank me profusely later for the treat, I'm sure. They don't get to fuck a master vampire everyday." She stood in front of Spike. "Or, I can offer you to your Childe. After all, I said so earlier, didn't I?"

Spike flinched, startled.

And Angel...

For Angel, it was a bit too much to absorb on top of everything else.

He was lost.

"But I want the Slayer to beg for it." Lisandra giggled. "On her knees."

"You bloody frigid bitch."

Lisandra's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Don't push me, Spike," she snapped. "I'm granting you a favor, here. I really want to see two superb specimens like the two of you go at it on the floor. I'm sure it will be... distracting. But I'll just as easily chain your Sire down to a rack and let my bodyguards have their way with him. And it won't be a fun ride, trust me on that one." She stared down at the Slayer. "So what do you say, Buffy? The boys? Or Spike? Either way, Angel gets it."

The Slayer's expression hardened. She didn't hesitate.

"Spike," she enunciated clearly.

Tonelessly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear that."

"Spike," repeated Buffy, louder.

Determined.

"On your knees, Slayer. That was the deal."

Buffy wrapped an arm around her bleeding mid-section and dragged herself to her knees - not tearing her gaze away from Lisandra.

"Let Spike..." - she stammered - "Let Spike..."

She couldn't complete her sentence, at a loss for words.

Her silky blonde tresses fell forward, hiding her face. She angled her head slightly to the left, catching the blonde vampire's cold, deadly eyes.

Spike nodded slowly.

She would never have to plead with him.

Buffy mouthed the words anyway.

*Please. Make love to him for me.*

The cuffs imprisoning his ankles fell to the ground, but Spike remained frozen to the spot.

One of Lisandra's boys nudged him forward none too gently, a stake ostensibly displayed in its right hand. The bastards had hoped that their mistress would let them have a go at Angel despite her earlier words.

The vamp smirked.

And then, it talked.

"Stretch him out for us."

It leered at him.

His face expressionless, Spike shot his arm out, fingers spread in a V, and perforated the vampire's eyeballs before any of its buddies could react.

*Wrong thing to say, pillock.*

The injured vampire dropped to the ground, screaming, holding its hand where its eyes used to be.

*Thanks for the tip, Dru.*

Those bastards would fuck his Sire over his dusted body.

The three remaining vampires rushed to subdue him, but Lisandra stopped them with a shake of the head and a smile. "Don't bother. Valentin asked for it. It's fair game."

The vampiress' words didn't make any sense, but Spike refused to devote any attention to her ramblings.

She threw a stake at the fallen underling's heart and he exploded into ashes.

"Please, Spike. Angel's waiting for you."

The blonde ignored Lisandra altogether as he approached his Sire. He sent one last glance the Slayer's way, smiling softly for her. And she smiled back - a small, aching smile.

Then he tuned everyone out but Angel.

His Sire opened pain-filled eyes and Spike wanted to rage.

"Spike..."

"Shh. Don't talk."

Angel quieted, going limp in the chains holding him up.

Spike spread his abandoned leather duster at his Sire's feet then brought his hands up to Angel's abused wrists. He unlocked the manacles. Angel went down with a grunt as blood began to flow back in his aching arms and his knees gave way.

Spike caught him in a strong embrace before he hit the ground. Cautiously, the younger vampire lowered his Sire on the duster covering the cold, hard floor. Angel hissed when the leather rubbed against his wounds. Which was inevitable. He was hurt so badly.

Spike's lips tightened as he surveyed the damage Lisandra had inflicted on his Sire.

The cross-shaped burns left by the branding irons were the slowest to heal, but the vampiress had pretty much used everything at hand after that. Holy water, cat-o'-nine-tails, horse whip, pliers, even screwdrivers.

But worst of all were the bites. Lisandra had been messy, slashing the skin apart deeply. Blood still flowed freely down Angel's arms and neck.

The heady smell of his Sire's blood, so close, was getting to Spike, but he held onto his human composure.

Angel's proximity pulled at him, like it always did, and he wanted to take him then and there, roughly, without foreplay - a basic, overwhelming response to his Sire's presence. Being around Angel always triggered his arousal. In the past, Spike had buried the feelings behind displays of unreasoning anger - incapable of reconciling his torrid history with Angelus and his blind, lustful hatred for Angel. But not now.

Not ever again.

Spike had wanted to make love to Angel for a long time. Before and after Morghane and the gais came along. Torturing him during the whole Gem of Amara business had been a poor attempt at exorcising this unhealthy obsession.

And now, despite circumstances only some psychotic imagination could have dredged up, Spike intended to make good on his silent promise to the Slayer. He would please Angel, and himself too - the audience be damned.

He had Buffy's blessing.

Now all he needed was Angel's.

Spike didn't have it in him to take his pleasure against Angel's will. Not anymore.

Cautious, he went down on his knees and leaned over his Sire's wretched form.

He licked the sharp angle of Angel's jaw, knowing how sensitive that particular spot was, coaxing the dark-haired vampire to attention.

Angel's long, elegant lashes fluttered against the fair skin of his cheeks. Chocolate brown irises filtered under heavy lids.

Spike struggled to push the words past the lump in his throat.

"I'm sorry, Sire. I'm sorry."

Angel smiled. A closed, bittersweet smile which reflected more in his eyes than it did on his lips. "Don't... don't be. I'm... I'm glad it's... you, Will. My favorite Childe."

Spike swallowed down the moisture gathering at the back of his throat. He heard Lisandra snicker in the background, but it failed to register. He murmured wetly against his Sire's lips.

"Thank you, Angel."

And then Spike had to stop as realization set in. Had to gather his wits.

He looked at his Sire sprawled under him, defenseless, quivering - like some precious, sacrificial offering - and felt a sharp pang deep in his chest, where his heart used to beat.

For the first time ever, he would be the one in control. His mind shied away from the memory of forcefully going down on Angel two weeks earlier. A fledgling or even a Childe was very rarely allowed to sexually dominate their Sire - if ever. Angelus had never conferred such a privilege on Spike.

And now, he was being _allowed_ to make love to Angel.

He kissed his Sire with a respect and awe bordering on the religious.

Angel parted his lips, gifting Spike's questing tongue with the cool, velvety recesses of his mouth. The blonde vampire moaned at the coppery taste of his Sire's blood, lingering in Angel's throat. At some point, Lisandra's boys had broken a few ribs and punctured a lung.

Spike felt his fangs lengthen.

No. However strong the compulsion was, he couldn't drink from his Sire. Angel had lost too much blood already.

He threaded his fingers through the dark mane of silken hair, plunged his tongue deeply inside his Sire's mouth, comforting the older man with soft touches and gentle strokes. Angel hissed, and Spike steered his hand away from a painful nipple, apology written in the cerulean abysses of his eyes. He had to keep reminding himself that his Sire was injured, and that this could no be the wild, violent reunion he had pictured in his mind a thousand times.

Not to mention the small matter of a sadistic vampiress, an unconscious Guardian, three Nehemia vampires and a Vampire Slayer, all in attendance. Their stares driving holes in his back.

Shaking his head, focusing on Angel once more, Spike swooped his hands down the older man's sides, soothing tense muscles and fevered skin.

He resisted the impulse to drape himself over his Sire's powerful body.

Spike missed Angel's physical presence - the full, rounded curves of his shoulders, the decadent, reassuring expense of his chest, the richness of his marble, aristocratic skin, the safe, protective hold of his arms. His intrinsically sensual nature.

As far as Spike was concerned, the Romani happiness clause was a blasphemy. Angel was born to be worshipped and pleasured and sated. To be adored, indulged and revered, like some long-lost Babylonian deity - impersonating the noble, exalted delights of the flesh.

Spike savagely squashed down a wave of jealousy.

For a hundred years, he had been the one satisfying Angel - Angelus - sharing his bed, coaxing him to new heights of rapture and ecstasy. His Sire had preferred William to Drusilla then, allowing his newest Childe to fulfill and attend to his every needs. William had been eager to serve and please.

Then had come the curse. And then, the Slayer.

Angel's soulmate.

She should have been the one licking her way down Angel's chest, threading her fingers with his, swallowing his involuntary sighs of relief. But she could not be, all because of a vengeful curse.

Spike did not know if he should rejoice or weep.

And then, unexpectedly, it did not matter anymore.

*

"How did you come up with all this gear?"

"Angel likes to be prepared."

Xander blinked.

*And the understatement of the year goes to...*

"No kidding."

He lifted a customized M16 with a quizzical look.

Doyle shrugged. "Ye always end up wishin' ye had brought a bigger gun."

Xander was reminded of the Slayerettes various experiences in dealing with military equipment.

"I second that."

"People." They turned around to face Wesley, Giles and some commando guy they had never seen before - brushing snow off his black combat vest . "I'd like to introduce John Dunst. He's the leader of the Council's special unit Alpha. Unit Beta is commanded by Gregory Barker. They are already in place around the perimeter of Lisandra's lair," explained the youngest Watcher.

A few nods were exchanged. No handshakes though. They were all still wary of anything Council-related after Wesley's tale of the trium vira and their cold intention to let Morghane die.

Giles was the first to break the tension, gesturing to the rudimentary blueprints of the warehouse and surrounding district. "Let's discuss our points of entry. Mister Dunst, if you please?"

The medium-height, dark-haired man nodded sharply. If he felt uncomfortable amongst the Slayer's friends, he hid it well.

"From what Barker's team has been able to surmise, we're facing a battalion of thirty to forty vampires guarding the perimeter of the lair. There are three points of entry: the sewers, the main door, and the roof. Since we want to use daylight to our advantage, I propose we restrain our initial breach to the front door and the roof. Explosives should do the trick."

Oz cleared his throat. "What about Angel and Spike? We don't want them bursting into flames too."

Giles expected Dunst to bristle at the mention of the two vampires they were expected to rescue along with the Slayer and the Guardian, but the English commando didn't so much as blink.

"Indeed. As far as we can tell, all the prisoners are kept in the main room. We will limit our breach of the roof to the cells quarters." He traced an invisible circle on the map with the tip of his index finger. "A small squad equipped with flame throwers will cover the underground side of the sewer entrance to keep anyone from escaping through that route. We'll use a shielded military vehicle to bring down the front door. We expect some resistance at this point" - he pointed to the area immediately preceding the main room of the warehouse - "but surprise, some heavy artillery and a few crossbows should take care of that. Team Alpha will take the front. Team Beta will cover the back - through the roof. You'll be inside the humvee. Your primary objective is to take the prisoners to safety. We'll take care of the vampires."

"What about Lisandra?" asked Cordelia, tying a black scarf around her hair to keep it out of her face. "We don't want her dead. We need her for the counterspell."

Xander nodded emphatically. "And we have to do the spell on site. Because there's no way we can subdue a vampire mage long enough to bring her back here."

"Well," Willow piped up for the first time, "I thought about that. And this is what I came up with. Don't go anywhere." She disappeared inside Angel's study for a minute then came back to the living room. "There," she said, producing four darts. "Those are the same darts we use when Oz goes all Grrr." Dunst lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, but was promptly ignored. "I doubled the dosage and added a little... magical concoction to the mix."

The young witch braced herself. Waiting for the firing squad - namely Giles - to remind her once again of the danger of the black arts.

But the Watcher smiled proudly at her instead.

"Good thinking, Willow. We don't need Lisandra to be conscious for the spell, so that should work. Well done."

Willow tried not to, but she beamed nonetheless, bouncing slightly. Oz kissed her temple affectionately.

"So we load two guns with those darts. I'll take one," said Xander. "My aim is still pretty good from when I was military guy. Willow takes the other... She has practice."

He smiled an apology at Oz, who shrugged.

No offense taken. Glad to be of service.

"Very well," conceded Dunst, going back to business. "The humvee will cut a path all the way to the front room. You cover Lisandra, while we take down the Nehemia warriors. And you insure that the hostages are escorted to safety as swiftly as possible." The commando looked at his watch. "Two hours to go until sunrise. I'm going to check with team Beta. We'll come pick you up in a little over an hour. Be ready."

With a short salute, Dunst retreated towards the staircase and disappeared from view.

"Oookay," Xander drawled. "Anyone here thought Mister Freeze was creepy?"

Giles massaged a painful shoulder - too many hours spent hunched over a book, and not enough sleep. "He seems very competent and dedicated. It's not a personality contest. It's a war."

This was said without his usual chiding tone when it came to Xander's running commentaries.

"Have you been researching all night, Giles?" asked Willow with a frown, appraising the Watcher's bedraggled form. "I thought you said sleep would do us all good."

Giles sighed deeply. "I wanted to double check on the counterspell. Make sure we had all the elements - considering that we will have only one shot to do this right."

"But, hey, no pressure," Xander muttered softly.

"It seems we have all the required ingredients, thanks to Doyle." The half-demon tipped an imaginary hat. "And now, with Willow's darts, we actually stand a chance at casting it."

"So what's wrong?"

Giles sent a quick, pleading glance at Wesley. He was getting tired of being the bearer of bad news.

The younger Watcher took over.

"We have been investigating further the ontological implications of a vampiric Guardian."

"Onto... what?," echoed Xander, perplexed.

"The idea of Guardian magicks being channeled by a creature without a soul... well, we had to know. In case we failed. We had to cover all the bases..."

"Wesley. Please," murmured Cordelia.

The Englishman bowed his head a little.

"We fear that if Lisandra goes though the Rapture, the strain on the ethereal community will simply be too much to handle, and the fabrics of our two dimensions might just be torn apart. Like matter and anti-matter colliding in a void... On a quantum level alone..." The Scooby Gang looked at him like he was speaking Cantonese with a bad accent. He tried again. "In simple terms, Guardian magicks originate on the ethereal plane, and are generated by human souls. It's an equilibrium. All magick expended by the Guardian in our plane is used to strengthen the ethereal community in some way and therefore ends up being fed back to it. It's like a loop. Lisandra has no soul. There will be no feedback. She will just keep on draining the ethereal community until there's nothing left of it. The universe might just collapse from the strain."

"Giving a new meaning to the word Apocalypse," Giles concluded softly.

Wesley nodded. "We're not talking the Hellmouth opening and Earth being overrun by demons anymore. We're talking destruction on a molecular and spiritual level."

Xander sat down heavily. "Me thinks that's when we say, 'Oh, God'. Or something to that effect."

Giles uttered the words they all dreaded to hear. "If it looks like Morghane cannot be saved, like Lisandra cannot be subdued, we will have to kill her."

"Any more good news?" muttered Doyle, sarcastic.

Where did Angel hide that bottle of whiskey again?

Giles leaned against the wall at his back, leaving Wesley to occupy the center stage once again.

"Aspiring Guardians are not chosen lightly - let alone the successor. We believe it more than likely that Lisandra's soul is trying to regain control of her body. It certainly did not depart meekly to rest on the ethereal plane. If this internal war is indeed raging inside Lisandra... chances are good she's going insane as we speak."

"Anyone who's flashing back to Dru, raise your hand," mumbled Xander, fingers folded over his eyes.

Giles deposited the newly stocked first-aid kit on the coffee table.

Questioning eyebrows rose all around.

"We don't... we don't know in what... state... we will find Buffy, Angel, Spike and Morghane when we get there. Better to be prepared."

There was something strangely erotic - but also disturbingly poignant - in watching Spike bend over Angel, holding the injured vampire so tenderly, stroking the wide, trembling shoulders in comfort.

Light and dark, lean and strong.

Buffy felt tears spring to her eyes.

Was this how she and Angel appeared to others? This gentle, passionate mingling of day and night, this heart-breaking ballet of hands and lips, eager to worship and soothe?

On some level, Buffy found deeply troubling that she was not more perturbed by the sight of a man - her once sworn enemy - making love to her mate.

And on another level, it made perfect sense.

She did not want Angel to be in any more pain. The circumstances were such that she could not be the one offering the relief he deserved. Someone else had to be entrusted with that mission.

There were only two people in that room - in this universe - whose love for Angel ran as deep as her own.

One was unconscious.

The other was Spike.

And the thought just did not bother Buffy that much.

Yet, although she was grateful for the blonde vampire's restraint, she never missed making love to Angel more than in that moment. She wanted to beg. Beg to be the one allowed to bring Angel to ecstasy in the midst of his torment. Beg to be the one tracing the elegant, noble lines of his eyebrows with her fingertips, the one brushing her lips over his chiseled cheekbones and fine, damning mouth. The one nipping her way down the pale, strong column of his throat, licking his chest clean of his own blood.

His blood.

The taste of Angel's blood was in her mouth.

And it was, by far, the strangest thing which had happened to her that day.

How did she know the blood was Angel's?

The knowledge was just there. As if she had tasted it a hundred times before.

And then, it wasn't only his blood. It was his beloved scent in her nostrils, the coolness of his skin on her tongue, the shape of his defined muscles under her fingers.

She swallowed a tight gasp.

Slowly, trying not to attract Lisandra's attention, Buffy gathered Morghane closer to herself, keeping the Guardian's face away from the vampires. The Slayer lowered her gaze.

Morghane's expression was vacant, but her eyes glowed more intensely than ever before, under the semi-lowered lids.

Buffy let a tear roll down her cheek. She caught a glimpse of Lisandra's jubilant grin at the sight of the Slayer's pain, but Buffy ignored it.

The vampiress had it all wrong.

The tears were not a manifestation of Buffy's distress at having to watch Spike love Angel.

They were tears of gratitude.

She had received Morghane's true parting gift, and the mordant irony of the situation didn't escape the Slayer at all. The Guardian was resorting to the First's own tricks, turning its little mind games to their advantage.

Buffy would make love to Angel after all.

Spike's shoulders locked as he hovered over Angel.

Blue irises met dark ones.

Angel sighed. "Buf..."

Spike rushed to kiss his Sire, quietly frantic, swallowing the Slayer's name before it reached Lisandra's sensitive ears.

This was supposed to be Angel's punishment. If the vampiress realized what Morghane had just done - and Spike didn't doubt for a second that the Guardian was behind this latest twist - she wouldn't think twice about throwing Angel to her 'boys'.

Spike plunged his tongue deeply inside Angel's mouth, eyes wide open, trying to convey a warning to his Sire.

Angel moaned softly, and blinked.

His eyes glowed brightly for a fraction of a second - his bond with Morghane, dormant since the Guardian had lost consciousness, flaring to life once more.

He nodded - his gaze both thankful and apologetic.

Spike shook his head imperceptibly.

He didn't mind. Morghane might have made him a conduit between Angel and Buffy, but it was still his teeth gnawing at Angel's Adam's apple, and his hands massaging the narrow, lean hips - eliciting strangled huffs of stolen pleasure from the dark-haired vampire.

Spike felt the Slayer lingering at the edge of his consciousness, her memories merging with his, her drive, her passion, her love for the vampire panting underneath him fueling his desire, spurring him on. There was no bitterness. Not from him, and not from her. Just the brutal, all-encompassing, common need to satiate Angel until the vampire passed out from pleasure and left the pain behind.

Spike didn't turn to look at the Slayer. He could hear her heartbeat picking up and smell the heady scent of her growing arousal. Lisandra laughed mockingly in the background, taunting Buffy with her obvious reaction to the scene unfolding before her. But none of them cared.

Pushing all thoughts of the vampiress, the Guardian and the Slayer away from his mind as best he could, Spike returned his full attention to his Sire. Determinedly, he unbuttoned his light red shirt, stripping down to his customary black cotton t-shirt, then made short work of that too. Never one to be hampered by vain modesty, the blonde vampire finished undressing.

He was already hard.

Naked, he straddled Angel's powerful thighs, careful not to put any of his weight on the vampire's abused body.

Spike had never been on top before, and he couldn't help but compare Angel and Angelus. Where Angelus had been secure in his own seduction, his lethal beauty and his ability to get anyone - regardless of sexual preferences - in his bed in ten seconds flat, Angel bore his stunning good looks with unassuming, slightly bemused naivete. While Angel shared Angelus' memories and knew that his body had always been his most effective bait, his skewed, insecure perception of himself colored even his appraisal of his own attractiveness. Angel believed that the ugliness in his soul reflected on his face.

He could not have been further from the truth though, and Spike found his Sire's artless demeanor strangely endearing.

Similarly, where Angelus had been vocal and expressive - his face and body language mirroring each emotion plainly - Angel had mastered the characteristic detachment of his winged, heavenly namesakes.

The divine, beatific sobriety which could make one mistakenly believe that Angel felt nothing at all.

Spike knew better and he could hardly wait to experience the pleasure of provoking something - anything - any kind of reaction on that angelic face.

A whip cracked loudly and the blonde vampire rushed to cover his Sire's body with his own before he even felt the sting of leather slicing the skin of his back.

"Enough foreplay, Spike. I'm bored again."

Lisandra slashed the whip down a few more times for good measure and Spike did nothing, crouching over his Sire, stoically withstanding the pain. He felt a twinge of remorse as he realized that the Slayer suffered along with him. But she was strong. A few strokes wouldn't bother her for long.

And indeed, Buffy didn't even twitch.

"I'm sorry."

Spike was startled by Angel's hoarse words.

He smiled kindly at his Sire.

"Angelus' foreplay techniques were much worse."

Angel flinched with guilt, evading his Childe's gaze, and Spike wanted to slap himself.

Lisandra retreated, and Spike bit back the words of reassurance that wanted to spill forth. He bent over Angel's rigid form instead, and slowly lowered his zipper. Slipping one hand under his Sire's back, he lifted the dark-haired vampire's hips slightly off the ground and tugged his pants and boxers down, freeing Angel's cock.

He knew what his Sire needed.

He whispered.

"Close your eyes."

Angel stiffened under his hands and Spike frowned.

Until he felt Buffy freeze too.

A blinding, sharp image of Angel, a sword protruding from his belly, hand outstretched, his expression pleading and betrayed, flashed in front of Spike's eyes. And the younger vampire understood.

He slid by his Sire's side and kissed Angel's spasming stomach.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured against a patch of smooth, unblemished skin. "I would never hurt you, Sire." He amended. "Never again. I promise."

Spike raised his hand, slow and deliberate, as if Angel was some untamed, frightened wild animal ready to bolt. He lowered his palm over his Sire's grief- stricken eyes.

Hiding himself from Angel's unfathomable sorrow.

Hiding Angel from Lisandra's sickening, profane stare.

But most of all hiding Angel from Spike himself.

Knowing that when he would close his mouth around Angel's cock, his Sire would picture the Slayer in his mind's eye, and feel her lips over his flesh.

Spike's gift to Angel.

Sensing Lisandra's swelling impatience, knowing that she was getting ready to lash out against Angel, Spike wrapped his mouth around the sensitive head of his Sire's cock.

Angel whimpered and Spike felt like catching a breath. He hadn't elicited that sound from his Sire in so long. Two weeks ago, there had been insults and death threats. Not now, though. Nothing but moans of unadulterated relief.

The Slayer groaned softly in response.

Spike lifted his hand away from Angel's eyes, knowing that the older vampire would keep his eyes closed until otherwise ordered. His fingers found his Sire's heavy sack, while his other hand closed around the base of Angel's shaft, squeezing. The dark-haired vampire hardened immediately. Spike flicked his tongue along the underside of Angel's cock, pumping gently with his hand, until his teeth replaced his tongue against the silky smooth, hard flesh, nipping, gnawing - generally driving Angel closer to the brink.

His Sire's hips convulsed yearningly, pleading, and Spike stole a glance at his face. Angel's head was thrown back in trust, and his teeth dug into his lower lip as he tried to keep from shouting the Slayer's name out loud.

Without further warning, Spike took Angel's cock in his mouth until the taut flesh hit the back of his throat.

The perks of not needing to breathe.

Spike purred and Angel moaned, lifting himself off the ground with his urgent need to dive deeper into that moist, velvety coolness. Spike's assiduous purring did the most amazing things to the sluggish blood in his veins, even now heading south.

He breathed raggedly and this time, he didn't mind.

Spike tasted the pre-come weeping out of Angel's shaft and growled with unrestrained pleasure as his Sire swelled further between his lips. His hand returned to its upwards and downwards strokes, in counter-rhythm to his mouth. His Sire jerked and surged forward with a tiny, anxious cry, diving into Spike's mouth, but the vampire was ready for him and relaxed his muscles. He clutched one of Angel's straining thighs with one hand to keep his balance and tightened his grip around his Sire's shaft.

Angel shivered and crooned softly, arching up.

A cold, slippery jet hit the roof of Spike's mouth and the younger vampire swallowed eagerly, still stroking and milking the softening cock, his tongue dancing in big, sweeping swirls around the cold flesh. Before Angel lay completely spent, Spike gathered the last of the spurting semen between his fingers. Hardly proper lubrication, but it was better than forcing his Sire open dry.

Spike lifted his gaze away from Angel long enough to catch the Slayer's eyes.

Buffy was clutching Morghane to her chest, shaking and flushed, tears steadily coursing down her face.

She inclined her head a bit.

The shimmering hazel windows to her soul conveyed her gratitude, as well as renewed her blessing. It was Spike's turn to make love to Angel now.

Spike's gaze returned to his Sire.

Eyes still closed, Angel lay stretched out and quiescent on the black leather duster, like some indolent, giant cat allowing himself to be petted. There was a small, barely discernible smile lingering on his lips, and it almost brought a matching one to Spike's face.

Angel had enjoyed his little dreamlike encounter with the Slayer. Good. That was the point, after all. Angel had suffered enough, had been humbled enough. He deserved every ounce of pleasure he could get, even if the whole experience had left Spike feeling like nothing but a convenient substitute.

"Angel?"

Angel's lids cracked open and Spike once again wished he could take him that way, face to face. But Lisandra would never settle for it. To her, the position wouldn't seem humiliating enough.

*Stupid cow.*

"William."

The intensity and arousal with which Angel uttered his Childe's name warmed Spike to the core of his unmoving heart. He kissed his Sire deeply one last time, and Angel returned the kiss fervently.

Keeping his hand lightly stroking Angel's flank, Spike assisted his Sire in turning around.

Lisandra giggled excitedly but, at this point, Spike wouldn't have given a damn if the whole bloody Rangers' cheer-leading squad had been conducting training exercises in the middle of the room.

The sight of Angel, arms languidly abandoned above his head, for the first time ever relinquishing control, was driving him out of his bloody mind. Spike was so hard he wanted to bite his own arm to keep from howling at an invisible moon.

The blonde vampire nipped a path down Angel's spine, crouching over him, hiding himself from Lisandra as he coated his own cock with his Sire's semen. The vampiress wouldn't approve.

Spike allowed himself a short moment to simply drink in the picture of Angel's strong, familiar frame, lying on his stomach underneath him - ignoring the burns and the lash marks.

He slid one slick finger inside his Sire's tight hole.

Angel bucked as his Childe stretched him, prepared him, grounding himself against Spike's hand. The confusing, mixed signals of pain and arousal clouded his senses, but he remained sure of two facts. Spike wouldn't hurt him - and Buffy would forgive. They loved him both, and the thought was almost more than he could stand.

His Childe was bearing down on him, and finally nothing else mattered but the sweet invasion Spike was subjecting him to.

Soon Spike had added a second finger, and then another, and Angel rocked back against his Childe's lighter frame, seeking more - torn between the pain that came with each movement and the oncoming pleasure.

Spike's hand retreated, and he moaned. The younger vampire placed an open- mouthed, lingering kiss at the small of his back, before entering him in one smooth, long, wrenching stroke.

There was burning, but Angel didn't really notice. It had been so long. He had almost forgotten what the weight of another body pressing down on him for a purpose other than torture felt like. Not since the night of Buffy's seventeenth birthday, not since before his five-hundred-year long sojourn in Hell.

He fought back the tears - not wanting Spike or Buffy to believe that this was bringing him more pain. He drove back against Spike as best he could, begging, moaning for more.

Spike was happy to oblige. He pushed on one arm to give himself more leverage, reaching around Angel with his other hand. His Sire was hard again. He squeezed Angel's shaft lightly, teasing the weeping head with the pad of his thumb.

Angel rocked faster as Spike drove in and out of him, loosing himself in the cool tightness.

Spike steered his mind away from the dizzy satisfaction of their powerful coupling long enough to shift his weight on his knees and throw his wrist in front of his Sire's mouth.

"Drink," murmured Spike, his voice feather-like. "Drink."

Angel didn't need to be told again. He shifted into his vampiric visage and sunk his fangs deeply in his Childe's flesh, holding Spike's wrist tightly against his mouth.

Spike closed his eyes. The feel of his Sire drinking from him was like no other. Their physical joining almost paled in comparison.

When Angel came, he let go of his Childe's arm and howled.

His muscles clenched around Spike's cock deeply buried inside of him, his semen soaking his stomach, pain swept away by the tidal wave of his second climax.

Spike froze as Angel clamped down on his shaft, and he sucked at a small wound on Angel's shoulder, drawing just enough blood to enhance his own release.

Angel collapsed under him and the blonde vampire had barely enough energy left to fall to the side, trying not to crush his Sire as he slipped out of Angel.

The older vampire moaned at the loss and Spike quickly wrapped an arm around his Sire's midsection.

His lids falling tightly shut as he struggled to deny harsh reality for one sweet moment longer.

*

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes to sunrise."

Willow raised her head to the sky with a relieved sigh.

The Goddess was smiling down on them. It had stopped snowing, and the clouds had cleared away, revealing the first rippling nuances of dawn.

"Is everyone in place?"

Xander nodded, not looking at Willow but eyeing the black-clad commandos standing a few feet away from him wearily. He trailed a tired hand through his disheveled dark hair, bringing his voice down a notch.

"Am I the only one who gets a creepy-crawly feeling around those guys?"

Oz shook his head.

"Something's off."

Giles frowned, leaning against the side-door of the humvee. "Can you be more specific?"

The werewolf shrugged. "Just an itch at the base of my skull. Can't explain it better than that. Sorry."

The Watcher acknowledged Oz's words, lips pursed.

"Then we'll just have to make sure that we remain alert and don't lose sight of them at any time."

Angel bit back a moan when Spike's hand grazed the burns and bruises on his stomach, fastening his pants for him. Lisandra had allowed Spike to get dressed, then strengthen his Sire's clothing - granting them that much dignity at least.

Angel still lay on the younger vampire's duster.

The pleasant numbness of his last orgasm had long since receded and the pain was back with a vengeance. Every movement triggered fresh waves of agony as his broken body shuddered and quivered on the floor.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought he had a fever.

Sweat pooled between his shoulders. Shivers racked stiff limbs.

He was on fire.

And there was an ache inside of him - that he couldn't define. A tearing. As if his soul was being ripped to shreds, slowly, meticulously. His lungs constricted, as if he was trying to draw a breath. Which made no kind of sense.

He thought he had known fear before. In Hell. But that was nothing compared to the dread, the unadulterated, boundless terror he was now drowning into.

He was alone.

Buffy. Will.

Their consciousness had retreated, abruptly severed, and he was alone once again.

The fear of abandonment, the fear of nothingness, clawed at his throat. It felt as if his soul was being ripped away from him once more. The sheer agony...

He thrashed a little.

This was worse. He didn't know how such thing was possible - but this, this pain was more terrible than having your soul forcibly torn away from you.

This was more like your soul dying altogether.

He convulsed again, feeling arms around him, but not seeing them. He whimpered, scared out of his mind, and curled into a tight little ball of misery.

What was happening?

Buffy held onto Morghane for dear life as the Guardian trembled fiercely in her embrace - moaning incoherently. Sometimes, she would cry out a word, in a language that the Slayer did not understand.

Buffy raised her frightened gaze to Spike.

The blonde vampire had wrapped his arms around Angel and sat huddled on the floor with his Sire shaking in his lap, across from Buffy, as lost as she was.

"What's going on?"

Spike had all but growled the question.

"What have you done to him now?"

Lisandra smiled coldly.

"_I_ have not done anything. It's all Morghane's fault. That stupid bond. She's dying, and Angel gets a front seat. Isn't it sweet?"

The blood drained out of Buffy's face.

The vampiress rejoiced. "Oh, don't worry, little girl. It won't kill him." She mused. "Might shatter his mind, though. I'm afraid our sweet Angel will never be the same again. I doubt his soul can ever recover from that experience."

"Ah, well. It's not like he was going to keep it much longer anyway."

Buffy gasped and Spike did a double-take.

Angelus stood before them in all his leather-clad glory.

Materialized out of thin air.

He winked at Buffy. "Hello, lover. Remember me?"

The Slayer saw red.

"First. This has to be the lamest attempt at a mind-game you've ever thought up," spat Buffy with a sneer. "So what's the big plan? You torture us wearing Angel's face and we're supposed to... to what? Not give a damn about him anymore? Go get a brain."

The First must have found Buffy's words uproariously funny because it collapsed into laughter.

A sobering sight if there ever was one.

"Come on, lover. I know you better than that. It's not you I'm here to play with. It's him," Angelus said, pointing at Angel.

All traces of humor disappeared from the vampire's face and he snarled.

"Morghane is dying. Angel is my last connection to her. And when the Guardian's soul is finally destroyed, I want her to fade away knowing that she failed. Knowing that I crushed the mind of her favorite warrior, her precious Angel."

Angelus took two steps towards the Slayer. "I want Morghane to draw her last breath knowing that Angel hated her."

"Never... gonna... happen."

Angelus whipped around to face Spike and the vampire cradled against his chest. "Look who's back among the aware..."

Angel was still shaking badly, but he struggled to a seating position with his Childe's help.

His skin was impossibly flushed, his eyes burned with fever, glazed, but he still managed to look menacingly up at the entity wearing his own face.

"I'll never hate her."

"Is that so?" Angelus growled, raising his arm as if to strike.

But Spike got in the way.

"Back off, you ponce."

"That's hardly the proper way to address your Sire, boy."

The blonde vampire rose to his feet, standing protectively over Angel. "You're not my Sire."

Angelus smirked. He punched Spike in the face, sending the younger vampire flying across the room.

Buffy flinched. The First seemed to be getting stronger as Morghane got closer to death. Its manifestations were more and more corporeal each time. This Angelus was more than a mere visual projection.

"I'll teach you to respect your elders, boy," Angelus declared.

He waved at Lisandra, and she sent two of her bodyguards to pick up a very dazed Spike.

"But first... I must have a little discussion with myself."

Bending, he grabbed Angel by the throat and pulled the souled vampire to his knees.

Facing Buffy.

Clutching Angel's damp hair, he forced him to raise his face and look at the two women huddled against the wall.

"What did you think would happen here, Angel? That you would crash my little party and save the day? That you would restore Morghane and that she would anchor your soul?"

Angel flinched and Buffy's jaw fell open uselessly. Aghast.

Angelus tightened his stranglehold on Angel's hair gleefully. "Oh. She didn't tell you. My mistake. Who would have thought there would still be secrets between you?"

"You're lying," the Slayer ground out between clenched teeth.

"No, I'm not. Not disclosing the whole truth maybe... " Angelus bent close to Angel's ear. "That's what Morghane had in mind all along, you know? Why she wanted to find Lisandra so badly and fell into this trap. She needed the power of the Rapture to work that spell." Angelus sighed, mocking. "Too bad, Angel. You came so close to getting your heart's desire."

He extended his hand towards Angel's cheek and the souled vampire recoiled from the foul touch. But he couldn't escape.

Another wave of agony hit him, and he moaned weakly. His eyes swam with tears.

"You can spare yourself this torture, Angel," murmured Angelus. "You can break the bond between you and Morghane. She's lost anyway, so why suffer along with her?"

"I won't... let her die... alone."

"You're a fool."

Angelus forced Angel's head back, bending his neck at an impossible, painful angle.

He growled. "You never stood a chance. You are nothing. A pathetic excuse for a warrior. Look at you. Even if Morghane could anchor your soul, you would still be worthless. I am in you all the time. Happiness clause or not. And you are nowhere close to controlling me. You thought Buffy's love could help you drive me back, stun me into submission. You were so wrong. Your passion feeds me. I grow stronger as she gets nearer. Why do you think you couldn't help but drink from her? Why do you think the Powers drove you two away from each other? Because of a twisted gypsy vengeance? You've got to be kidding me. No. They knew you would be the death of their strongest Slayer to date. They would have used you, and then thrown you away when you had nothing left to give. There's no redemption for you Angel. No light at the end of the tunnel. No haven."

Angelus threw Angel back on the ground in disgust and his thick boot stomped on the injured vampire's shoulder.

Angel cried out and Buffy whimpered.

"All this time, Morghane has been blinded by her love for you. But you have no future, no great destiny. There is no forgiveness, no penance, no salvation ahead of you, Angel."

Angelus brought his foot down on Angel's spine once more.

"Nothing but me."

"Unit Beta is in place, sir."

"Roger that."

Dunst adjusted his mike and turned to face the passengers in the back of the parked humvee.

"You're all ready? Six minutes to sunrise."

Giles, Oz, Willow and Xander nodded warily.

There was only room for four in the back of the military vehicle. Doyle and Cordelia had been elected to stay back and enter the warehouse after the breach had been made. Giles had to work the spell. Willow and Xander were needed to bring Lisandra down - both of them carried dart guns loaded with Willow's little concoction. And the wolf in Oz might give them an edge.

At this point, any kind of edge would be welcome.

Wesley rode shotgun next to Dunst.

The ground troops stood on each side of the warehouse's main entrance, waiting for their team leader to launch the assault. They had spent the better part of the night combing the area for sentinels - killing the handful of vampires at the last minute. It wouldn't do for the alarm to be raised before all of them were in position.

Tension was mounting among the members of the Scooby Gang. They had no idea what kind of spectacle awaited them inside. It didn't help at all that they trusted their so-called allies only about as far as they could throw them. They had no choice but to follow Dunst, though. They needed the Watchers' artillery and expertise.

Giles looked out the window of the humvee, trying to block out the nervous twitching of the children.

He smiled despite himself. He still thought of them as children, sometimes. Even Angel, and that was odd. Beyond odd - considering the vampire had some two hundred years on him. But Angel could look so childlike, so heartbreakingly vulnerable sometimes.

With a start, Giles realized that his fear for Buffy's safety had overshadowed his worry for Angel's. If anything should happen to the vampire, he would mourn alongside his Slayer. A startling revelation - considering his past history with the souled vampire. But Angel had been a friend once, someone Giles trusted. There wasn't so many of those left around. Jenny's unreasoning specter had driven him to withhold his forgiveness, and it wasn't until Angel had left for L.A. without a word of goodbye that Giles realized what he had lost.

Once upon a time, there had been late nights in the high school library, discussions of demons, and history and literature, a common commiseration that the English language was a lost cause in these parts of the colonies and sometimes even playful political debates when Angel's Irish sensibilities clashed with his allegiance to the Queen.

There had been companionship.

The understanding of someone who could relate to the plight of a Watcher - a stranger in a land he did not always understand, the only adult in a realm of teen hysteria. A man condemned to lead a young girl he could not have loved more had she been his own daughter in an unending, deathly battle against the relentless forces of darkness.

Caught on the outside. Looking in.

Dunst's voice pulled him out of his internal musings.

"Team Beta reported screams," announced the Englishman, a hand clasped on his earpiece.

Giles' blood ran cold.

"We're going in. Team Beta, we are a go."

The humvee's engine roared to life and the Scooby Gang held onto their seats, bracing for impact. The military vehicle screeched out of the alley it had been concealed in and crossed the road at 50mph, aiming straight for the warehouse.

The humvee collided with the door at the very second a deafening explosion shook the support structure of the construction. For one moment, Giles feared the whole thing was going to come crashing around them, but it held strong.

In a regular hostage-taking situation, they would have covered their breach with gas cans, but in their case the smoke would do little to slow down the vampires and only succeed in impairing the humans.

As soon as the humvee screeched to a stop, Giles, Oz, Willow and Xander opened their respective doors and jumped, weapons raised at chest level.

There was a steel door ten feet ahead of them.

And a dozen vampires guarding it.

They raised nasty-looking swords as they rushed the invaders.

It didn't do them much good. The room was already swarming with about twenty armed commandos who all opened fire simultaneously. The bullets wouldn't kill the vampires, but enough of them would slow them down drastically.

The Scooby people ducked - keeping out of the line of fire until a path to the door was cleared.

When most of the vampires lay twitching on the ground, Dunst's team moved in to finish them off with stakes and crossbows. A few Nehemia warriors still standing engaged the commandos in hand-to-hand combat but the odds were in favor of the Watchers by sheer numbers alone.

Oz helped Willow to her feet after checking that she was unhurt and ran to follow Giles and Xander, charging through the door after Dunst.

The commando's radio crackled to life.

"This is Barker, sir. We've breached the roof and are in. I have Lisandra and Morghane in visual. Hold or fire?"

Giles froze - convinced that he had misunderstood Barker's question.

Dunst's cold injunction left him little doubt though.

"Fire."

*

The concussion from the explosion threw both Spike and his escort to the floor.

The blonde vampire remained on the ground, lying on his stomach as the world shook and heaved around him.

The screech from the blast was deafening, but his preternatural hearing still enabled him to pick up on screams of fear and rage erupting from both sides of the room.

Spike struggled to his feet but was pulled right back down when one of the vampires Lisandra had sent after him grabbed his ankle. Enraged, and glad to finally be free to retaliate, Spike punched the vamp full in the nose and bashed its head into the concrete floor. Its mate came to the rescue, wrapping an arm around Spike's throat, but the fair-haired vampire tossed it over his shoulder with one deft move. It landed right on top of its fallen comrade. Remembering Angelus' hard-learned lessons, Spike reached down and swiftly broke its neck. Pulling a stake from the twitching demon's belt, he buried the wood through the two vampires' hearts with one downward, powerful thrust.

Spike turned his back on the settling dust and surveyed the mayhem laid out before his gaze.

There was no sign of the First. Angelus had simply evaporated and his latest beating had left Angel barely conscious on the floor.

The Slayer seemed to be doing okay, struggling with the chain pinning her to the ground, while still hovering protectively over the Guardian. Confident that Buffy could take care of herself, Spike took a few steps towards Lisandra.

The vampiress was shrieking angry orders, sending her bodyguards scurrying out the back door to investigate the origin of the detonation. The area of the cells, Spike remembered from Oz' description.

Another crash resounded around the warehouse when the small door on the opposite side of the room gave way. Spike didn't have the time to wonder at it. He jumped when a shot ricocheted between the shaky walls of the building.

In slow motion, he watched Lisandra collapse to the ground without a sound, brain matter spurting out of her skull.

Which was when Buffy's screamed "No!" jarred Spike back to the plot. He looked at the Slayer, then followed her upward gaze to one of the steel support beams.

The gunman who - Spike assumed - had just taken Lisandra down, had now set his sights on Buffy and Morghane.

Roused by his lover's shout, Angel tried to push himself upwards, to reach her.

In a flash, Spike realized that his Sire wasn't going to make it in time. He could already see the commando's finger tightening on the trigger.

Not stopping to consider the consequences of his actions, or wonder what the hell was going on, Spike rushed forward, covering the few feet that separated him from the Slayer too fast for the human eye to see.

He threw himself on top of Buffy and Morghane just in time to intercept the bullet going for the Guardian's head. The deadly projectile gored the flesh of his back before embedding itself between two vertebrae.

He grunted, but did not move.

When Xander followed Giles into the main room of the warehouse - Willow, Oz and Wesley hot on his heels - it didn't take him long to understand that the situation was already going to Hell in a hand-basket.

Giles motioned quietly for his dart gun and he passed it over without question. It was Ripper staring down at him from the Watcher's face.

Without a word of warning, Giles shot an unsuspecting Dunst and the commando dropped to the ground before he could even cry out. Giles extended the dart gun back to Xander without looking at him then turned around swiftly to close the heavy steel door. He took a pair of handcuffs and latched the lock shut.

It would buy them a few minutes.

They heard the first shot and saw Lisandra drop to the floor on the other side of the room. They heard Buffy's scream and watched Spike crumble as the bullet found his back.

Giles whipped around without a word and grabbed a bewildered Wesley by the lapels. "This time, you've gone too far," he growled. "We have the counterspell now. Are you all insane? What if Morghane had been killed before Lisandra was neutralized?"

Wesley sputtered. "I have no idea what is going on. I haven't..."

"Now is not the time," Xander shouted, forging onwards, absent-mindedly recharging his gun. Taking charge, he pointed to the gunman on the beam.

"Willow, think you can take him out?"

"Gladly," replied the witch, with more rage than Xander had ever heard in his best friend's voice before.

He smiled. "Wesley, Oz. See what you can do for Buffy, Spike and Morghane. We could sure use their help right about now." He threw his weapon in Giles' hands again, exchanging the dart gun for the Watcher's more lethal M16. "Giles, knock Lisandra out. She could come around any second... Then set up the spell. We're gonna have to do this on site. Willow, join him when..."

A small cry. A body falling from the ceiling followed by a loud thud.

A dart had found its mark.

"When you're done," finished Xander with an appreciative grin. "Move."

Without another word, Xander himself ran to Angel's supine form.

The souled vampire was sprawled out on what seemed to be a coat of some kind in the middle of the room, obviously incapable of getting up under his own power. He was the most vulnerable of them all - exposed. A likely target of friendly fire.

Xander put one knee down next to the fallen vampire.

And almost tossed his nonexistent breakfast right there.

"Oh, God. Angel."

There was so much blood.

Angel lay on his back, eyes wide open, shivering, straining as if trying to turn on his side yet unable to summon the strength necessary to do so. And Xander could see why. Angel's arms and torso were covered in bruises, open wounds, lashes, contusions and strange burn marks that suspiciously looked like crosses. Blood trickled from his wrists, from the corners of his mouth, and from deep bite marks in his neck, arms, and around his nipples.

After a brief hesitation, Xander lay a comforting hand on the vampire's - burning? - forehead. It was the only exposed part of him which did not sport any obvious injury.

"X... Xander?"

Xander smiled grimly. "It's okay, buddy. We'll get you out of here soon."

"M... Morghane. Buffy..."

Xander briefly raised his eyes away from Angel.

Oz held Morghane against his chest, while Spike climbed to his feet - seemingly shrugging away his injury. Wesley had managed to pick out the lock of Buffy's restraints. The Slayer was up and moving. There was blood on her clothes, but she didn't seem to be hampered by any serious wound.

She took a step towards her lover, but her gaze found Xander's, and she stopped.

Xander nodded tightly. He could be trusted to take care of Angel while the Slayer jumped into the fray. Buffy sent a small smile his way, then ran towards the quaking front door to meet the commandos straight on, randomly taking down the vampires ambushed in her path.

Spike was one step behind her.

"Buffy's okay," Xander murmured, turning his attention back to Angel. "Spike's covering her back."

The dark-haired vampire quieted under his hands, and sighed. "What... what's happening?"

"We broke into the place with the help of some Watcher commandos. But now it looks like they've got their own agenda. They tried to shoot Buffy."

Angel shook his head slowly and gasped.

"Easy," Xander soothed.

"Not... Buffy. Morghane."

"Whatever. The fact is, we're on our own."

Angel closed his hands into tight fists. "Help me up," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"I'm not sure..."

"Xander, please..."

Xander had never heard Angel use that particular tone before. The vampire sounded scared, and in tremendous pain.

Shrugging, the young man slipped an arm around Angel's middle - wincing in sympathy when the vampire hissed an agonized breath. Xander felt broken ribs shift under his fingers. He pulled Angel to his feet as gently as he could, but the vampire still couldn't disguise a strangled moan.

"Sorry."

"M'okay."

Xander highly doubted that.

No puns intended, but the dark-haired vampire looked like death warmed over. He could barely hold himself up and swayed in Xander's gentle grip, putting most of his weight on the younger man. Xander didn't mind. Angel was heavier and taller than he was, put Xander was still strong enough to keep him on his feet.

Carrying him out would be another matter entirely.

Angel squinted. Angelus had done some damage, and the blood in his eyes from a sliced eyebrow impaired his vision. The world around him kept coming in and out of focus. Yet for the moment, he rather wished he was completely blind.

The situation did not look good.

Spike and Buffy had found furniture to block out the main door, but it wouldn't hold out for long. On the other side of the room, half a dozen vampires fought to keep the commandos out, too busy to worry about their escaped prisoners. But Angel could hear the distinctive staccato of automatic weapons and knew that the Nehemia warriors would be decimated eventually.

They needed Morghane.

With Xander's assistance, Angel made his way over to Giles. The Watcher stood over an unconscious Lisandra. Her gory head wound was already starting to heal, but Angel could see the dart embedded in her neck and assumed that the Scooby Gang had found a way to disable her for a little while.

Giles was in the process of casting a circle, while Willow spread salt all over the area around the vampiress and over the various ingredients - stones, herbs, powders, animal parts and runes - arranged on the floor. The former Watcher raised his eyes towards Angel, and for a brief instant his irises seemed to flash with sympathy, as he quickly assessed the vampire's dreadful condition.

"We've found the counterspell," Giles explained for Angel's benefit. "Morghane must be brought inside the circle with us before I can close it. Xander, go help Oz and Wesley, and carry Morghane over here."

The young man nodded and guided Angel to the nearest the wall. The vampire leaned against the hard surface gratefully. "Go, Xander."

The younger man ran to the other side of the room to assist the werewolf and the Watcher.

Angel's knees gave out and he slid slowly to the floor. The wall was the only thing holding him upright. The unearthly glow returned to his eyes and he gasped softly, not fighting the tremors raking his body as his soul howled in anguish.

"Hurry, Giles. She's letting go."

He needn't explain who he was referring to.

His vision wavered and faded. And then, Angel got his wish.

He was blind.

Giles directed Wesley and Xander towards the center of the circle and they deposited Morghane on the ground next to Lisandra with careful movements - Willow and Oz at their sides.

"Step out of the circle now. All of you."

"Giles, are you sure this is..."

"Wise?" grumbled the ex-librarian. "I have no idea what's going to happen once I complete the counterspell, Willow. Which is why I want you all out of the circle."

"But I can help..."

"Yes, by making sure nothing and no one tries to breach the circle while I'm busy casting it."

The young witch nodded tersely. They didn't have the luxury of time. Willow, Xander, Oz and Wesley retreated, gathering next to Angel's slumped form. Willow brought a trembling hand to her mouth when her eyes landed on the vampire, and knelt by his side, gently shaking his shoulder.

"Angel?"

He did not respond. His eyes were closed, and she could not tell if he was conscious or not.

"Xander..."

"He's gonna be okay, Will," Xander promised with more confidence than he felt.

It was a bit unsettling to look at Angel like that. The vampire usually summoned such a presence around himself. But with his eyes closed, paler than chalk and covered in blood, he looked like a wraith. Like life was hanging onto him by a thread. And maybe that was true, but there wasn't much they could do for him now.

Spreading without the need to consult one another, they took place strategically around the circle of salt. They watched as Giles tied a thin leather strap around one of Lisandra's and Morghane's wrists, binding their hands together and lit some incense around them. The Watcher stood and resumed his circle casting.

He placed four candles at the cardinal points, shouting to be heard over the roar of the battle raging around them. They were dealing with very powerful, malevolent forces. He had to center himself, despite the surrounding chaos, and properly cast the sacred circle.

"Be it known that the circle is about to be cast!"

He unsheathed the athame stuck in his belt and pointed the blade towards the East.

"Hail to the Spirits of the Air I invoke you and call you To illuminate this sacred space And bring it the breath of life I ask that you send forth your power So mote it be!"

He lit the eastern candle and repeated the process with the three others in a clockwise manner, invoking the spirits of Fire, Water and Earth, to warm, wash and strengthen the circle.

The fine hair on Willow's arms stood on end. "The circle cannot be penetrated now," she murmured to herself.

Next, Giles picked up the thick leather-bound codex Wesley had brought with him from England and began to read, keeping the athame firmly in one hand.

The spell called for a weapon of some sort, a weapon of balance - although what that meant wasn't very clear, so the black-handled ceremonial knife would have to do.

"Hail to the powers of the spiritual plane I invoke you and call you I ask thee..."

"Holy shit"

Giles jumped, startled by Wesley uncharacteristic swearing, his concentration broken as he focused on the latest threat hanging over their heads.

Literally.

He watched, helpless, as another commando found a way to climb on one of the warehouse support beams and stuck a small charge of what looked like C4 to the metal structure.

Giles blanched. If the charge exploded, not only would the ceiling come crashing down on them, but all the vampires in the room - including Spike, Angel and Lisandra - would be incinerated by the light of day in the blink of an eye.

However, the commando couldn't very well detonate the explosives while still hanging to the beam, and there was no access to the roof in this part of the structure. The man would have to make his way back down along the other beams and over the thin wall separating this room from the cells.

Giles quickly motioned to Xander. "Shoot him."

The young man tensed. "Giles, I don't have anymore darts."

The Watcher's expression hardened, although his eyes showed his compassion.

Xander understood. They didn't have the time, and too many lives were at stake. He took aim and pressed the trigger without pause. There was a cry, and another body fell from above.

A detonator clattered to the ground, exploding in a million pieces.

Xander kept the M16 close to his chest. And he did not speak again.

Giles resumed his casting, this time ignoring the sound of the front door finally giving out. Spike and Buffy could handle themselves against a bunch of humans, however well armed they were.

"Hail to the powers of the spiritual plane I invoke you and call you I ask thee, please hear my plea As I present to you your Child As I come before you to right a wrong As I beg thee to restore a life And take another"

Giles lit the herbs mixed in a bowl in front of him.

Willow flinched as a sharp wind picked up inside the confines of the room, throwing her hair in her face, stealing the breath from her lungs.

She wondered if the faint glow which had materialized over Morghane and Lisandra's bound bodies was the product of an oxygen-starved brain.

"Hail to the power of the spiritual plane I invoke you and call you I ask thee, please access my demand As I bow humbly before you As I avenge the suffering of your warrior As she lay in your sacred embrace And draw her last living breath"

The earth shook and what had been a faint glow reached blinding proportions.

The four people around the circle had to shield their eyes.

Giles raised the athame over his head.

"Hear me!"

Willow gasped.

The infernal light dimmed, and revealed a foot-long spear floating above vampiress and Guardian.

The young witch had come across many representations over her days of frantic research to save Morghane.

*The Sepulcher*

Giles recoiled, not expecting the long-lost artifact to materialize out of thin air.

He breathed deeply, then took a decisive step forward. It all made sense now. The weapon of balance. The very weapon which had brought the Guardian so much grief would now save her life.

Without hesitation, he reached out his hand, and his fingers closed around the spear.

"Watcher!"

Giles flinched, then turned around.

What he saw left him blinking in wonder.

Angel - *no, Angelus, no doubt about that* - stood at the edge of the circle. Angel, their friend, was on his knees, apparently unconscious. Angelus held Angel's torn wrist in a punishing grip, and the souled vampire's limp form was crushed against the demon's body, exposing his battered back, his torso smashed

to Angelus' long thighs, his face lying against the demon's silk-clad stomach, his eyes closed and his expression slack.

Angelus evidently could not be here, so it didn't take long for Giles to realize who stood before him.

"The First Evil."

"Yes," Angelus hissed - his handsome face deformed by anger and fear. "Give me the Sepulcher, Watcher, and I'll let you all go free. I'll even spare this one's miserable unlife." Saying that, he shook Angel's unresponsive body. "Or else..." A stake appeared in his free hand, and Angelus viciously pushed the sharp point into Angel's back, piercing the skin, drawing blood, but not reaching the heart. "Undo that circle, Watcher. Now!"

Giles grinned. A black, abnormal smile.

"You lose."

Without another word, he rammed the Sepulcher down, skewering both Morghane's and Lisandra's bound hands with one stroke.

"NO!"

The First's scream of impotent rage was echoed by the twin wails of the Guardian and the vampiress, and Giles had to cover his ears. He took several steps back.

And broke the circle.

The liberation of the energies the sacred space had contained up until that point crescendoed in a blast that threw the five humans several feet into the air to land half-way across the room. Stunned, they still managed to scramble to their feet and half-ran, half-crawled towards the front door.

Spike and Buffy rushed to their help, unscathed, as the commandos they had been fighting a few seconds before retreated. The Watchers picked-up Dunst's still unconscious form and made a mad dash for the outside world and the relative safety of the street.

"Are you guys okay?" asked the Slayer, shouting to make herself understood.

The unnatural winds had picked up in earnest.

"Yes," Giles gasped, panting for breath, but still making sure everyone was accounted for.

Buffy paled.

"Where's Angel?"

They turned around, standing at the threshold of the room, holding their hands up to shield their eyes from the blinding light-show raging at the other end of the warehouse.

Their last vision was of Morghane, straining against invisible bounds and screaming as if she was in unspeakable agony, floating several feet above the ground - while Lisandra was consumed in infernal fire next to the Guardian.

And Angel...

Angelus had disappeared and Angel, too, was suspended in the air by some unknown force. And he too thrashed and shouted as if he was being rent limb from limb.

And then the heat, or the wind, or maybe something else, triggered the explosives attached to the support beam and the blast once again shook the warehouse to its very foundations.

It was more abuse than the structure could take.

The beam seemed to detach itself in slow motion, hitting the ground a few feet away from vampire and Guardian. The deafening clang was like some sort of signal, as the building began to fold in on itself.

"No! Angel!"

Buffy's cry of pure anguish propelled Giles back into action and he firmly seized his Slayer's arm.

"No! You can't go. You'll never reach them in time. We have to get out of here."

"I'm not abandoning him, Giles," Buffy screamed, not even looking at him, struggling to break free.

She succeeded without any effort, until a pair of startlingly powerful arms wrapped themselves around her mid-section.

"I'm not letting you commit suicide, pet."

"Spike," she screeched. "Let me go!"

"He'd never forgive me, luv."

And with that, Spike picked Buffy off the ground and ran towards the humvee. They all pilled up inside the military vehicle in a matter of seconds. Giles took the wheel, turned on the engine, and floored it, backing out of the crumbling warehouse.

In no time they had reached the street and Giles still did not stop, parking the vehicle in a small, dark alley - mindful of Spike's presence. He needn't have bothered. It was snowing again, as the counterspell wrecked havoc with the elements.

As soon as the humvee stopped, Buffy overtook Spike. She rammed her elbow in his ribs and lunged for the door. She made it half-way across the road before being tackled to the snow-covered ground.

"Let me go, you bastard. I can't let him die. Let me go, let me go!"

Spike did nothing but cradle her against his chest, not even trying to shield himself from her blows. The pain she inflicted was not even enough to bring out the demon on his face. He was crying as he watched the warehouse collapse. Another explosion erupted from its center, and his last hope of ever seeing his Sire again died a thundering, splintered death in his chest.

He was crying as the Slayer howled her grief at some deity who never listened.

He was crying as she crumbled sobbing in his arms, clutching his shirt, gasping.

He cried for a long time.

"I can't stand to see her like this."

Giles turned his gaze downwards, knowing that Xander didn't really expect him to answer. He brought a wary hand to his forehead, massaging a sore spot between glazed, bloodshot eyes. He couldn't stand to look at his Slayer either.

He was loosing her today, too.

Buffy had collapsed in a corner of the living room the moment they had entered Angel's apartment. Her huge hazel orbs were dead, unseeing, as she clutched Angel's leather jacket to her chest like some security blanket. Like it was her last tether to this world.

They had given up on trying to coax her out of her frozen state.

She had cried herself out in Spike's arms for what seemed like hours. Then, when there was no tears left, she had struggled to her feet and staggered to what remained of the warehouse. Spike stumbled along with her. They had searched the debris - silent, relentless.

Looking for a body.

Doyle and Cordelia, who had been kept out of the warehouse by the commandos during the battle, had joined in. Grim-faced and shattered.

Giles hadn't found the strength to remind them that nothing would remain of Angel but dust.

As the effects of the counterspell dissipated and the sun threatened to tear away at the clouds, Buffy had forcefully tugged Spike back to the humvee - holding onto him for dear life. The vampire had put up some resistance before seeming to fold in on himself and followed her meekly back to the car.

Which was when they heard the sirens. Police or fire department, it didn't matter. They couldn't stay here. To many questions they did not want to answer. Giles thought there was a good chance Morghane was still alive under all the rubble - but they would have to come back later for the Guardian. If the emergency crew didn't get to her first.

He had a Slayer to attend to.

The drive back to Angel's had been silent and surreal. Spike and Buffy were huddled in the back-seat, her face hidden away in the crook of his shoulder, his lost in the golden mane of her hair.

Once inside, Buffy had collapsed in a corner, and Spike had locked himself up in Angel's study.

They had yet to exchange a word.

Unable to bear watching Buffy, lost and abandoned, a shell of his sparkling best friend, Xander left the couch and walked straight towards her. He knelt by her side and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him.

She didn't even blink.

Frightened and helpless, Xander kissed her forehead, her temples, murmuring sweet nonsense in her ear.

Her petrified form remained still and unyielding in his embrace.

He started to talk.

"At first, I hated him. No big shock there. I didn't try to keep it a secret. You could even say I was quite vocal about it. Even thought about hiring one of those plane thingies to drag a message across the sky of Sunnydale, but it was just too damn expensive."

He picked up on Giles and Willow's twin gasps of disbelief, but his voice never wavered.

"It was jealousy. Nothing more, nothing less. And I hated that too. He made me feel cheap. I wasn't acting out of some sense of higher moral obligation. I was just jealous of him. Plain and simple. He made you come alive in ways I never could. From the first moment I saw you together at the Bronze, I knew. I just couldn't believe you would prefer some undead guy over me. He had to be putting some kind of whammy on you, or something."

Taking a small breath, Xander tightened his hold on the rigid Slayer, caressing the back of her hand absent-mindedly. Lost in the recollection of times long gone.

"Then he saved my life a couple hundred times over, and things became really muddled. I was torn. On one hand I wanted you for myself. I was never really good at sharing things, or people. Maybe 'cos I was an only child. Even sharing Willow with you was hard in the beginning - before we became some kind of three- headed entity. But that's not really the funniest thing. You see, on the other hand, I didn't know how to share him with you too."

Someone gasped, but he couldn't be bothered to investigate.

Buffy blinked slowly, once. And it was all that mattered.

"Like I said, I'm an only child. My relationship with my parents is not the best, it's no big mystery to anyone that they are a bit heavy handed at times and that we don't get along. You guys became all the family I ever wanted in such short time. When I got over my schoolboy infatuation, you and Willow took on the role of my sisters, Giles was the father-figure, and Angel... Angel was like the big brother I had always dreamed of."

Xander sighed.

"I don't think I ever told you that. But one day... it was just after Spike attacked the PTA meeting... my father was drunk, and he was a bit rough with me when I got home after patrolling with you one night. When he was done with me, I snuck out of my room and went out for a walk. Stupid really, 'cos I was bleeding. A limping vamp magnet. Anyway, I was lucky. Angel found me first. He didn't say a word, didn't ask questions. He just took me home with him, let me shower, bandaged my cuts and my bruised ribs, fed me even and offered me his bed. The next morning I left without a word while he slept on the couch. I was too embarrassed.

"He never brought it up. Ever. Even when I was really mean to him, and made comments that were uncalled for... which was pretty much all of the time, I know. He never said a word. And I felt.... I thought.... that's what brothers do for each other. They compete, and they snap at one another, they say things they don't mean, but they are family. When the chips are down, who gets the girl becomes irrelevant. Angel came through for me and I was ready..."

He cleared his throat, not wanting anyone to notice that his voice was a little wet.

His cheeks, too.

"Then he... turned. And that was the end of that. I lost a brother that day. In some ways, I lost you too. You were never the same again, and I was torn apart. I reacted badly. I know that now, and I'm sorry. I couldn't seem to think past my pain, and I hurt you a lot. When Angel got back from Hell... I don't adjust very well to new parameters like that. I don't think I could take yet another fundamental revision of the nature of friendship. I refused to take a chance, didn't want to get hurt again and I dug my heels into the ground.

"My heart was never as brave as yours, Buffy. I know we drove Angel away from you as much as the curse did. If we had explained, listened, forgiven and accepted, he would have stayed. It doesn't help you much to hear that now. But I wanted to apologize anyway. I don't expect that you will ever forgive me. I know that you're not really the one I should have said this to. It's too late now for me to tell him the truth. That in the end, I was honored to call him my friend. So if I can't tell him, I guess the next best thing is to let you know."

Xander felt Buffy's strong fingers tightly gripping his biceps. He peered at her face.

Her eyes had lost their glassy haze, and now there was sorrow. Anguish so overwhelming he wondered why or how she still breathed.

Slow and deliberate, she deposited a small, cool kiss on his damp cheek. And that was all.

It was more than he had dared hope for.

Buffy pulled away from Xander and closed her eyes.

Angel was dead.

Angel was gone. Dusted. Her Angel was dead. She had lost him.

Her soulmate was never coming back.

The bottomless abyss at the core of her would never be filled again, sucking everything dry until there was nothing left.

She rocked slowly back and forth, not aware of her own body but for her hollowness.

The grief, this living beast, was going to kill her. And she didn't care.

She let the feeling, the knowledge wash over her, through her, wiping her clean and bare. Leaving numbness in its wake.

Angel was dead.

Angel was never coming back.

The crash roused them out of their apathy and Buffy began to shake again.

Standing away from Xander, she tottered on weak legs towards Angel's study and fumbled with the knob. Nothing happened.

Another violent crack shook the sturdy oak door. And another. Then the strident squeal of breaking glass.

Gnawing at her lip, Buffy grabbed the doorjamb with one hand and the handle with the other, her expression blank.

She pulled and almost fell backwards when it gave way.

A vase - *an expensive vase* she noted distractedly - landed at her feet but she did not flinch, ignoring the sting of the shards as they stung her bare ankles. She took a few steps inside the ravaged room and stopped, her head slightly cocked to the side.

Spike was in the process of ripping away a painting, snapping the frame in two. When he felt the foreign presence he whipped around, in full game face and snarling, his movements almost frenzied. His yellow eyes flared with rage.

Then he saw her, and the growl died in his throat.

Unsteady, he made his way to her, wading through the wreckage.

When he reached her, he extended a trembling hand towards her face. Buffy did not cringe or attempt to draw back. She leaned into the touch, as Spike traced the outline of her brow, the curve of a cheekbone, the contour of her nose and the shape of moist, parted lips.

He drew her closer and she allowed the invasion of her space. He nudged her head to the left, and she closed her eyes, granting him access to the junction between her neck and shoulder.

She thought she heard a strangled "Buffy..." from behind her, but she disregarded the interruption.

Craning her head back a little, she closed her hand around the nape of Spike's neck, threading her fingers through the short, silky hair, and pulled his face against her skin.

With a moan, his lips trailed over the scarred, raised flesh.

Over Angel's brand.

She remembered whose mouth Spike had last kissed, whose body the vampire's hands had last worshipped and she brought herself even closer to the hard coolness embracing her with such reverence. Spike's cool tongue tentatively licked the scar, triggering the fiery somatic memory of Angel's fangs embedded in her neck. Her nipples sprang to attention, moisture pooled at her core, and she heard Spike groan against her throat. The vampire slipped one lean, muscled leg between her parted knees, pressing forward until his thigh nestled against her wetness. Gifting her clit with the pressure she craved there.

Spike grazed a fang across the length of her scar, raising blood. He nursed the small wound.

And she moaned.

The vampire dropped to his knees with a whimper and Buffy felt the hard ridges of his vampiric face pressing against her stomach.

She caressed his hair, tenderly.

Spike lifted his head away from her middle and tightened his hold around her waist.

His eyes shone with despair.

"I..." He swallowed. "I can still feel... him. He's still... still inside of you."

Buffy released a soft gasp.

"I... I would have thought.... I don't know. He's still here, coursing through your blood. And I..."

Spike's game face faded away.

"Something... something's wrong. The feeling... it's too strong."

The vampire's voice shook with wonder and painfully repressed hope.

Buffy's mouth tightened. She pushed away the grief, ruthless.

And she felt it, too.

"Tonight. We're going back."

Spike nodded. "We need to be sure."

At first, there was nothing but pain.

All kinds of pain. Dull pain, sharp pain, burning agony and mind-numbing torment.

When the pain receded enough for a coherent thought to emerge amidst the debilitating misery, she understood that she was alive. Suffering had always been her personal barometer. You could hide inside your mind from anything but pain. There was no escaping it. It would follow you into the most intimate recesses of your soul and nail you down. Hunt you like some relentless, slobbering hound.

Next came breathing and with that, new peaks of agony. Her inner vision whitened and blurred, dragging her back into the forgiving arms of unconsciousness. Deliberately, she forced air into her lungs, battling away the darkness' treacherous invitation.

Slowly, she opened herself to another level of awareness. A rope coiled and tightened around her dazzled mind and her heart soared before her brain had even processed the significance of the pulsating throb pounding at the edge of her soul. The link which had been such an intricate part of her for over a century vibrated with energy, still humming from her most recent power expenditure.

He was alive. He was okay. She had never felt him so close to her core since the day she had bound his soul to hers.

When she regained her sense of touch, she became aware of a terrible weight pressing down on her ribcage, and she understood why breathing was so difficult - and excruciating. She lifted her right hand with great effort, searching through the unyielding darkness.

The back of her knuckles encountered some metallic and unbending mass.

Morghane remembered. The warehouse crashing down around them as she lost herself in the throws of her Second Rapture, her mind screaming at her not to surrender to the orgasmic bliss of the magick returning home within her. Yelling that there was still something that needed to be done before the glorious, wrenching joy took her over.

Her left hand ventured away from her body, looking for a corpse that wasn't there. Lisandra had been consumed by the energy of the spell in the first few seconds of the Rapture. Morghane's fingers met nothing but a loose leather strap trailing from her wrist.

She allowed her hand to fall back to the ground and closed her eyes. There was nothing to see, no light tearing away at the darkness, and it was easier to concentrate that way. She strained her senses outward. She couldn't hear a thing but for water trickling somewhere above her.

She wished Angel had to breathe.

She dragged her tongue across parched lips.

"A... Angel?"

Her voice was a mere whisper. It hurt to pull in the air necessary to form words. She cleared her throat noisily and tried again, louder this time.

"Angel?"

Silence screamed back at her.

This wasn't getting her anywhere. He was nearby, she could tell. He was either unconscious, or too hurt to talk.

Retreating inside her self to find her center, she took hold of the magick, wrapping her mind around the power. The trick was not to try and bend it to her will. She had to coax it, stroke it, seduce it into lending itself to her needs. The technique came easily to her, as she delighted in the intimacy between her soul and the magick. It was like making love to a well of pure, cool water. Her skin tingled and her nipples tightened - her body celebrating the homecoming of a long-lost friend.

Seconds ticked by.

She frowned.

Casting didn't use to take that much concentration. The power spiraled and twisted under her mental fingers, shying away from her touch like a fearful, coy, abused animal.

She sighed.

She was too badly hurt, and too weak. Her body too seriously damaged. The magick needed to heal her before lending itself to casting. If she pushed it, she would only succeed in tiring herself more. She was conscious only because the power sustained her.

Looked like it would take a little while until the magick embraced her soul without reticence again - until her body nestled back into the power's warm, tender embrace. Just like the first time her mind and soul had joined with the ethereal community.

Her heart shrunk away from those memories.

Morghane was not one to hide from her own past. One could not come to accept their true nature if they refused to learn from experience. But even the Guardian had a breaking point, and she couldn't spare any time to reminisce over her old mistakes.

Opting out of trying to tame the Guardian magick for fear of hurrying the process with disastrous consequences, she decided to cast a simple spell, calling onto the forces of the middle plane. That required no concentration at all. Wielding earth magicks was a walk in the park compared to the mind- absorbing task of controlling the wild powers generated by the ethereal community.

She uttered a few words in her mother-tongue and a baseball-sized globe materialized a few feet above her.

She squinted and took stock of her surroundings.

It looked like she was underground. Breathing through her nose rather than pant superficially through her mouth, she gagged.

*Sewers.*

This was good. The light of day couldn't find Angel here.

Morghane attempted to raise her shoulders off the damp, cold ground, then fell back down with a grunt. Shiny black dots swamped her vision and her heart rose to her lips. A rib had punctured something. Several ribs had punctured several somethings, if the pain was any indication to go by.

She waited a minute. When her sight cleared and the universe stopped gyrating madly, she turned her head to the right and peered through the dancing shadows.

He was lying a few paces away from her. His face was turned towards her and his eyes were closed. He even seemed peaceful. If it wasn't for the blood and bruises, he would never have looked more worthy of his name than bathed in the golden halo of the globe.

He had fallen clear of the various debris piled around them, yet he was still unconscious. From her position, she couldn't tell how badly he had been injured by their fall through the floor of the warehouse. She had no idea how long they had been out either.

She needed to get to him. She needed to free herself from the large steel beam crushing her body against the cold, wet ground beneath her back.

Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind on the huge piece of metal, willing it to move. She hoped that telekinesis would come painlessly to her, since the Guardian magick danced away from her grasp like a skittish lover.

She felt the beam shake and groan ominously. She ignored the ripping pain in her stomach, concentrating on the tricky exercise of winding her mind around matter and manipulating it to do her bidding.

The beam lifted in the air, as she strained and panted under it. With a final burst of determination, she threw it away from her and it fell down by the side with a thunderous crack.

Angel didn't even twitch.

Driven by worry for her friend, Morghane didn't pause to recover. She turned on her side, not even trying to smother the cry of agony that small movement elicited. There was no one around to hear it. Her vision faded again and she had to bite down viciously on her tongue to keep her hold on reality.

Huffing, she dragged herself forward, her fingers clawing at the stinky mud. She pushed on her elbows, and she shivered as fetid dampness penetrated the inadequate protection of Angel's duster.

It seemed to take forever, but she managed to reach his side.

She gasped.

No wonder he was still out.

Now that she was closer, she could see the steel pipe protruding from the left side of his belly. He was pined to the ground like a butterfly under the microscope of some perverted entomologist.

Morghane raised herself to her knees, chewing down softly on her lower lip. She bent over him to better inspect the damage. The pipe was imbedded in the dirt under him, but looked like it would give easily enough. There wasn't any blood pooling around the exit wound though, and that worried her most of all.

Angel was starving. The blood he had taken from Spike during their love-making hadn't been enough to replenish his waning strength. What little reserves of the sustaining fluid remained in his dead veins was stalling fast, seriously impairing his healing ability.

She had to get them out of here. She just didn't think she was strong enough.

First things first. She had to get rid of the pipe. He couldn't heal around it.

Morghane straddled Angel's hips, settling herself down on his long thighs. Careful, she wrapped her small hands around the metallic cylinder.

Angel still did not move.

Frowning, she allowed air into her tired lungs.

And pulled.

His cry startled her and he bucked wildly upwards, dislodging her.

She fell to the ground, the bloody pipe firmly clasped in her grip. Throwing it aside, she once again raised herself sluggishly to a kneeling position and appraised the results of her actions.

The injury was the size of a dollar coin. Some dark blood trickled down his stomach, but that was all. She waited for a little while. The gap didn't look like it was going to close by itself. She pushed herself up closer to Angel's face.

His eyebrows were drawn tightly in pain, and sweat pearled above his upper lip. He was pale as a ghost. His mouth was open, and rasping, wrenched moans escaped him in short succession.

Unthinking but for the fact that she needed to comfort him and drive the agony away, Morghane managed to raise his shoulders off the ground. Gentle, she cradled his head in her lap, with careless disregard for her own injuries. Slowly she bowed over him, impelled by her compulsion to keep him safe. And sheltered.

He whimpered a little and burrowed closer to her chest, his instincts driving him to seek out her warmth and her heartbeat. Idly, he wrapped one arm around her middle, pining her to him.

He raised his head, slow - hesitant.

Sniffed.

She felt him change against the bare skin of her abdomen.

Eyes closed, he opened his mouth and went straight for her blood-covered breast. Eerily, his fangs found Lisandra's still bleeding bite-mark and sunk into the soft flesh.

Startled, Morghane collapsed back to the ground with a tiny cry of pain and surprise, and Angel fell on top of her.

His tongue wrapped around her nipple as his teeth sharply parted her skin.

She grabbed his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

In the end, she just closed her eyes.

And let Angel drain her.

*

When Morghane came to for the second time, she was still aware of the pain, although it was a dull hum in the background.

There was once again a heavy weight pressing on her stomach, but of a wholly different nature this time.

And above all, there was sound.

A soft, repressed weeping. Small sobs shuddering against the velvety skin of her belly.

She tried to lift her left hand. Her limbs felt like lead. As if her wrists were chained to the ground. She had never been drained before.

A fleeting quote grazed the edge of her mind.

'Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.'

Morghane pushed Tennison away and took a deep breath.

The hold around her waist tightened. A tiny cry hitched close to her navel.

"Angel?"

No answer.

"Angel?"

Still, he wept.

Retreating inside her self, she seized the bond tying her to the vampire - and pulled.

*Angel!*

The sobs died down abruptly and she sighed in quiet relief. The weight against her stomach vanished and she felt him shift along her small, prone frame. Powerful arms lifted her off the ground, large hands caressed her skin in shuddery, sweeping strokes.

He was shaking so strongly, it made her teeth clatter.

"I'm okay, Angel. I'm okay."

He ignored her, cradling her in his lap, against his heaving chest.

"We'll be fine, Angel. You didn't hurt me. Look at me."

He choked and buried his face in her tangled, filthy hair.

"I... I thought... I'd killed you."

Summoning the strength she did not possess, she raised her hand to caress his dirt-streaked cheek. She shushed him sweetly.

"No, Angel. The... The counterspell worked. I'm immortal again."

He whimpered. "What happened?"

Her voice was quiet, lulling. "The circle was broken before the counterspell was completed. The unleashed energies destroyed the warehouse. Lisandra's dead. Everybody got out but us. We fell through the floor. I think we're in the sewers. I don't know how long we've been down here."

Angel sniffled and wiped away at the tears drying on his face like a tired child. "I think... It's close to dusk."

The vampire was still rocking her, although he didn't seem to realize what he was doing.

"Then the others will be back soon," she suggested. "They would have wanted to wait for the night before shifting the debris."

Without words, he undid the choke collar Lisandra had fixed around her neck.

"I'm sorry, Morghane."

"Enough," she growled. He tensed, bowing his head in shame, but she crushed her first impulse to console him. "I let you drain me, Angel. You were badly hurt, I was too weak, and one of us had to be in good enough shape to get out of here in case the others didn't show up. You just needed blood to heal. It's not like it was going to kill me."

Her tone was hard as steel and it tore her apart to talk to him like this. But she couldn't allow him to sink into a funk now. He would have time for that later.

She squinted and saw Angel biting back an apology.

The Guardian couldn't help it. She had to comfort him in some small way. She nuzzled his jaw a little and deposited a feather-like kiss there.

He closed his eyes.

"I heard you."

She nodded. "I called out to you."

"No. I heard you in my soul. Not emotions, like before. But thoughts..." He gasped in wonder. "Words."

"Yes. It takes a lot of concentration. It's not easy. But it's possible now, because the bond between us is stronger than it was before."

"How? W... why?"

She clasped his wrist and tugged as strongly as she could - which wasn't very much.

"Look at me, Angel."

He did. The deep dark pools of his eyes glinted in the golden glow of the magical sphere that still hovered over their heads.

"From the moment I learned about the happiness clause devised by the Kalderash, I worked on concocting a spell that would get rid of it. I succeeded. A long time ago."

He flinched, almost letting go of her. Her hand clutched his forearm, refusing to let go.

"No. Listen." He stilled, his body rigid against her back. "I couldn't cast the spell, though. It required more energy than I had at my disposal. The kind of energy that is only ever generated by ethereal magicks during the Rapture. That's why I went in search of Lisandra. I hoped that she could cast the spell after my passing."

"I know," Angel murmured, almost too low for Morghane to hear.

She frowned. "You do?"

He nodded. "The First told me as much, while you were unconscious. I just didn't believe it."

She worried her lower lip.

"Well, for once, it told you the truth."

Angel trembled fiercely. "You're... you're saying..."

His voice broke.

Morghane continued her explanation. "I was so far gone that only the most tenuous link subsisted between me and the ethereal community. When Giles cast the counterspell, and the magicks flowed back into me, through me... for all intents and purposes, I went through the Rapture all over again."

The vampire choked as realization overtook him. A small, mixed "oh" of surprise and raw pain escaped him and Morghane shifted in his embrace. She burrowed closer to him, wrapping her arms in a stranglehold around his waist.

"Your soul is yours, now, Aingeal."

He moaned, pushing his face into the gentle curve of her shoulder.

"Shh. We're okay now, Angel. We're okay."

"I... I..."

Deep tremors shook his large frame.

"Shh," she murmured again. "You need not say anything."

She felt his soul swell - both with hope and dread. Mind-altering joy and despairing sadness. A conflicted reaction someone with Morghane's experience could understand right away. With this new freedom came crashing down the weight of responsibility. And Angel struggled under so much of it already.

There would be a lot of confusion in the vampire's future. And fear. Angel couldn't go through yet another redefinition of his ontological self unscathed. It would take time.

The Guardian prayed that Buffy had the patience and strength to grant it to him.

Angel was over two hundred years old - centuries older if one counted his time in Hell. Yet his journey had just begun.

"It's... too much. I... I can't."

"Give yourself time."

He gave up a small, awkward cry and sought out her warmth and her heartbeat again. His mind crumbling around him.

His pain saddened her more than she could bear. But some battles had to be fought alone, some demons had to be conquered in the privacy of one's soul.

"Angel?"

The voice was soft, inquiring - tired, relieved and awed too.

The vampire started and Morghane lifted her eyes away from him to meet Buffy's dark, wet orbs.

The Guardian struggled out of Angel's embrace and grabbed onto a huge piece of concrete. She pulled herself up.

It was like a signal. The Slayer rushed forward, half-stumbling, half-running, and threw herself at her lover's coiled form with a hoarse shout.

Angel toppled over under the frantic onslaught.

Morghane swayed as what little strength she still possessed abandoned her. Powerful arms encircled her shoulders and she sighed.

"Will."

"You scared us to death, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay. We're all good now."

The Guardian leaned in the vampire's embrace, looking down on Buffy who was busy showering Angel with kisses.

Damn good thing he didn't need to breathe. And he hadn't said a word.

*No, Will. We're not all good. Not yet.*

"Why don't you go to him? She'll let you, you know," Morghane murmured, soft and low.

"This time's for her," he replied simply.

"How... How long have you been standing... here? How much did you hear?"

"Enough. The Slayer's in shock."

The Guardian shivered and Spike brought her closer to his chest, forgetting that he did not give off any heat. He lay his palm on her back. It came away wet.

"This duster is soaked." Spike frowned, considering his own attire. He wasn't even wearing a shirt, just his black tee-shirt.

"Here."

Xander appeared behind them, followed by Willow, Oz, Giles, Doyle and Cordelia. Only Wesley had been left above ground.

Spike took the coat Xander was offering with a small nod of thanks. He tugged Angel's ragged duster away from Morghane's shaking body, shielding her nakedness with his own frame.

It wasn't necessary. They had all lowered their eyes to the ground anyway.

Spike helped her get into the warm, dry coat. It reached to her knees and way past her hands. Then the bleached vampire looked down. And scowled.

Her feet were blue and covered in mud.

"Why didn't you say something?"

Incredibly, he sounded offended.

She smirked - although she didn't really feel like joking. "It's not like I'm going to catch pneumonia."

He grunted, then scooped her up in his arms.

Morghane didn't protest. She wanted to lie down. Badly.

And sleep for half a century.

"Let's go home, Will. Let's just go home."

It took a long time for Giles to pry his Slayer away from Angel. And even after that, Buffy wouldn't let go of the vampire's hand. Willow was explaining to Morghane how they had come back after believing them dead - to find that most of the rubble had already been moved around by emergency services looking for victims. But Buffy and Spike had refused to give up. The feeling that Angel still lived was a lot stronger there.

Then Giles had remembered Dunst mentioning the back entrance of the warehouse and suggested that they looked around the sewers. They had found an access across the street and then trailed around in the dark without a clue, until a soft, golden light guided them to the huddled forms of the Guardian and the souled vampire.

They dumped the humvee after wiping out fingerprints, just in case, and piled up in Oz' van to make their way back to Angel's. No one talked on the way there. No one mentioned the fateful words Morghane had pronounced in the sewers. In fact, the Guardian fell asleep in Spike's arms before they even reached the van.

Buffy was still clinging to Angel's hand, her face tucked in the hollow of his shoulder, murmuring soothingly in his ear.

The vampire's face was blank, and his eyes were closed. Utterly impossible to

read. But he was trembling, deep shudders that seemed to reach down to the core of his being and envelop him in a cold embrace.

Oz took stock of the general exhaustion and floored it.

They had to wait a few minutes for Willow to lift the protection spell she had cast on Angel's building so that the vampires could enter. Tacitly, they agreed to let Spike and Buffy put their respective charges to bed. Morghane was still lost in slumber, while Angel was practically sleep-walking. Only Giles accompanied them down to the apartment, just in case one of them needed assistance.

Angel insisted that Spike installed Morghane in his bedroom while he retreated to the foldout bed in the study. The first and only words he had pronounced since leaving the sewers.

"Let me help," murmured Buffy, subdued.

Angel's silence worried her, but she didn't want to push him - force him to talk. He had been through so much over the last week. She would be there for him when he needed her, but until then, it was enough for her to hold him tightly to her chest.

To feel him real and solid and alive against her.

Slowly, she unbuttoned his trousers and tugged them down his narrow hips. He wasn't wearing anything else. She guided him to the bed, pushed away the covers and Angel laid down, naked, on the cold mattress.

Buffy leaned over him and deposited a soft kiss on his cool lips.

"I'll be right back, love."

She kissed him again before leaving the room.

Giles was waiting for her, sitting on the living-room couch. He stood.

"How is he?"

"I think he's a bit shell-shocked right now."

"Who could blame him..." Giles mumbled under his breath.

"I'm going to take care of him. I need to tend to his wounds."

"Of course."

"Go to sleep, Giles. Take the others back to the motel. I'll see you tomorrow. We all need the rest."

The ex-Watcher smiled kindly at her.

"You too, Buffy. Angel is not the only one who went through Hell last night. Don't forget to sleep."

Impossibly, she blushed.

"Don't worry, Giles. And thank you. For everything."

He grunted. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Buffy."

"Goodnight."

After Giles went up the stairs, Buffy walked to the entrance of the master bedroom.

Spike was sleeping under a thick, blood-red coverlet, his eyes closed, holding a naked, unconscious Morghane in his arms.

Buffy smiled then made her way to the bathroom. She filled a small basin with warm, soapy water, collected a washcloth, a few bandages and went back to the study.

He was lying prone where she had left him. He hadn't moved at all. He was asleep.

Silent, she deposited all the items she had gathered on the desk and dipped the washcloth in the basin. With great care, she began to clean up his wounds.

Unexpectedly, tears welled in her eyes.

There were so many injuries, even if the most serious had healed already.

All of a sudden, it flooded back to her. Everything that he had gone through, all that he had suffered at Lisandra's hands. The news of his demise had eclipsed the memories of what the four of them had endured in that lair, but suddenly it was all there again - and the sobs overtook Buffy.

She clasped a hand over her mouth. She didn't want Angel to see her like this and start worrying.

Despite her wishes, he stirred.

He opened darkly ringed eyes and blinked a little. "Buffy?"

"Shush, love. Go back to sleep."

He paused, almost disoriented. Then, without a word, he gently tugged the washcloth out of her hand and she let him. He let it fall to the floor. Clumsily, he pulled her next to him in bed and, as soon as she lay by his side, his fingers found the buckle of her black leather belt, unhurried. He fumbled a little, and she took over the task, eager to feel him against her skin.

It had been so long. She had wanted this forever. She had no memory of a time before that craving, before that need to come home, before her love for him.

Soon, she was naked, and she lay her cheek over his unbeating heart, as if she had done this a thousand times before.

And in her dreams, she had.

Her small, warm hands crept up his chest and he growled low in his throat. His larger hand sought her wrist and he brought her palm to his lips, kissing the soft, delicate skin at its center.

She shivered, and eagerly lifted her face to meet his kiss.

Angel was coming home.

*

His tongue tasted the soft, welcoming insides of her mouth and he felt high, almost dizzy.

For a little while longer, Angel shoved away the feeling of doom, the certitude that he was careening towards his ineluctable destruction - the final breaking of his heart.

Buffy would not understand. Wouldn't forgive. And he couldn't fault her for it. She had given so much already, endured and pardoned. She had accepted his leaving, forsaken her rightful anger and taken him back into her heart.

He couldn't ask her to do it again. He had no right.

Just like he had no right to claim her as his once more, in this bed. Yet just the same, he couldn't stop and deny himself the ephemeral comfort of her arms.

He had been right that last Christmas. He was weak.

He would never be anything else.

His lips strayed away from Buffy's mouth and Angel burrowed his nose in the fragrant slope of her throat, just under her chin where the skin was soft, duvet-like, almost translucent. He inhaled deeply, wrapping himself in her scent, just like he was sheltering his body with the length of hers.

Buffy cooed a little, and a lone, cool tear trailed down his cheek to lose itself in her hair.

In the church, it had been about need and release - his need and her release. Tonight, it was about worship and communion. He stood at her altar, hoping to catch a glimpse of Heaven before being sent back to Hell. He couldn't get close enough to her warmth, close enough to her life, close enough to the warmth of the life burning inside of her, blossoming in her breast. The way her soul always seemed to make love to her body.

He lowered his head and sighed. His breath barely tickled the crest of her breasts and yet, she moaned.

Angel repressed a smile. He hadn't forgotten. Despite Hell, despite how long ago their first and only night felt to him, he remembered. Making love to the Slayer meant revering equally every inch of her. Buffy experienced the faintest touch with heightened sensitivity - much like a vampire would - and he relished the thrill of seducing the hunter in her. The predator. His demon's worst enemy.

"Angel..."

His name on her lips, in that raspy, slightly slurred voice, was his undoing.

He pulled her strong little body closer to his own. He sought out her mouth again.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative. Exploring. Kissing Buffy always felt like discovering new and wondrous territories. He could never get used to the taste of her, never tire of the shape of her lips, of the sweetness of her tongue. If he spent the rest of his eternity mapping her out with teeth and hands and eager fingers, he would never know her completely. Because change was a constant. Because she always shifted, even imperceptibly, to welcome his touch. And he kept on discovering infinite and enticing new ways of worshipping her - as if her soul was whispering to his.

Or maybe, this was better explained by a slight derivation of the Heisenberg principle. No observation could be made with certainty, because nothing could be observed without being altered. Heisenberg had never theorized the effect of the observation on the observer, though.

Angel whimpered as Buffy undulated against him, her coarse curls teasing the sensitive skin of his sex.

He could personally attest that the principle worked both ways.

His erection throbbed with need, but he ignored it. Buffy's hard small nipples poked his chest longingly. Neglecting them for one moment longer was blasphemy. Smoothly, he sat up, taking Buffy with him - and she yelped in surprise. She adjusted her legs, graceful, to straddle his lap without putting her weight on him.

"Angel, you're injured," she protested with a frown.

He did not answer. Couldn't. His throat was tight with longing and awe.

He stared.

Buffy began to bring her hands up self-consciously.

"Don't," Angel murmured hoarsely.

He raised his eyes to his lover's face and took in her flushed skin, swollen lips, disheveled hair and huge, clear hazel eyes. If he let himself, he could see the love for him overflow in her naked gaze. He could also see the pain and the fear. The lingering apprehension, a leftover of Angelus' cruelty and of all the times she had been hurt since.

The joyful, sublime sensuality which had awakened in Buffy under his respectful attention, to be nurtured and cherished for months, had been rudely shattered by the careless, cruel words of his darker half.

This he considered his most grievous sin. The one he would never forgive himself for.

*No redemption, Angel. None.*

Angel wished he could devote his life to healing that wound. But he knew he wasn't yet worthy of the task.

He might never be.

"Don't hide them from me. Please. They are so beautiful."

Buffy gasped wetly.

Slow and solemn, she lowered her hands and offered herself to his appreciation.

Angel's eyes brimmed with gratitude.

Unabashed, he devoured her with his gaze. The golden light spilling from the modest desk lamp cradled her curvaceous forms, framed her serene expression and sheathed her athletic limbs. He was reminded of a small statue he had once possessed. A marble representation of the Cananean deity Astarte, incarnation of Venus, warrior-goddess of love.

Angel bent forward, encircling her waist. He nuzzled the valley between Buffy's bared breasts, nudging a soft curve with his nose like a kitten begging for a sign of affection.

Buffy's pink-painted fingers threaded through the short hair at the nape of his neck. She bowed over him and brought her moist lips close to his ear.

"They are yours, Angel. Only yours."

He shook a little then stiffened under her hands.

"What is it?"

He moaned, muffling the sound against her bosom.

"Angel..."

Gentle, Buffy hooked a finger under his chin, raising his face to her. Sheepish, he was powerless to hide the unnatural shine pooling in his eyes.

"Oh, Angel."

Her voice broke, and she averted her gaze. Shame tightened the tiny lines around her mouth.

Angel silently castigated himself for causing her more pain. Promising to punish himself later for that transgression.

Buffy's breath caught on a sob. "I never should have left anyone else touch me... I'm sorry..."

Frantic, he stilled the hectic flow of words with the pad of his thumb across her lips.

"No, no. Never... Don't ever think... It's... it's..." He pushed the words past the lump in his throat. "I wanted this for you. I'm sorry you were hurt. I just... I wish I could have spared you this pain..."

This time it was Buffy who stopped him, pressing her mouth to his.

"This is all in the past, Angel. Here, now, we are together..." She bit down lightly on her full lower lip. "Love me?"

Angel set out to wipe out the doubt and uncertainty off her face.

This was unacceptable.

The guilt didn't lie with Buffy. It was his sole cross to bear.

"You're my girl," he answered with his trademark crooked smile - and she laughed.

The elegant, soothing tingle of wind-chimes. Snaking down his spine.

He lifted a trembling hand and gently cupped her left breast, feeling the comfortable heaviness, the firmness, the lush, soft texture of the skin. When his cool fingers closed around her, Buffy crooned. He brought his second hand to her right breast and closed his eyes.

His world narrowed down to the warm, perfect globes in his palms. They rose and fell between his fingers, as if they were inhabited of a life of their own, and Angel listened closely to the rhythm of Buffy's breathing. Its tempo echoed the light ups and downs of her breasts, and Angel felt like he was holding her breath, her life, in his hands.

She was silent. She did not moan or beg for more, and he opened his eyes.

Tears trickled down Buffy's face.

He brought his mouth to a perk, engorged nipple. His tongue emerged from parted lips to trace the shape of the dark aureole. It was like tasting raw silk. This time, Buffy whimpered - a high, wondrous sound of stark need - and his sex rose between his legs, straining against his stomach.

He cried out when Buffy's avid hands enclosed his aching hardness.

"Bu... Buffy... Love... Don't..."

She giggled, unrepentant.

Angel gripped her wrists tightly, careful to keep her nails clear of the sensitive skin, and pinned her hands by her sides - hoping to convince her without words to keep them there.

"It's not fair..." she whined. "How come I don't get to..."

Angel took the little pebble dancing in front of his nose in his mouth. It distracted her from her current train of thought alright.

"Angel!"

Her breathless shout stroked the fire in his groin.

His tongue climbed the little mount between his lips, exploring the crevices, the boulders and the cliffs being born as his coldness grazed her heat. He nibbled around the erected hill of skin and the need to suckle overtook him. He needed the maternal comfort. He felt that he could suck her very heartbeat into his mouth.

"Oh, God..."

Buffy clutched the back of his neck, crushing him to her softness, and he moaned again. Surrounded by the decadent aroma of her skin and the overflowing firmness of her curves, Angel was convinced that he could live the rest of forever here and be fulfilled. His mouth trailed from one nipple to another, leaving a cool trail in its wake, lavishing the same attention on her right breast. Velvety duvet tickled his nose and he teased the fine hair, blowing air on the moist skin. Goose bumps erupted over Buffy's chest and she threw her head back - exposing more skin to his avid touch.

As ever, the sight of the Slayer baring her throat to him shook Angel to the most visceral depths of his being.

Realization tore into him.

He was getting ready to leave her. Again. This time for his own sake more than hers. And whether she forgave him or not - he hoped that he could dredge up the strength to do what was right.

That meant speaking up now.

"Angel? You're crying... Angel?"

He was powerless to subdue the spasms jarring his bones to the marrow.

"Angel, you're scaring me." Despite her words, Buffy's voice was still calm and measured. As if she refused to add her agitation to his. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'll deal. We'll deal together." He shook his head, desolate. "Remember, Angel. No more secrets. I promise not to freak, but you've got to trust me with the truth."

Gracefully, Angel fell on his side, taking Buffy with him, her back to his front. He wrapped his long body around her smaller frame, spooning her. His arms circled her middle, his fingers coming to rest under the graceful arch of a breast. His right leg slipped between her knees and his sex nestled against the rounded curves of her haunches.

"Angel?"

His sight was filled with the golden mane of her hair and the tender curve of a shoulder. On instinct, his mouth found his brand on her neck. And the old, relentless shame - a bitter friend - sunk her claws in his soul.

"I'm not going back to Sunnydale with you."

Buffy's sharp intake of breath brought her spine closer to his chest.

"I... I thought as much. You have your life... here. It's... it's okay, Angel. Did you think I wouldn't understand... I'll come visit every other weekend, and you can do the same..."

"No."

She stiffened.

His heart snapped cleanly in two.

"What... what do you mean?"

"I... I need... some time. Alone. So much has happened, and I..."

Buffy convulsed in his arms. It might have been a silent sob.

"Buffy, please..."

"No, no... wait."

He fell silent.

"Make love to me, Angel."

He tightened his hold on her.

"Make love to me. And then, maybe, I'll be strong enough to listen. But not... not right now. Not after everything. We deserve more, Angel. You and me. Please... give us that much."

Angel couldn't deny her. He didn't want to. Even though Buffy was wrong - this was more than he deserved.

"I love you," he murmured against the delicate patch of skin behind her ear.

One of his hands returned to a painful nipple, rolling the tight pebble between his fingers, a blunt thumbnail scraping the excited flesh, his touch alternating between light and rough. His other hand slid down along her abdomen to her stomach, to the edge of the dark V between her legs. He wedged his thigh against the moist folds of her sex and Buffy arched against him with a hiss. His finger drew intricate, Celtic designs above her curls, hiking up her belly to her navel, then down again in a smooth dance of unending circles and Saint-John crosses. Buffy crooned as her muscles awakened to new, foreign sensations. He was teasing her womb through the silky barrier of her skin.

Moisture lazily seeped out of her sex, over his thigh. Her channel called out to him.

"Angel, please... Don't make me beg..."

Her sentence ended on a squeak, and Angel chuckled despite himself.

"Come on, love. You can take it. Trust me?"

"Yeah".

The whine was ripped from her throat.

His fingers wandered from one nipple to the other. The switch would only leave her bereft breast hungry for more attention, readying her for his next touch, keeping each nerve in a state of perpetual arousal which would only serve to magnify her liberation when it was finally offered. His thigh pushed against her sex a little more, tantalizing her clitoris with a shadow of the pressure she craved. His fingers continued their swirling waltz on her belly and Buffy began to shift restlessly in his embrace.

"Shh. Keep it in. Try to hold still."

She grunted. "I... I though it was my... t... turn, after the church..."

"Don't speak."

His tone was a little hard, and he felt her breast lift in his hand in response. Smiling, he nudged her head to the side with his chin, exposing his mark. He bent over the scar, and nipped at the raised skin with blunt teeth.

Buffy yelped and dug her nails in his hip, but he didn't mind. "Hold it, hold it, there." His fingers on her abdomen switched their patterns to tight concentric circles right above her center. "Right there, Buffy."

"It's... Angel, it's building... Angel."

His sex ground between the cheeks of her ass and the friction relieved some of his yearning. The scent of her arousal was driving him out of his right mind. Moisture flowed freely, abundant, over his skin.

He pinched her nipple. And she yelled.

Her voice got lost on a tangent of strident "oh, oh, oh..." and Angel knew it was time. Using his knee, he raised her leg, just as he was hoisting her up higher on the bed. The weeping head of his sex caressed her folds and he gasped.

Buffy stilled. She didn't even bother to breathe anymore.

Slippery, fragrant honey reached out to coat his hardness and then he was the one groaning mindlessly. Buffy was shaking again, her breathing erratic and desperate. She tried to impale herself on him, but he grabbed her hips.

She hit the mattress with a closed fist, protesting sluggishly.

She was beyond words.

Flattening his tormenting hand on her belly, he entered her with one long, smooth stroke.

Buffy didn't even try to stifle her scream.

For Angel...

Time dislocated, and eternity stirred joyfully in his soul.

When he rejoined his body, he could feel all of it. Her beauty, her intelligence and her strength, her compassion and her courage. It all originated there, at the core of her, where she welcomed him with all that she was. He was startled and humbled to discover that the well of her love for him sprung there too. From her center, her womb. The throne of life inside of her. His sanctuary of infinite belonging - where time had never been that enslaving universal invariant, but the eternal friend of his heart, guardian of his most precious memories.

Opening his senses and his mind, he committed the sensation to his soul.

Angel knew from the teachings of experience that this instant needn't fade or disappear forever. The moment would never be lost if he cradle it in the gentle embrace of his soul, nurturing the memory lovingly like one waters a rare, exotic rose.

There was true freedom and true comfort in the realization that, until his final death, he would shelter that beautiful fragment of infinity in his heart.

There was pleasure, and then there was this.

There was the feeling of Angel inside of her, stretching her, coaxing her to accommodate his size, promising ecstasy the instant he started to move. And then there was that sensation of utter contentment, the fullness of absolute completion - this imploding symphony of unqualified bliss and ancient belonging.

For so long, she had been lost, and Angel was showing her the way home.

She needn't go back or forward. She just needed to go within.

Tension in her nerve-endings was fast reaching the threshold of pain and she could not endure much more of the sweet torture, but she trusted Angel. The wave of her pleasure wavered on the brink of crashing down and she felt like the jumper holding onto the rail of the bridge. Rooted to the ground by hundred of thousands of years of evolution and the human drive to survive, yet inexorably pulled forward by the chimerical promise of oblivion and release.

Angel slid out of her completely before diving back in her tight channel.

Buffy howled.

Her world exploded in a concerto of light as the deepest orgasm she had ever known swamped over her and through her, wiping out her senses to leave her soaring high without ever renouncing Angel's grounding embrace - a willing captive of her own skin.

She slowly came down from her peak. Her inner muscles clamped down her lover's shaft, as if her body remembered what it was like to be without him, incomplete, and did not want to risk him leaving ever again. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wished them away roughly. They had tonight. Whatever Angel's final decision, it was so much better than having had nothing at all. She threw her arm behind herself to encircle his waist as best she could and pulled him closer to her.

"I love you," she whispered hoarsely.

Angel was licking her shoulder-blade, tasting her sweat. He raised himself on an elbow, the movement twisting his hardness inside of her, and she gasped. "I love you," he murmured against her cheek, kissing her. She bent her neck impossibly to reach his mouth and claimed him forcefully, needing to fill all of her with his presence.

As always, Angel read her mind, or maybe her body. He grasped her waist and pulled her on top of him, his front still to her back. Her head fell on his shoulder, bending back, and he turned his face to grant her mouth better access to his. She sucked his tongue inside her warmth and explored the cool surface, as if she was a stranger in a strange land. She sobbed a little against his lips, the pleasure was that strong - overwhelming.

Like he had done a hundred times before, Angel stroked the hair on her temple and she calmed, her breathing a little less raw, a little less asthmatic. But he was still inside of her. He raised his hips up smoothly, setting up a thorough, unhurried rhythm. His free hand caressed her tummy, palm down in big, encompassing strokes, pushing down lightly, as if he could feel himself moving under the layers of supple skin and firm muscles. The slight pressure echoed richly inside her core, more moisture seeped out and her vagina clenched around Angel. He grunted in her mouth. He bent his knees to raise her hips up a little. His hand reached down and found the small bud emerging longingly amid the drenched lips of her sex. His fingers danced over her, tantalizing, as his mouth and teeth alternated between nipping, gnawing and brushing her swollen lips. She never knew her mouth was that sensitive. It felt like her taste buds were sharing in the fun alongside the rest of her body. He rolled her clitoris between his fingers, barely applying pressure and she felt the heat build up again in the pit of her stomach, whirling.

It was almost like sea-sickness, but warmer, headier, kind of like the sensation of your lungs trying to crawl out of your throat as you plunged down the highest slope of a roller-coaster. Only without the fear. It was exhilarating and nauseating all at once, but you knew that the exhilaration would win out.

Angel dived deeper and twisted her clitoris, tickling the roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Buffy sunk back into herself when her second orgasm hit and she thrashed, gasping a silent cry of thanks to the heavens. She vaguely felt Angel gathering her closer to him, murmuring words of encouragement, love and praise in her ear, bringing her safely through the rush of mindless rapture. She blubbered with joy and he wrapped his legs around hers.

She felt protected and cherished, collapsing languidly against Angel. She would never have another lover like him, not that she would ever want one. A man of such innate decency and unshakable integrity, a man who worshipped her and who she worshipped in return, who could have her every nerve sing in ecstasy because he would never make love to her body without making love to her soul. The man who her soul embraced again and again as the mate it had known forever.

She gasped out for breath, and idly thread her fingers with his. "I... I need a little... break."

He turned her to face him, slipping out of her, and she protested his loss with a whimper. She lay sprawled across his hard chest, limbs akimbo, her forehead pressed to his. He pecked small, feather-light kisses on her lips.

"Come on, love. Just once more."

"Angel..."

"Please, Buffy. For me?"

He pouted.

She had never seen him pout before. He looked like a lost little boy, his huge, sad puppy dog eyes pleading with her, and she could refuse him nothing.

"Just... just once more."

He smiled, a blinding smile, and the bone-deep exhaustion vanished miraculously. She had no other ambition in life than to make him smile like that every night. If she ever achieved this, it would truly be enough fulfillment for her. She would count herself as one of the blessed.

As if inhabited of a life of its own, her hand trailed down one lean hip then slid down his flat stomach to find his hard length. Her palm cradled him lovingly and he gave a little sigh.

"You haven't..." She stopped, unsure of her words.

"I want to wait. I've waited so long already. I want to... be inside if you, as long as I can. Don't worry about me."

Buffy smiled. A small, sorrowful twist of her lips. "I worry about you. Always. I worry about your heart," she murmured, echoing his paroles of so long ago. "I want to keep you safe."

"You are."

"I want to give you happiness."

"You do."

The slight change in tense didn't pass by her. She would make him happy, always. But she couldn't keep him safe forever. They had but now.

Gently, Angel rolled her on her stomach, and she shivered with anticipation. The memory of the pleasure was so close, she could almost taste it already. Lifting her up with one arm, Angel slid a pillow underneath her hips, raising her slightly off the mattress. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he gripped one ankle in each hand and spread her legs.

She heard him growl.

More honey dripped from her core. Her thighs were already soaked. The pleasure billowed through her like some unrelenting wave from the mere imagined invasion of his stare. She had never felt more exposed in her life - nor safer.

Nothing happened for several seconds, and she fought the need to twist her head back to look at him. She had nothing that she wished to hide from his gaze. His eyes could cradle the smallest imperfection and leave her secure in her own beauty. It was a gift very few men possessed or yielded unselfishly.

His cold fingers followed the slope of her shins, then lingered behind her knees.

Buffy giggled.

"Shh."

His large hands progressed along her thighs, and she didn't feel like laughing at all. His touch stopped short of her apex and disappeared altogether.

She groaned. "I can't take much more of this teasing, Angel..."

"Shh."

When one questing finger drew the edge of her slick folds, she flinched, startled. A nail scraped the small patch of skin separating her sex from her ass and she jumped at the unexpected bolt of pleasure. Three fingers roughly invaded her sex as the foreign pleasure kept on flowing through her, and she rocked against the pillow. Her fists grabbed handfuls of covers and sheets.

"Angel!" she wailed, shocked to find the familiar white heat rising so forcefully, so soon. But even the heat wasn't white anymore. She began to distinguish colors amidst her pleasure. Angel knew her so well, he could alter the quality of her release, like the same music sheet could be interpreted in as many ways to suit the musician's mood.

Buffy felt first the abrasion of the stubble on his cheeks, scraping the tender inside of her thighs, then the lazy rasp of his tongue lapping at her sex, sipping the moisture pooling there even now. She thrashed in wonder to feel the orgasm building already, but Angel firmly grasped her waist with his hands. His tongue replaced his fingers, delving inside her scalding hotness. She mewled, she couldn't help it. When his elegant, classical nose poked her folds and his tongue and teeth found the tiny, straining bud of her pleasure, she bit down on the mattress under her face and let the bed swallow her scream.

She didn't have the leisure of regaining her senses this time.

Angel buried himself in her once again. And the invasion was sweet as ever.

His fingers lovingly drew the sweat-mated hair away from her face, and she gasped out for breath like a small carp in the fisherman's net.

"You're... you're gonna kill me, Angel."

He laughed, and it was worth it.

"You're the Slayer," he said simply, as if that was explanation enough.

Buffy quieted. He was right. She was the Slayer. He could never force her into anything - not that he would ever try to. And she realized that he trusted her as much as she trusted him. Trusted her to fight against her deepest instincts and not destroy him. To turn her back on him without looking for the closest stake. To let him lead her to bliss.

His first stroke was deep and slow, and Buffy reached out to grab one solid forearm.

"Don't... hold... back," she huffed. "Give it to me, Angel... Make me... take it."

"Are you sure?" His voice shook.

"Yesss," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Hard. Now. I want you."

There was hesitation, then Angel hooked his arms under her thighs, lifting her off the bed even more. The angle changed, and she moaned, loud and breathy. He thrust deep, and she saw stars - whole constellations of them. He slid in and out unevenly, grunting, and she could tell that his jaw was clenched. She spread her legs as far as they would go, opening to him. She heard whimpering and realized that it came from her. She was crushed into the mattress by his weight, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. She couldn't get enough of it.

"Harder, Angel. More!"

He thrust harder, hitting that spot inside her core, and she sobbed - little broken sobs of glorious ecstasy.

And then, she felt his cool seed spurting against her inner walls and tears flooded down her face.

Angel was shouting her name.

Buffy collapsed back onto the bed, and he collapsed too. He kept up his faithful litany of her name against the sticky skin of her back. He rolled on his side, cuddling her, and lay his tired head on her heaving chest.

Languidly, she brushed the hair away from his forehead and looked past his shoulder. She caught her expression in the glass of a framed painting on the nearby desk. She had never seen that look on her face before.

Buffy kissed the dark head pillowed on her breasts and stroked the nape of his neck comfortingly. He was trembling beneath her fingers, and she knew it wasn't the cold. She frowned. She had known how the night would end as soon as he had confessed to her what weighted on his mind. But dawn was far away still, and she would be damned if she let the pain ravage her life one minute sooner than necessary.

Something lying on the floor caught her eye, and her mind was made.

Buffy gingerly laced an arm around Angel's wide shoulders and turned him on his back. Without thought, she straddled him, her wetness against his strong thighs.

Their gazes locked.

"Buffy...?"

She sealed his mouth with a brief kiss and he fell silent. Angel was tense under her. He was steeling himself against her anger. She had been so angry at him in the past year, he had come to expect that from her. There was fear, but also a pained endurance in his dark eyes.

Buffy was coming to despise his aching stoicism, yet it was so much a part of who Angel was. And she loved all of him. It was all for her, this misplaced strength, this inappropriate display of generosity, this foolish bravery, this shame, even this unfathomable pain. They were the darker reflections of Angel's soul. So very few took the time to look beyond the faade of shadows he presented to the world. Morghane. Maybe Spike, in his own way. What would happen to Angel, to the lighter, brighter part of him if they abandoned him all? Who would answer his too rare smiles, who would enjoy his unassuming humor, receive his quiet wisdom, be worthy of his unwavering loyalty?

Who would love him?

Buffy bent over the edge of the bed, and she caught Angel's confused frown. But still he kept quiet, respecting her wishes.

She picked up the black scarf *probably Morghane's* and settled back on her knees.

Angel's eyebrows drew together.

Buffy worried her lower lip. "Will you let me?"

Angel tensed and his hands twitched. A muscle jumped in his throat. A shadow passed over his eyes and Buffy's expression fell.

What was she thinking anyway? Angel might as well have been back in Hell a few days ago - his nightmare had been so vivid. Yesterday, he had been tortured and raped in front of her eyes. This would look to him as if Buffy wanted to punish him. And she couldn't blame him for misconstruing her intent.

He nodded, and it didn't surprise her. It was so like him, to feel that he deserved anything she chose to inflict on him. She didn't want that.

"I would never hurt you, Angel. But you're always the one doing all the giving." He shook his head to interrupt, and she scowled. "No. Hear me out. I just want you to lay back and enjoy yourself for once. Please?"

He took a small breath. His gaze cleared, and he smiled a little.

*How can I not love him? There is so much to love in him.*

Relieved, Buffy hesitantly picked up Angel's left wrist and tied one end of the scarf around it, careful not to tighten it too much. She looped the scarf through a small bar at the head of the foldout bed, tugging his arm above his head, then tied his second wrist next to the first. The skin torn by Lisandra's shackles had healed. Only a slight redness remained. Still, she didn't want to hurt him in any way.

"Okay?"

"Y... yes."

His voice was strained. Buffy lowered her eyes and realized that the source of his discomfort had nothing to do with anxiety.

Angel was already fully erect, twitching in front of her.

She looked at him. If he could, he would have been blushing. As it was, he evaded her gaze. She would have none of it. So Angel was aroused by being restrained. She could have guessed as much from his colorful history. Who cared?

"Angel?"

Sheepishly, he looked at her.

She grinned lasciviously. "Like that, uh? Maybe some day I'll let you return the favor." Outrageous, she batted her eyelashes at him.

He choked, then laughed a little.

Satisfied, Buffy bent over him, running her hands down his sides. Her gaze embraced the offering laid out before her. Her mouth ran dry and her heart tightened in her chest. Each time, it felt like she had forgotten. Like his beauty was too poignant, too heartbreaking to ever be faithfully committed to her memory. She wouldn't have minded greeting each night with the prospect of that rediscovery - but Angel's fateful words echoed in her mind. Soon, memory would be all she had left.

Blinking back her tears yet again, Buffy took in the vast, dark horizon of him. She felt so small, perched on top of him. His size, like his strength, had always been a luxury she was eager to grant herself. She bowed over him, her hair closing like a curtain around them. She framed his face with her small hands. There was so much to see there, for who wanted to look. She remembered that night in the alley, and then later, when she had taken a better look at him in the mausoleum. That jarring, profound feeling of ancient recognition. The immediate, though confusing knowledge that - despite his first wounded words - a friend looked out to her from that face. The improbable tendrils of kinship had been woven that very day - and every day ever since.

Buffy brushed his mouth with hers, coaxing his lower lip to fullness and he allowed access. Their tongues dueled for a little while, playful. She could feel his grinding hardness insistently poking her middle.

Keeping his attention diverted with the kiss, she snaked an arm between them. Her agile little hand closed around his sex and Angel spasmed against her. She swallowed his shout, grinning against his lips like an unrepentant Cheshire cat. She pulled back, taking in the beloved prize cradled in her palm. She had forgotten. His size, his hardness, his smoothness. Yet she remembered her delight, years ago, when she had first beheld how it could grow under her fingers. She had relished the idea that this part of Angel belonged to them alone, that her and only her could ever lay eyes on its rigid, ripe perfection.

It was also then that she had realized she could give him pleasure in return.

"I'm sorry."

Angel blinked, confused.

"For what Lisandra did to you. I'm sorry I couldn't stop her from... raping you."

His expression softened and his compassion shone through. "It's okay, Buffy."

She shook her head, adamant. "No. No, it's not. I watched your pain, and it almost destroyed me. I couldn't stop it. And I knew you were baiting her... to protect me."

Angel lowered his eyes, and she understood, startled, that he still felt shame for an act which had been forced onto him.

Buffy knew words of reassurance would sound hollow. She bent a little and deposited a small kiss on the tip of his sex. He swelled between her fingers, and gasped. She eyed him surreptitiously. His head was thrown back, his lips parted, his lids tightly shut. A light flush colored his pale cheeks and he panted. The mist of guilt had lifted from his face. There was only pleasure.

Her thighs were soaked again.

He was beautiful.

Buffy realized that she had never told him. Or not enough. And that he needed to hear it, because he wouldn't know.

"You're beautiful."

Angel shuddered between her legs. She encircled the base of his sex and tightened her fist around his flesh. He jerked upwards. Her mouth watered. She smoothed the pad of her thumb over the head of his shaft. She teased the retracted foreskin with the edge of a nail and milky whiteness pearled at the tip of him. Buffy gathered the slippery liquid between her fingers and coated his length with it. She wrapped her palm around him and her hand glided effortlessly down his hardness. He moaned. Amazed, Buffy felt him expand again. It was a wonder that he could ever fit inside of her.

Her fingers slid up his sex, then down again, and she set a slow rhythm, experimenting a little.

"F... Faster."

Buffy giggled. She squeezed harder and jerked her wrist unevenly, hastening the pace.

Angel whimpered her name with trembling lips. He strained against his bonds, muscles standing out against the skin of his forearms, and Buffy slowed down.

"Don't, Angel. You'll hurt yourself."

His lids lifted lazily and glazed eyes found her worried gaze. "I... I..."

Reverently, Buffy brought her face closer to his sex. In any other circumstances, his expression - half hopeful, half scared - would have been comical. As it was, her throat seemed to close up.

Her tongue emerged between moist lips, and she idly licked the underside of him. He tasted like almonds and some kind of earthy spice. Not bitter, just heady. She remembered that taste, because she remembered those months spent discovering each other, her coy approach to his maleness, his patience, and her building confidence. For once, she allowed the memories to suffuse her, guide her, and Buffy understood what healing was all about. She was making love to him again, and it wiped her recollections clean of the taint of what had come after.

She took him in her mouth. Angel thrashed and twisted, his hips driving upwards of their own volition, but she was ready for him and she didn't choke. She loved him with her lips, her tongue, her hands and the muscles of her throat, and he shouted her name.

It sounded almost like pain.

"Buf... Buffy. Stop... Please... st... stop."

The words were torn from his chest.

She stopped.

"Inside. I... I want to come in... inside..."

Buffy kissed his stomach. She raised herself above him. Angel's eyes were wide and he watched himself disappear inside of her. Buffy moaned as her muscles shifted to accommodate his size. She had never been in that position before, above, and she had never felt him so deep. He filled all the space inside of her and she thought that she might burst. She hovered on the edge of discomfort, but there was no pain. Only pleasure, peace, satisfaction. Perfect contentment.

She smiled, and Angel smiled back. A tear fell down her cheek, and a matching one trailed down his temple.

No more longing.

For a little while, Buffy didn't move, admiring the shape of him underneath her. His solidness. She encompassed the expanse of flesh, skin and muscle with generous, lavish strokes. He had healed. The bruises had faded, some redness remained where Lisandra had abused his nipples. She could still trace the ghost of lash marks on his chest and arms. The hole in his stomach had closed up and she could tell that all his ribs had knitted into place. Buffy felt the weakness in his movements, witnessed the exhaustion in his eyes and face, but he would be back to full strength in a couple of days.

She had seen the blood on his lips and the fresh bite mark on Morghane's breast when Spike had given her Xander's coat. Angel had drunk from the Guardian. Buffy wasn't about to bring it up though. She had no idea how Morghane had convinced him to drain her, but she knew how her lover would have reacted upon realizing what he had done. She wasn't about to add more self-hate to the already overflowing pile by playing twenty questions.

Thankful for her Slayer constitution, Buffy raised herself up then slammed back down on him without feeling the strain in her thigh muscles. She increased the tempo, picking up a little litany of moans each time Angel's length hit the walls of her vagina. The friction was beyond what she could take, and soon she was arching up mindlessly above him, her hair flaring wildly around her face - senseless with joy.

This time it didn't feel like reaching a threshold, more like a brilliant explosion - like the grand finale at the end of a fireworks display. Expected but unannounced. Her body sung, exultant, and soon Angel joined her in this sacred dance, attuned to the mysterious language of their joining.

Buffy didn't realize that she had collapsed on top of him until the coolness of his chest against her inflamed skin filled her senses. Her heart rate slowed down and she sobbed her happiness in his collarbone. She plastered herself to him. Angel was still inside of her, softening, and she surrounded herself with him, unwilling to relinquish his closeness.

"Buffy, Buffy, please, untie me. Please, love, let me..."

Sluggishly, she reached for his wrists. She fumbled with the knot, but managed to untie one of his hands. It was enough. Angel tugged the scarf free of the bed rail and enfolded Buffy in his arms. She wrapped herself around him, hugging him as he hugged her.

He was memorizing her. And she had not realized it until it was too late.

She swallowed painfully, tucking her head under his chin.

"Stay."

She was the one who would be going back to Sunnydale, but he was the one who would be leaving her. And there, in the safety of his arms, it was more than she could take. She had to face reality again.

"Buffy..."

He was pleading with her.

"Tell me why..."

She fought to keep the tears out of her voice. She didn't want to make this hard for him. She respected him too much.

"Buffy, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I... I have to do what I feel is right. Not only... not only for you, but for me too." His voice trembled in his chest. "I'm not leaving you. I'm more thankful than I can say that you would still... still love me after everything I did to you. Knowing how badly I hurt you. Your compassion... It's... humbling. I cherish it, that you've remained the most generous being I've ever met despite all that has been done to you, and all that has been taken from you. I want to be worthy of that gift. But... I'm not. Not yet."

She couldn't help it. She had to protest.

"Yes you are, Angel. You are worthy."

"I don't know that."

Buffy closed her eyes, breathing a calming breath. He was right. He didn't know.

She had an epiphany. *That's what this is all about.*

"When..." - she refused to even think an 'if' - "When you know, will you come back to me?"

He choked. "Yes."

It was a promise and she felt comforted. This time, there was hope. She had had it with hopelessness.

"But our love is not a prison, Buffy. I don't want you to drag it behind you like a weight..."

"Never."

His arms tightened around her slim shoulders. "Please. Let me finish."

She sighed.

"I've lived a long time, Buffy. And I know now that we never make a decision for ourselves alone. Our most mundane choices impact on the lives of those around us - on the destinies of those we care for the most. Yet still we must choose, lest we be paralyzed by that realization - the understanding of our true responsibility." He gasped. "I need... some time, Buffy. I know you'll wait,

because I've seen the depth of your loyalty. I love you, but I can't stand the thought of that love being a burden to you. It would be a betrayal of all that has passed between us. So I... I want you to accept that I will abide by your judgment. I would never take the choice away from you again, I swore it. I must make peace with myself before I can be worthy of your trust. But I won't... I won't have my decision ruin your life more than I already have. If you meet someone..."

Tears spilled past Buffy's lids. Just how blessed was she again?

He was setting her free. Once more.

He did not understand that she had always been free.

"I love you." She had to say it. "Just... don't forget to come back to me?"

"Never," he promised fiercely. "I won't be far, Buffy. If you need me..."

"I know."

She shifted, pulling his head to the softness of her breasts once more.

"Sleep, my love. Let me watch over you for a little while longer."

*

Spike woke with a start.

Disoriented, he tried to bring his hand to his eyes as if he could chase away the pitch-black darkness of the room, but his arm was pinned to the bed. He frowned, confused, and ventured his free hand in front of him.

His fingers found silk. Hair.

*Dru?*

He didn't even remember falling asleep.

Spike drew himself closer to the body lying next to him.

Coursing blood. Breathing. Warmth. A heartbeat.

Memories of the last few days washed over him.

*Morghane.*

He gathered his unconscious charge closer to his chest and squinted. Now that he was awake, his vampiric eyes allowed him to make out her features. A light sheen of sweat covered her brow and pooled at the delicate indentation of her upper lip. Her eyebrows were drawn in pain or fear, her lids tightly shut. Her breathing was harsh, uneven. Raw. She twisted, fighting against the covers, her copper mane whipping the pillow of Spike's arm.

Tears streamed down her face.

Clumsy and reluctant, Spike shook her shoulder. "Wake up, Guardian. You're dreaming."

Morghane kept on thrashing weakly in his arms. Her lips moved silently and she hitched out a strangled, distressed cry.

"Bloody Hell," grumbled the vampire, at a loss as to what he was supposed to do next.

He mused briefly about getting up and finding Angel to drag him back to the Guardian's side, but thought better of it. His Sire and the Slayer had been loud enough earlier. Spike didn't want to interrupt something embarrassing. If Angel didn't kill him, the Slayer would.

And it wouldn't be pretty.

Morghane's breaths where still coming in fast, hard bursts. Spike was glad he didn't have to breathe. This looked painful.

He nudged her damp cheek.

"Come on, Guardian. It's just a dream..."

She moaned.

Spike growled.

This comforting stuff still wasn't his forte. He wanted to ease Morghane's pain alright; he just didn't know where to start. That morning with Buffy in the study had been an entirely different matter. Spike had been acting on instinct, wild with grief. Had been consoling himself as much as he had been soothing the Slayer.

The blonde vampire prayed that Angel never learned how close Spike had come to fucking the Slayer simply because her skin, her blood, reeked of his Sire.

Morghane arched off the bed, whimpering a string of cries, and Spike didn't tergiversate any longer. He straddled her, seized both her shoulders and yelled in her face.

"Guardian! Wake up!"

The mage came awake with a panicked shout - "No! Maureen!" - and Spike recoiled.

Morghane tried to turn but found herself pinned to the bed, and lost it. Her eyes were unfocused, her mind still trapped in the throws of the nightmare. She raised her arms to protect herself, fearful, and Spike saw the now familiar glow of the Guardian magick take over the misty emerald irises.

He acted fast.

Snatching one of the Guardian's shaking hands, he brought it palm first against his face.

"It's me. Spike. Calm down, Guardian. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The unearthly light didn't dim any.

Desperate, the vampire switched tactics. He fell to the side, taking Morghane with him, plastering her against his chest, and tightened his arms around her waist. His mouth found her ear. "It's Will, Morghane. William. You're safe now. Come back to me. Please, Morghane..."

Patiently, he coaxed her back to awareness and felt her relax against him.

"Will?"

Tiny, apprehensive murmur.

Spike knew then that the danger had passed. He pulled back a little and looked at Morghane. "You back with us, now?" he whispered, keeping his voice level. "You almost fried me, you know."

He meant it to be a joke, but Morghane closed her eyes and averted her gaze. She wriggled out of his embrace, and Spike let her go. She edged away from him, going as far as she could without falling off the bed. She clung to the mattress.

"I'm sorry."

The apology caught Spike unaware. He still wasn't comfortable apologizing to people, and certainly wasn't used to people apologizing to him.

"What for, pet? It was just a nightmare. No bid deal."

His tone was light, but Morghane kept facing away from him. He inched gingerly towards her, until his fingers grazed her bare back.

She flinched.

"Don't. Please."

"Guardian..."

"I'll be fine in a minute," Morghane interrupted quickly. Her voice wavered. "Just... just a minute."

"Yeah, right," Spike grumbled, ignoring her completely. He spooned her naked frame with his body and refused to budge. She twisted, but he didn't let go. She groaned and he heard pain. His hold loosened around her bruised ribs.

"Sorry, luv."

Morghane didn't answer. The tears were drying on her frozen face, her muscles rigid under his fingers.

"You..." Spike cleared his throat. Damn, but he sucked at this. "You dreamed about your sister?"

Silence.

"Is it because the First..."

"I killed her."

The words were uttered softly, almost wonderingly.

Spike remained speechless.

Morghane sighed. "I haven't dreamed about it in centuries."

The vampire settled himself on an elbow, bringing his face above her. Morghane's eyes shone, and this time magick had nothing to do with it. He brought a hand to the Guardian's forehead, and scowled.

"Cor. You're burning up."

The mage shrugged it off. "S'okay. It was like that the first time too. My body is regulating itself, adjusting to the magick again. I'll be fine."

Spike sat up against the headboard. He wrapped Morghane in the plush coverlet and cradled her feverish form in his arms.

"What happened?" asked Spike, subdued.

The Guardian tucked her thin, ghostly face in the crook of his shoulder.

"I was young, stupid and arrogant. I had been prepared to master Guardian magicks since my birth and left in my parents' care - which is pretty unorthodox. Usually, potential Guardians are taken from their families to be trained by the Watchers. But the craft was strong in my family. There was a Guardian among my ancestors, and my Mother was a powerful witch, well-versed in Fairie magicks." She shivered and Spike hugged her closer. It wasn't emotion, had to be the fever. There was no inflection in her voice, no expression on her face. "I was really close to my sister. We were inseparable. I was the baby of the family, and Maureen would always look out for me. She never married, despite the customs of the time. She never wanted to leave me alone. I was twenty five when I went through the Rapture. I should have left the house straight away, isolated myself, sought out the Slayer's protection... until the magick was under control.

"But I couldn't face the idea of abandoning Maureen behind. So I stayed, against my Mother's council. A few days after I was Called, I was attacked by some warlock who thought he could take on an inexperienced Guardian." Morghane smirked humorlessly. "I destroyed him alright. I had the power, but I still lacked the control. I released more energy than I could handle, blew up half the landscape and Maureen was killed, stricken by the untamed magick. My parents never forgave me. I left that day."

Morghane sighed again and struggled out of the restricting comforter.

Spike let her go, too stunned to speak.

The Guardian let her feet fall to the cold wooden floor and Spike saw her bit back a groan. She wobbled her way to an easy chair and picked up the bathrobe she had abandoned there what seemed like an eternity ago. She covered her nakedness, impatiently pushed matted hair out of her eyes, and ambled slowly out the door.

Spike remained seated on the bed, wondering what his next course of action should be.

With a groaned curse, he went after Morghane.

She wasn't in the living room, and he followed her heartbeat to the other side of the dimly lit apartment. He found her leaning heavily against the doorframe of the study. Quietly, he rejoined her side.

His Sire was lying in the middle of the foldout bed, curled on his side around a pillow. Angel slept soundly, unaware of their presence. Distracted, Spike took note of a strong shoulder peeking seductively from beneath the covers.

Shaking his mind free of lustful thoughts best left alone, the bleached vampire turned to look at the Guardian.

A small, bitter smile lingered on Morghane's lips.

"What happened to this room?" she whispered, keeping her bare feet clear of the debris of a vase.

Spike surveyed the wreckage and winced, embarrassed. "I thought he was dead."

Morghane nodded. That was explanation enough.

Spike watched his Sire, surprised that Angel hadn't sensed their presence by now. Something was missing in this picture.

He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, puzzled.

"Where's the Slayer?"

"She's gone," said Morghane.

"Gone? I thought it would take dynamite to make her leave his side."

"He's leaving her."

"What?"

Spike's exclamation was harsh and disbelieving. He caught himself, and checked to see if he had disturbed his Sire's slumber, but Angel didn't even twitch.

"I heard her. She gathered her things and left a couple hours before dawn. I knew Angel needed the rest, so I worked up a little sleeping spell. I could as well not have bothered. He's sleeping the sleep of the exhausted."

"He's leaving her?" repeated Spike, almost shell-shocked.

"It's a good decision."

Spike growled. Lucky thing he wasn't susceptible to massive coronaries, or his brain would be oozing out of his ears.

"Run that by me one more time, luv?"

Morghane sighed, never taking her eyes off the object of their conversation.

"Angel's soul is his own now. After everything, he's had to face the fact that, regardless, he still doesn't feel worthy of Buffy's love." Spike couldn't really tell if the Guardian was talking to him, to the vampire on the bed, or if she was simply thinking out loud. "Before I anchored his soul, it was a non-issue. Now..." She smirked. "I'm sure Angelus' reappearance and the First's little mind games probable didn't strengthen his self-confidence any."

Spike groaned in disbelief. "So now that he can have what he's always wanted, he just sent her packing back to Sunnydale and he's gonna spend the rest of eternity brooding?"

He snorted. This Sire of his really had it in for self-inflicted torture.

Then he remembered Angel in chains and bleeding, goading Lisandra to protect the Slayer and his Childe - and Spike sobered. "I don't understand it. Any of it."

Morghane got that far away look that Spike had learned to recognize as the 'overprotective Guardian mode' Angel had the knack to trigger.

"Do you know that Angel is truly unique?" she muttered softly. "I don't mean because he is the only vampire with a soul out there. I mean because he is the only souled creature condemned to a life in darkness. And I'm not saying condemned by choice or by circumstances, I'm saying condemned by nature. To a souled creature, there is true relief in knowing that, by definition, daylight will drive away the things that go bump in the night. That everything will be okay if only you can make it to dawn.

"Angel doesn't have that most basic of comforts which is granted to all souled creatures. And he never will. Just as his soul will always crave light, but will always be denied it, dooming Angel to a raging war against his own nature." She sighed deeply. "What I'm saying, Will, is that Angel has to make his own way. He is unlike any other. No one has opened the way for him. Humans have thousands of years of philosophy, poetry and spiritual thought behind them, guiding them - even if they are nothing but ideas to push against in an attempt to strive further. Angel is the only one of his kind. He has no experience but his own to draw upon. It's not easy making your way in the dark on your own, when you have no idea of the destination."

Spike absorbed all this silently. He shook his head. "But why leave the Slayer?"

Morghane leaned against his side. He could feel the exhaustion permeating her bones. He wrapped an arm around her middle.

"It's not that he wants to leave her. He just needs to be alone for a while, and if not utterly alone, then away from her. Self-discovery is sometimes a grim process, Will. Trust me. He wouldn't want Buffy to witness it. He doesn't feel worthy. And she would try to interfere, to help, despite herself. Validation of one's self cannot come from outside, it has to come from within."

"He loves her," mumbled Spike - not knowing himself if it was a question or an affirmation.

"Do I dignify that with an answer?" Morghane chuckled. "It's not that Angel stopped trusting in their love. He never did. It's just that he never trusted in himself. If it was only for the happiness clause, he never would have left her in the first place."

Morghane stepped forward, forsaking Spike's support, and shuffled to the bed with aching slowness.

"We must all prepare for war," she murmured, straightening up. "There can be no fear, no doubt, no weaknesses in the conflict ahead," - she smiled faintly - "or as little as possible." She bent to deposit a slow kiss on Angel's forehead and drew the covers tighter around him. "Angel's soul will be taxed as much as his body in the upcoming battle. Why do you think Doyle was sent to him in L.A.? Deep inside, Angel knows what will be required of him as Warrior and Slayer's Consort."

"You knew this would happen? You knew the stupid wanker would leave her?" asked Spike, wondering despite himself what his own role in the war would be. He was aiming for careless detachment, yet knew that he hadn't fooled the Guardian any.

Morghane's back was to him, and he watched her shoulders hunch over slightly.

"I had an inkling. Through... different channels." A pause. "I just didn't think I would survive to witness it."

She turned around, passed Spike, and treaded back to the living room.

The vampire followed, closing the door of the study behind them with a soft click.

He found her sitting on the couch, looking forlorn, her head thrown back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She was still talking. Spike didn't think she was addressing him anymore.

"There will be no rest for them, until they realize that it's not about duty. Duty cannot sustain you. And it's not about punishment. There is no such a thing as making amends. Amends to whom? The only peace you need to make is with yourself. Your only responsibility is to your soul." Her breath caught a little in her throat. "It's all about being true to your nature, to who you are. They are warriors, and they are lovers. If there's duty to be fulfilled, it's a duty to each other."

Spike pursed his lips. "Guardian... you're crying."

Morghane let her head sink to her chest.

"Yes. I'm crying. I'm crying for him, for her, for them, for you, for me. I'm crying for what lies ahead. I'm crying for what's been taken from me again. I'd like to be selfish for a little while longer, Will. If you don't mind."

She struggled to her feet, shaking her head when Spike offered a helping hand.

"I need to take a shower."

The blonde vampire couldn't stop himself. He leered at her. "Want me to join you?"

Morghane's eyes darkened. "That's all I seem to inspire anymore. Pity fucks from soulless demons."

Spike blanched.

He hadn't expected that kind of cruelty from her. Hadn't expected the words of someone who last week he had considered an enemy to cut so deep.

*Fuck, that hurts.*

He tried not to flinch when Morghane slipped her hand in his, tugging lightly. "I'm... I'm sorry, Will. That was harsh and I didn't mean it. I... I'd like you to come with me."

Spike froze. "You sure, luv?" he asked grudgingly.

Morghane nodded and smiled. A tiny, self-deprecating twist of her lips.

Spike scowled. The Guardian had way too much in common with his self- flagellating idiot of a Sire. The younger vampire might be able to experience guilt, but he was still a demon at the core, and these two redefined the concept of martyrdom. It was ridiculous.

Without another word, Spike picked Morghane up and the Guardian smothered a yelp, startled. He crossed the living room and pushed open the door of the bathroom with his foot. He set the Guardian down on the edge of the tub and began tugging his clothes off. He caught a flash of her face. She was blinking slowly, as if trying to come to terms with the reality of what she was seeing - or fighting a weird case of deja vu.

Her mumbled words confirmed his suspicions. "What is it with you people and washing me up..."

She didn't expect a response and Spike didn't give one. Soon, he was naked and had the water running hot in the shower. He stood over Morghane and reached for the tie of her robe. She surprised him by anticipating his move and dropping the garment to the floor. She stood up unsteadily and faced him, her expression unyielding.

The bruises were fading, but they still looked painful. The gaping wound left by the Sepulcher had closed up. The blood had dried around the bite mark on her left breast and between her legs. Spike's fangs hitched at the sight.

The vampire couldn't deny the effect the sight of Morghane's abused form had on him. He growled, and his cock twitched between his legs. Bound or not, he was still a demon. His connection to the Guardian's and his Sire's soul hadn't tamed him _that_ much. The aftereffects of Morghane's binding spell had given him the ability to make a choice. Since there was no more gais, Spike was, for lack of a better word, un-determined - allowed to rise above the limitations of his nature. It was all about freedom. It was about equilibrium too. His newly acquired conscience balanced his demoniac cravings.

But the vampire had needs, and the spectacle of the Guardian's violated body fulfilled a few of those. Just because he couldn't inflict that kind of damage anymore did not mean that the idea had stopped... appealing to him in some ways.

Lisandra's words resonated around his mind, unwanted - uninvited. *'Demons like to mix some pain with their pleasure.'*

His cock hardened against his stomach.

Morghane watched dispassionately. Unruffled.

Spike's fingers wound around her wrist and he led her quietly to the shower stall. She stepped under the scalding water and hissed. Spike adjusted the temperature. She relaxed under the stream. The vampire poured some shampoo in his palm and worked the lather in her hair. Morghane sighed. She laid her hands flat against the wall for support.

Spike massaged her scalp for long minutes then skillfully rinsed the foam away. He had done this very same thing so many times for Dru. He picked up the soap and trailed the bar along her skin, down the valley between her shoulder blades. He was careful not press on the lash marks marring the mage's back, keeping his touch light. His arms slid around Morghane's waist. He dropped the soap and cupped her breasts - stroking the soft weights nestled in his palms. He steered clear of the bite mark but washed away the blood.

"Don't."

Spike pressed closer to the Guardian's back, his cock flushed against her haunches.

"What is it, luv?"

"Don't... don't be gentle. Don't even try. I don't need... I don't want that."

Spike's expression darkened. "You're hurt, pet."

There might have been a sob, but he couldn't tell for sure with the water pounding down on them.

"I can't take it right now. Please. Don't... don't act like you..."

Morghane didn't conclude, but she didn't need to.

*Don't act like you care.*

Inexplicably, Spike felt his anger rise at her assumption. Yes, he had been aroused at the thought of adding a little pain to their sexual encounter, but it didn't mean that he wanted to hurt her. Or that he didn't sincerely wish to comfort her. That he didn't care.

Annoyed, Spike turned Morghane around and pushed her against the wall with more force than was necessary. His cock stood at attention, rigid and painful against her belly. He snarled.

She didn't even blink.

Morghane looked up at him - her wide, barren green eyes stripping him bare. She didn't even try to hide her thoughts from him. She was provoking him. He had reacted exactly as she had known he would, strengthening her conviction that he didn't care.

*Making her bloody fucking point.*

He growled, and still she didn't flinch. Morghane pressed closer to him, her taut nipples teasing his hairless, alabaster chest, and he finally understood what she needed. She needed the pain to wipe away the numbness left in the wake of her unbidden resurrection. She needed Spike's hardness to pound inside her and fill up the emptiness, the hollowness eating away at her soul.

But above all she needed Spike to play the game, to help her maintain the illusory belief that their brutal joining would somehow fill these needs. Would soften the blow of having been forcefully robbed of the peace which had embraced her as she welcomed the specter of her demise. Would drown out the unrelenting call of duty, the prospect of more endless battles - and more solitude. Would kill the ache and longing festering inside of her.

Spike was surprised to discover that, on some level, this all made sense to him.

"I'm sorry."

Morghane's apology was unexpected, and he arched a scarred, confused eyebrow.

"I'm sorry for condemning you to this. For making you like us - Angel and I - the only one of your kind, and..."

Spike silenced her with a firm kiss.

He didn't want to think about these things. He wasn't one to waste his energy planing ahead and worrying about tomorrow.

"I'll give you what you need, luv, 'cos I want it too. But I won't hurt you."

Morghane didn't say anything. She tucked her chin against his breast bone and bit his nipple.

Spike gasped and narrowed his eyes. "Okay. Not much."

He grasped her rounded hips and twisted her around, pulling her ass against his cock. The Guardian moaned and Spike sneered, glad to be rid of her cool mask of indifference. He pushed her legs apart and reached down to his stone hard member. He guided himself to her entrance, finding slippery moisture there, and slammed home with one thrust.

Morghane spasmed and clenched down on his hardness with a ferocious cry of relief. She sagged forward, her legs giving out under her. Spike wound one arm around her middle, hoisting her up his torso to compensate for the difference in height. The Guardian's feet dangled a few inches above the tiled floor. Morghane threw a hand behind herself, grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face down to hers, twisting her neck to give him better access. Spike crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her. She devoured him right back, almost frenzied, as if there could never be enough contact between them. As if he would never be close enough to her body.

"Will, please..." she begged against his lips.

Spike lifted her up, almost slipping out of her, then let gravity slam her back down on his cock.

She howled, shaking, hanging onto his neck as if she was drowning. Her fiery hair was plastered to her face, her shoulders thrown back, displaying her glorious, heavy breasts, and her perk, tight nipples. Spike chose to ignore them. He slid his free hand around her hip and plunged his fingers through her wet curls. He found her clitoris and pinched, thrusting savagely inside her once again.

Morghane came with a long wailing cry, thrashing against him like a wild thing.

He held her.

Spike didn't know if it was the bond, this circle that irremediably tied him to the Guardian and his Sire, but he could have sworn that he felt the energy flowing out of her, the pain, the anger, the grief - liberated - cleansing Morghane with their uncompromising starkness.

He wanted her to enjoy the freedom for a little while.

Morghane's nails tore at his shoulders. "More..."

Her untamed frenzy was contagious. Spike twisted her so that she faced him, his hardness still sheathed in her channel. He kissed her, long and thorough. Her fingers lost themselves in his bleached blonde hair, her legs locked around his waist. He drew the sweetness of her tongue in his mouth, realizing for the first time that he needed the comfort for himself.

He burrowed his face between her lush breasts, tasting the silk of her skin, rooting for her heartbeat. The bite mark called to him, but bound or not, the demon still recoiled in fear and disgust at the thought of tasting her blood. Still he was drawn to the twin, red holes marring her full curves.

He sniffed, and all became clear.

"Sire..."

"Yes."

At Morghane's hissed confirmation, Spike lost it.

He dropped her back on her feet, slipping out of her. Tugging on her hips, he forced her to bend a little at the waist and keep her legs open wide. He guided her palms flat to the wall and squeezed her wrists, ordering her without words to hold the position. Spike felt Morghane shiver with need. She bent deeper, raising her haunches to him, wriggling her hips a little.

He kneaded the flesh, parting her cheeks, and followed the cleft with the tip of a finger to the puckered ring of sensitive skin. He pushed two knuckles inside, stretching her, preparing her. She drove against his hand, crooning softly.

"Don't worry... Do... just do it."

Spike snarled. He didn't need to be asked twice. He held her in place with both hands around her hips and delved in her delicious, tight heat with one powerful stroke.

Morghane ground against him, sighing deeply.

Spike groaned. The scalding heat, the unbearable tightness and the scent of his Sire. He felt dizzy. Suddenly frantic, he lashed onto the writhing body in front of him and clutched the Guardian to his chest, forcing Morghane to bend her spine. He sheltered his face against the smooth slope of her neck.

This was as close to Angel as he was likely to get ever again.

Realization dawned and the blonde vampire staggered. He hadn't allowed himself to contemplate that dreary truth until now.

Blunt nails dug into his forearms, yanking him back from the brink.

"It's okay, Will. It's okay."

He had been whimpering against her skin all the while. Driven, angry at his weakness and shocked by the intensity of the unexpected pain, he shoved Morghane against the wall again, pounding madly into her. He was aware of her tight, strangled cries, but he didn't care.

Torn.

It was her fault. She had done this to him. Yes, he owed the Guardian his reunion with his long-estranged Sire. If it wasn't for the binding spell, he would never have made his peace with Angel.

Made love to him again.

On the other hand, he would never have known this searing agony either. He owed that brand new torment to her too.

Never slowing his thrusts, Spike reached both hands around Morghane. He plunged three fingers, crudely, inside her dripping sex. With his other hand, he found a straining nipple. And twisted. Hard.

The Guardian exploded around him. Her muscles clenched down on him viciously, and Spike toppled after her into ecstasy.

He crumbled to the ground. He had enough presence of mind left to cushion Morghane's fall with his own body.

For long minutes, there was nothing but the undisturbed thunder of rapidly cooling water, pelting down on them. When Spike found the energy to move, he shut off the stream, gathered Morghane in his arms and staggered out of the shower stall. He wrapped them both in the same large towel, too exhausted to care, and shuffled out of the bathroom with his precious cargo.

He never made it to the bedroom. They collapsed on the sofa, the Guardian plastered to Spike chest.

Idly, the vampire began drying her skin inch by inch. Morghane's eyes were closed, her breathing steady. When he reached her breasts, Spike couldn't help himself. He bent, soothing the abraded nipple with the coolness of his tongue.

Catching sight of his Sire's brand, he pulled back.

"I'm sorry."

Morghane's hand found the nape of his neck and drew his head to her soft stomach.

"Shh," she whispered against the blonde crown of hair. "It's what I wanted, and... and I understand."

Spike sighed against the warmth of her belly. "Where will you go, luv?"

She shrugged, the muscles rippling under his cheek.

"I don't know."

"You said Guardians needed the protection of the Slayer after undergoing the Rapture."

"I won't do this to Buffy. And it's not my first Rapture. I should regain complete control quickly enough. I just need to... isolate myself for a little while."

Neither of them brought up Maureen again.

"Need me?"

Spike repressed a disgusted snarl. This bashful voice could not possibly belong to him.

But the Guardian never answered. Just drew him tighter to her damp chest.

*

EPILOGUE

"Don't you just love comfort food?" Willow piped up, nursing her hot cocoa swimming with marshmallows - snuggled in Oz' arms.

Buffy nodded with a small grin. She did indeed love Oreos dipped in Chocolate Fudge Mint Chips and chocolate coated with peanut butter.

She just wished she didn't need comforting quite so often.

"Here, Buffy."

Giles deposited a fresh cup of steaming Earl Grey in front of her.

The Slayer giggled. "Guys, I really appreciate all this. But I'm not sick." Her tone softened. "It's been over a week, you know. I wasn't even injured. It's all good."

Xander dropped on the sofa next to Buffy, his goofy smile sweetened by his very real concern for her. He clasped her hand in his - glad that Anya wasn't there to misinterpret the gesture.

"We know that, Buff." He snatched an Oreo out of her hand. She growled. He laughed. "But it's nice, dontcha think?"

Buffy laughed too. And stuffed a chocolate sauce-covered marshmallow in her mouth.

Xander was right. It felt nice. If nothing else, their adventure in L.A. had tightened the ranks of the Scooby Gang. Before that, they had been drifting away, slowly but surely. Willow and herself had been busy getting used to their new college life, Giles had been struggling with his unemployed status and Xander had mourned the loss of his classmates, trying to find a place for himself in the girls' life. Trapped on the fringe.

They had forgotten to nurture the precious gift of their friendship - taking it for granted. Fighting against Lisandra and the First to save Morghane's life, then Spike's, Angel's and Buffy's as well, had reintroduced them all to this most cardinal companion of strength: unity.

Buffy stirred, catlike, her gaze sweeping lazily across the room and its occupants. She reveled in the easiness of kinship and in the warm glow of companionship, as much as she did in the crunchy peanut butter melting on her tongue. Wounds which had been allowed to fester for far too long had been addressed in L.A., and their friendship was stronger for it.

Angel had taught this to her, a long time ago. There always came a time when a relationship was tested, when friends drifted apart, carried away by the treacherous currents of familiarity, routine, predictability, resentment, and indifference. If companions weathered this test, their love would emerge, healthy and pure.

After the destruction of Sunnydale high school, they had faced the specter of change and projected their fears onto the future - like so many self-fulfilling prophecies. Buffy understood that now. The Slayer wished she could thank Morghane for presenting them with the opportunity of this rediscovery, but she knew what the Guardian would say. That all power came from within, spilling forth from the tender wellspring cradled inside the soul. That Buffy and her friends had fought their own battle and made their own chance. They had embraced the delicate rhythm of growth, and had nothing else to thank for it but their own wisdom and strength.

They had made their own family. And with few exceptions, blood had nothing to do with it.

Chagrined at her silent pun, Buffy's gaze trailed to the slouched form of Spike in a corner of the living room.

The sight of the blonde vampire triggered thoughts of Angel.

It had only been a little over a week, but already he had wrote to her twice. Buffy liked this exchange of letters better than daily phone calls. Calling him would have negated the whole purpose of them staying apart and his letters comforted her, gave her something of him to hold.

When she had opened the first envelope, she had expected sharp pain. Instead, there had been nothing but suffusing warmth and a dulled nostalgia. She still felt his absence, deeply, but the hurt had lessened. She had known - really known - Angel's love, had sheltered it at the core of her, so that she carried a piece of him everywhere she went. The bitterness, the hardness she had dragged behind herself since graduation like frozen stones, had melted inside his arms.

She was beginning to see.

Someday, they would come together. And there would be no more need. Just belonging.

In the meantime, she had her friends. And, funnily enough, she had Spike. A few weeks ago, the idea that she could ever find some soothing quality to the blonde vampire's presence would have been laughable. Not so now. Spike was yet another token of Angel's.

They spent a lot of their time bickering like children, much to Giles' dismay, and Spike had to be coaxed and cajoled into helping out with the demon hunting. Bound or not, he was still first and foremost a self-serving vamp. Yet more often than not, he would agree to accompany her on patrol.

Buffy was a link to his Sire, just as he was her tie to Angel. The one who knew him almost as well as she did. The one who understood.

Sometimes, Spike would get that sullen, far away expression on his face, and the Slayer would know that he was either missing his Sire, or worrying about Morghane.

She worried too.

That night, she had left Angel's apartment a little before dawn, oddly lethargic, almost detached, too exhausted to think. She had walked to the motel, sneaked inside the room she shared with Willow, dropped down on the bed fully clothed and proceeded to make up for about a week worth of lost sleep.

She had awakened at dusk, her Slayer sense hitching - heralding nightfall. She'd stumbled inside Giles' room. They had been waiting for her there, wondering why she wasn't with Angel.

She had explained, to the best of her ability at the time, what had passed on between herself and the souled vampire.

They kept silent, probably waiting for her to break down in tears. She remained dry-eyed, and explained some more. This was just temporary. She refused to discuss ifs and maybes.

Willow had felt the need to put Angel down - calling his decision selfish and irrational. To Buffy's unending surprise, the Slayer didn't even have the time to open her mouth, correct her friend and explain that, this time around, bad- mouthing was uncalled for. Xander was the one to set Willow straight, asking her with a few terse words to lay off Angel.

Which was when Spike had come knocking on their door.

Buffy had been unable to decipher his expression. The vampire's face was, for lack of a more eloquent descriptive, empty. He explained that Morghane had spent half the day with Angel, then left. Alone. Spike had remained at his Sire's side until Doyle and Cordelia had showed up at the office. Confident that Angel wouldn't be on his own, he had come to tell the Slayer and her friends that the Guardian had skipped town.

Spike refused to explain what had passed between himself and Morghane. Or what he had talked about with Angel. Bluntly, he announced his intention to go back to and settle in Sunnydale.

His stare dared anyone to argue.

Buffy had simply taken his hand and led the stony vampire to Oz' van. The De Soto was parked next to it.

Spike had been living in the mansion ever since then. Buffy had gotten used to his shadow following her wherever she went on those nights he refused to patrol with her. Or on those nights she didn't ask. And the Slayer had taken to stopping by the mansion in the middle of the day. If he was sleeping, she would sit by the bed and watch him, or pick up one of the many books Angel had left behind and read. If he was awake, he would make tea for her, grab a beer for himself, and they would sit side by side - or she would sit and he would pace like a caged tiger.

On occasions, they would talk. Spike would tell her stories of his tribulations with Angelus in nineteenth century Europe, leaving out the goriest episodes. More often than not, she would laugh. Spike had a way of recounting these things. Once in a while, Dru's name would come up, but they tacitly agreed to steer clear of the topic. Dru still meant something to the blonde vampire, and, try as she might, Buffy couldn't find it in herself to empathize.

They never talked about that night. The night Spike had made love to Angel. The night Buffy had watched. It was, much like the rest of what they had endured at Lisandra's hands, forbidden territory. But it was the memory of that day which bound them together, defined the connection between them.

Not quite friendship, yet more than companionship.

"Buffy?"

She jumped. "What?"

"Willow's been trying to catch your attention for a whole minute," said Giles, his brow furrowed.

Buffy shook her head. She didn't want to worry any them. "Sorry. Just thinking." She shrugged. "You were saying, Wills?"

The young witch bent forward, handing her something. "I picked up the mail this morning."

Buffy recognized what Willow held between her fingers.

An envelope.

Buffy's face lit up and her body uncoiled gracefully from the couch. She accepted the envelope with a wide smile.

She frowned.

The handwriting was elegant and old-fashioned. But it wasn't Angel's.

Her eyes found Spike, and she shook her head imperceptibly. The vampire relaxed marginally.

Curious, Buffy opened the missive with care, breaking the seal. She had never received a sealed envelope before. Her gaze was drawn to the ornate signature at the bottom of the last page.

Her eyes widened.

"It's from Morghane."

"I recognized the seal," said Oz. "It's the Guardian mark Morghane has on her shoulder. It was posted from Dublin."

Silence blanketed the room. Buffy knew Spike had tensed without having to raise her head. She skimmed the contents of the letter then got up. She covered the few feet that separated her from the blonde vampire. Without a word, she sat on the floor, her back to him, settling between his knees.

She felt him bend over her shoulder to read alongside her. His thighs brushed against her upper arms. She began to read.

No conventional greetings.

'Warriorship has, understandably, often been mistaken for the way of war. Warriorship, however, is the path of freedom. The true warrior has achieved freedom from his self-limitations, from the bonds of social conditioning and the barriers of fear.

'The warrior thrives within, and beyond. Blossoming within, the warrior knows the core of himself - intimately familiar with each of his strengths and weaknesses. The warrior does not shrink from negativity. He embraces it. Transcends it. He sees hidden possibilities behind every obstacle. Prospering beyond, the warrior opens himself fearlessly to the world. Fearlessness invites compassion and denies anger. The warrior balances the exigency of his calling - the violence - and his utmost respect for life. His soul is strong. The soul abhors self-denial and rejoices in unity. Warriorship cultivates the integration of our conflicting selves, of our divided impulses. The warrior is a perfect sensual presence in the world, attuned to his finest instincts, in harmony with his true feelings, at home within his body, in tune with his surroundings. He is, ironically, at peace with himself, never surrendering his humanity for the sake of strength, but sublimating what makes us such unique creatures in this universe.

'There is Magick in Warriorship, and Warriorship in Magick.

'The Slayer is the ultimate warrior. A born fighter. She does not know uncertainty. The soul of the Slayer is strong. It has to be to shelter and master this well of wild power. Yet the Slayer is still human. Privy to the doubts and fears which have crippled humanity since the dawn of time. More, the Slayer is a woman. This should never be overlooked, for there is a reason behind all things. The Slayer is both warrior and woman. Both harbinger of death for her enemies and defender of life - protector and care-taker - to her friends. Slaying is not an exalted state, removed from all human considerations. A Slayer should love life. It is, unfortunately, the most neglected of all lessons.

I blame the Council for this state of affair. Then again, I blame the Council for pretty much everything under the sun. But this is a discussion for another time.

'Slaying is a Calling. It belongs to each Slayer to be loyal to that Calling - until Slaying becomes an act of pure will and an expression of the true self.

'There is a prophecy.

'Yes, I can hear you know, Buffy. Yet another damn prophecy.

'Giles will not know of it. It is not contained in the Pergamon Codex, but will be revealed to you in time. The Beaynid prophecy is, unsurprisingly, obscure and enigmatic at best. It is also long and very complex.

'A section of it tells of the Slayer which will champion humanity during the end of days.

'This Slayer will be impervious to the cutting blade, unaffected by roaring fire. She will bend, but she will not break. She will move flawlessly, and the universe will mold itself to welcome her slightest gesture. She will know the force of the true will. She will choose her own power and make her own path.

'I have seen you, Buffy. You do not cut yourself off from your allies out of stubborn pride, fear of intimacy or a misplaced belief in your own self- sufficiency. You see what needs to be done, and you take action. You do not forget those you have sworn to protect. You never mistake the fight for your true objective. I have met so many Slayers who were blinded by the immediateness of the confrontation and lost sight of the big picture.

'Not you, though. Never you.

'The Beaynid prophecy further tells of a warrior who will escort the Slayer in battle, commanding to armies in her name, governing the forces of light in her service. He will be confident, companion, friend, spiritual guide, helper, partner and lover. Their union will know no bounds. Together, they will stand undefeated, transformed by the sacred experience of their affection and the knowledge of their ancient alliance. They will shelter each other and close the circle, I quote, "sealing the old covenant of Four, now Three. And none will be divided by fear ever again, neither outside nor within."

'Cryptic, I know. I don't understand it all myself.

'But you know where I'm going with this.

'My bond with Angel is stronger now. I can see his love for you so clearly. Angel loves you so much it blinds me to look.

'I know I have no business being proud of you. It is not my place. We barely know each other, although I would be honored to call myself your friend. Yet, in some ways, we have known each other forever. Our souls rested side by side in the eternity before Creation. Yours, Angel's and mine. I am proud of the woman you have become, and of the woman you will become.

'Angel will come back to you. But you know that already. You feel it.

'Angel will come to terms with the duality of his self. We all conceal a multitude of selves inside of us. Woman. Warrior. Mage. Sometimes the boundaries blur, or one swallows the other. It just happens that two of Angel's conflicting selves are more distinguishable than most. It is hard enough to come into the embrace of your soul without a demon barring the way and shadowing your every thought. Most humans fail. But Angel will succeed.

'Maybe succeed is not the appropriate word here. We're not talking about war, but about love. An unshakable certitude that you cannot hope to love anyone without bounds until you know, accept and love yourself unconditionally.

'Angel understands this. I know you do now.

'He would have left you eventually. He would have kept on leaving you, had he not made that choice. In the end, you made the wise decision. Both of you.

'There is a need for people who are inspiring forces in your life. After 1700 years, I have finally found what I was looking for. Now I have to come to terms with answers to questions I was not prepared to ask. But... no matter. This is of no concern to you.

'If you are wondering, after I left L.A. I caught up with Wesley and accompanied him to London. Let's just say that the big Spring clean up came early for the Watcher Council this year. Some drastic reorganization is in progress. Wesley will be in touch with Giles soon and explain. I couldn't stay in England, I needed some space. I didn't want to repeat past mistakes. If you ask William, he will explain. I hope you two are getting along. In fact, I'm sure you are.

'It's a shame you can't see the smirk on my face right about now.

'Someday, I will come back and thank you, all of you, for saving my life. But not right away. If there is some major emergency, and you need to contact me, get in touch with Wesley. I'll leave him with the means to find out my whereabouts.

'You are m dachaidh, now. My home. My family. If you will have me.

'Go dt an t'am bhmd in aghaidh ars, beidh t i m phaidreacha is m chro.

'Until we meet again, you are in my prayers and in my heart.

'Morghane'

THE END

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