She was drained. Exhausted more so now than she had been in the weeks before, when it was just her and the strange feeling of disconnectedness. She needed to sleep, curl up and just rest, and yet knew she could not.

They still weren’t here.

Something was wrong.

Buffy couldn’t place it, but the air had a charge to it now that it hadn’t before. Oddly, it also had less of one, as if whatever magick held back the dawn, was gone. But that wasn’t what she was concerned about. No, it was more than that.

Angel hadn’t returned with Connor, and it’d been hours. She’d taken back to the streets, hunting for her family, but nothing. No one knew anything, had seen anything, but the pandemonium that reigned earlier was now tenfold. She didn’t want to return to the hotel, back to Wesley, back to those people who betrayed Angel, who wanted to hurt her, test her. Even if she knew that was the first place Angel would go with Connor. He’d remember this apartment, Buffy knew he would.

Until then, until the two of them arrived, she was forced to pace the confines and go slowly mad.

She could go back out, she supposed, but didn’t want to take the chance of missing Angel. So she stayed. Paced and worried. Because something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she wished to God she knew what that something was.

Did it have to do with Angel? No, now that she understood, Buffy felt the comforting pulse of whatever it was that connected them steady and reassuring. Connor then? She didn’t know, didn’t have a connection with the boy, though she desperately wanted one. Especially now. Just so she could identify when he was in trouble, when he needed her.

Needed her. Buffy smiled and sat on the bed. Yes, she was needed. Angel needed her, not just her skills to fight and kill. He needed her, just as she was, just who she was. He didn’t care that she could kick his ass to hell and back…hell.

Buffy stilled, toyed with that thought. What was it? Did it mean something? Something to do with Angel and hell, something…but the niggling thought wouldn’t completely form, wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know. What did hell and Angel have to do with each other? With her?

It wasn’t the noise that alerted Buffy to his presence, for he made none, but just him. Them, always them.

“Angel?” she softly called. Wrong. It was all wrong.

She could smell death. Horrible death, sacrifice, love. Connor.

Oh, dear God. Connor.

She rushed to the stairs, leaping over debris she hadn’t bothered to clean up. Angel was holding Connor, looking ravaged and disheartened. Carefully, Buffy placed her hand on his arm, looking into his, into their, eyes.

“Angel?”

“She killed him,” they whispered, voice rough with grief. “Killed him because he wouldn’t let it lie. Had to be the damn hero.”

“Who?” she demanded, already planning on killing whoever it was to do this to Connor. If Angel hadn’t already taken care of her.

“Cordelia.”

Buffy paused in what she was going to say, stunned. “Cordelia?”

She wanted to ask if they were sure, but they were. She remembered the bitchy brunette, in the same way she remembered most of high school. With a headache, grief, and the notion she was missing something. All she remembered from that time was heartache or not worth the memories, and yet Buffy knew Angel was there, too.

Why couldn’t she remember more of that?

“We knew something was off,” they continued in that same low, fierce voice. They gently laid Connor on the bed, brushed his hair off his face, and sat next to their son. “She didn’t act the same, didn’t smell the same. But with everything…we thought it was just the demon she became to keep the visions. We were wrong.”

“Tell me,” she said quietly, kneeling in front of them, taking one hand in hers. She’d ask them about smelling Cordelia later.

“She was marked by a demon, Vocah, I guess; it’s been a few years. One of the Old Ones wanted to return and rule. Chose Cordelia as her host; she plotted everything, I think. From the moment she woke up to now, she had to have, there’s no other… There are too many things that make sense now that we look back, things that we didn’t catch before. They weren’t connected then.”

“And now,” Buffy said, “You see the pattern now?”

“Cordelia, or whoever or whatever she was in the end, planned it all. Maybe even Connor’s,” their voice broke on the name. “Connor’s kidnapping.”

“She killed him?” Buffy demanded.

They nodded, and slowly told her what happened. Finding Connor too late, the taunts he spat in Cordelia’s face, killing the Beast, pushing her into the vortex, too. They didn’t break down, Buffy noted with some fear. No, they told the story stoically, as if reciting something they’d already known, could repeat again and again until there was no one left to retell this tale to.

And maybe that was a good thing, she thought. In remembering, in remembering Connor and every detail of his life and death, the beloved boy would never be forgotten.

Without a word, Buffy climbed onto their lap, winding herself around them, and held them close. They didn’t say a word, didn’t cry though she knew they longed to. But that emotion was too much, too soon, and it wasn’t for now.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’ll all be alright.”

“How? She killed our boy. How can anything be okay anymore?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy admitted softly, stroking their hair. “But I do know that Connor wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. He was a strong boy, bright and alive. He shone with so much brightness, Angel. He’ll be in heaven.”

“Heaven, yes.” Their hands tightened on Her waist. “I wouldn’t let them rip him out,” they said quietly. “They wanted to, promised they would bring him back to us if we joined them. But we couldn’t do that to Connor, no matter how desperately we wanted him back.”

“Lilah?” Buffy said in a hoarse voice. “Was it Lilah who promised you that?”

“Lilah’s dead, Lover,” they reminded Her, hard and sure, pulling back to reassure Her with kiss and touch, cupping her face with their cool, reassuring hands. “She’ll never hurt You, never touch You, again.” Buffy nodded, and they dropped their hands back to Her waist, settling Her against them.

“Yes, it was Wolfram & Hart. A new lackey for the Senior Partners who promised us. They offered to locate You,” they continued with an unamused smirk. “Anything we wanted, power, money…You…and Connor.”

“What did they want in exchange?”

“Me. They wanted us.” They did smile now, cruel and vindictive. “Their building is in ruins, their employees dead – because of the Beast mostly,” they clarified though weren't sure She’d care if they’d killed them all or not.

“Good,” She nodded, pulling their head back to her breast, hands still soft and comforting on them. They’d missed this, missed Her touch, how Her sheer presence could sooth them, ground them in the turbulent sea of life. “Good.”

Long, long moments passed as Buffy held them, grieved with them over Connor. She cried, silent tears for the boy She’d known, and the one She wanted to know. For potential lost, and for a life not lived. According to those who made him, he wasn’t supposed ever to have lived, but that didn’t stop the effect, he had on Her. On both of them.

“Then it’s over,” Buffy eventually said, puling back to look at them once more. “The Beast is gone, and so is his master…Cordelia.” Okay, so she couldn’t quite get over that one, but come on! Cordelia? An evil demon with dreams of taking over the world?

Hmm, maybe not as far fetched as she thought, but the Cordelia Chase she remembered didn’t have that kind of drive. Ambition, yes. Drive, no.

“Let’s leave, Angel. Let’s get out of here, never return.”

Slowly they nodded, eyes damp with repressed tears, hot with emotion. “Yes. We want to take you away; it’s what we promised Connor.” Their eyes drifted to their son, peaceful in death. “We were going to start our family.”

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Buffy kissed them softly. “Then let’s do that. Let’s leave, now, just us. We can go to your hotel and get some things, Connor’s things, and leave.”

“We’ll be gone before the Idiot Squad knows we’re there,” Angel agreed. “Though with our luck, they’ll be waiting.” They paused, watching her. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Wes,” Buffy said shortly, never thinking not to tell them. “He came to your room, thought you were Angelus and going to kill everyone. Why do they think you’re Angelus?”

“Because they don’t understand what we are or were. They never have; they never really got that demon and soul shared the same body, that one could hear the other.”

She snorted in bitter laughter, ran a hand through their hair, sticky with ash, soot, death. “Such a high opinion of himself; does Wesley really think that if you were solely Angelus he’d be first on your list?”

Sweeping her into their arms, Angel kissed her hard and possessive. “We’re going to kill him, anyway,” they said. “He’s betrayed us, he’s used us, and he’s never known us. Claimed friendship and understanding, but never bothered to know. Claimed sympathy at Your…death, but ignored the abyss of pain we were in.”

Buffy nodded, quiet, but in agreement, and told them the rest of what happened in the hotel room.

“Drugged you?” they roared, shaking the dust from the burnt rafters. “We’re going to tie him to a train and watch him bounce over each and every track,” they promised in a low growl. “We’re going to chain him to the rafters and whip him until his blood covers the floor; cover him in mole rats and watch-”

“Baby,” Buffy smiled. “Let’s just leave. Who cares about Wesley? Let’s just go.” She looked at Connor, a hitch in her next words. “We’ll bury Connor someplace nice and quiet. Where no one will try and take him. Where no one will think to pull him out of heaven.”

“Yes, Love,” they nodded, taking Her hand and kissing the palm. “Let’s find our home.”

~~~~~~~~~~

They did it immediately, Buffy at their side. It was too important not to, and yet it was the hardest thing they’d ever had to do. Bury their son.

Her hand was warm in theirs, the only solid thing they could feel now. Buffy, their life, their love, returned to them by a miracle intent on destroying them. Would they trade Her life for Connor’s? Could they? It was a choice Angel was glad Wolfram & Hart hadn’t offered when promising them the world. They weren’t sure they could make it.

She leaned Her head on their arm, alive. Her breath was a faint sound, Her heartbeat a steady, reassuring thump in the night. Yet all they could see was Connor, his last smile when they’d finally reached him. Too late. All they could scent was the burnt flesh of their son. All they could remember was Connor…and how they’d failed him.

“May God watch over him,” Buffy whispered, hand in Angel’s as the funeral pyre burned brightly before them. The heat was like a wave, and yet she didn’t feel it, too chilled with grief.

And the hot anger hatred inspired.

Angel had been denied the right to avenge his son; Connor had taken care of that himself. Not that Buffy would’ve assumed he couldn’t have but he wasn’t supposed to die. Destroy evil hell god intent on ruling the world, yes, but never, ever die. Not Connor, never him.

They’d gone a couple miles out of town so they wouldn’t be interrupted. Nosy neighbors calling the cops for a fire, kids coming to see what was happening. Those who knew nothing intruding on a private affair. Angel’s fair-weather friends interrupting a private pain in a misguided attempt to kill the demon.

Her one consolation, her only consolation, was that Connor was in heaven. She knew it as surely as she knew Lilah had pulled her out of there. Was he watching them? Was he looking down on them as she had?

As she had…?

“I saw you,” she whispered, hand tightening around Angel’s.

Glancing up at them, pale face reflecting the firelight, Buffy struggled to breathe. She didn’t want to interrupt Connor’s funeral, Angel’s last goodbye to their son, but the words forced themselves out. The reason was twofold, and she knew it.

To tell Angel what had happened to her, where she was, what she’d done. And to give them the comfort of knowing Connor was safe. Happy, at peace. And watching over them.

“Saw us? When?” they asked, eyes now firmly on her.

“When I was in heaven,” Buffy clarified. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the pyre burn, a warrior’s tribute. “I saw you. I saw Connor…” she closed her eyes as the memory washed over her.

“I didn’t remember until now. But I remember Darla,” her voice hitched with jealously. Narrowing her eyes at Angel, she resisted remarking on his – was it soul or demon? – tryst with the vampy vampire, and settled for letting them know she knew, had seen, and wasn’t happy. Still, it had resulted in Connor.

“I saw her when she realized she was pregnant, the shock of it, the…” Buffy closed her eyes, a smile playing around her lips. “Joy. Angel, she was so happy when she realized.”

“Darla?” Angel asked, but their voice was soft, not harsh and unbelieving, nor yet caring and loving. It was the voice one reserved for the woman who sacrificed herself for his son, no matter what their history had been until that moment.

“Yeah, she was thrilled. It was strange, we both thought so. Strange that she was, well, that she felt. She wanted Connor, wanted him desperately, but knew that once he was born…those feelings would disappear. It was her greatest fear, Angel – to have something she loved so much, wanted so much, and that once he was born, out of her body, she wouldn’t feel that anymore. Wouldn’t feel anything anymore.”

“How do you know this?” Angel asked, voice hushed. Their eyes drifted back to Connor, awe and sadness etched on his strong features as the flames licked the night sky.

“I saw it all. I saw…I was there. I don’t know,” Buffy continued slowly, struggling to recall al that had happened. She watched the images play against her closed eyelids, Darla heavy with child, hating every second of it, loving every moment of it.

“I don’t know how, but I was there. She knew I was, suspected it was me from the first. And wasn’t too happy, the vacuous tramp. But she, I don’t know. I guess she appreciated the fact that I was there, that someone was.”

Buffy opened her eyes, smiled. “Someone who loved you and could understand how important this was. Not just the pregnancy, not just Connor, but to you. She knew you, Angel. Knew that you’d want the child. She admitted she didn’t know how she knew, hated the fact that she was stuck with a pregnancy, and it was all your fault.” She laughed here, low, sultry, heavy with amusement.

“Angel, Darla loved Connor. And you,” she smiled up at him. “You loved him so much. He loved you, too. Even when Holtz stole him, even when he was in Quor-toth, he loved you. What you had with Connor was too deep for Holtz to break. He never understood the bond between the two of you, father and son, and tried to destroy it. He perverted it, but once Connor was back, it didn’t matter.”

Silence settled between them, the wind blowing embers away from them, sending Connor’s ashes out to sea. Buffy wanted to say more, wanted to tell them everything she remembered of that, of Darla and Connor. The silence was too strong, so she let it go. Let Angel absorb her words, grieve for their son.

“We were denied vengeance against his killer, against that which wanted him for her own tainted purposes.” Their voice was steady in their vow to their son. “Holtz is dead by his own hand. Wolfram & Hart is destroyed, their center of power closed, their base gone. No one is left, my love. No one is left to take out our anger upon.”

Buffy stood on tiptoes, kissed them hard. Her warm hands framed their face, eyes fierce in the firelight. “I love you,” she whispered. “And I am with you always. There is nothing that you go through that I do not. I loved Connor as my own child because of who he was, and because he was yours. I hate those who took him from you, who forced this on both you and him.”

Angel gathered her close, kissed her back. Let the passion of their existence flow back into them. A spark of feeling bloomed within the cold fortress surrounding their heart. Buffy’s love was warm and encompassing, and made them feel even when they did not wish to. When they wanted to block off the crippling anguish at Connor’s death.

“There’s one left,” Buffy finished. “There’s one person left.”

~~~~~~~~~~

They slipped into the hotel, though it was deserted. Dawn was just breaking over the city, strangely bright on the new day.

Buffy blinked against the sight, wondering how…?

“Connor.” She jerked around to face them, sorrow and curiosity in her eyes.

They brushed a strand of hair back, toying with the ends of the long white length. She watched as they absently brought the lock to scent it, something she’d noticed in the beginning of their relationship so many years ago, though Buffy never asked why. Had it really only been five years? It seemed a lifetime since they’d met. Since they’d fallen in love.

“Connor killed the Beast and Cordelia,” they said, still toying with her hair, but looking at the rising sun just brightening the horizon. “Since they were originally the ones to bring about eternal night, getting rid of them brought back the day.”

“Why did they need eternal night?” Buffy asked, leaning into their touch. She let the edge of the curtain drop, blocking out the life that no longer involved them. Their future was together, nothing else mattered.

They shrugged, smiled that smile between sexiness and evil incarnate. She couldn’t decide which was more provocative, more arousing. Leaned up to kiss him, unable to resist the urge to do so; felt their cool lips hungry on hers.

“Probably hadn’t thought it all out,” they said, drawing her further into the room. “Possibly a diversion, as well. Perhaps, with everyone so intent on seeing what the right hand was doing – the Beast, us, thinking we were Angelus – no one ever looked to see what the left hand held. Namely Cordelia, or whatever she was when Connor killed her.”

Without a word, Buffy drew them to the bed. Comfort, kindness, love. She slowly stripped them, not to arouse, but to console. Undressing herself, she climbed into bed, wrapping around them as if in doing so she could block out the harshness of life, the cruel trick of giving Connor then taking him away because of a balance that no longer mattered.

Angel cried then. She felt the coolness of his tears on her breast where they desperately held her, as if afraid she, too, would disappear. Silently they released the emotion they hadn’t been able to in the months since she’d been gone. The pain of her death, of knowing she was back but unable to find her. Of Connor. Especially of Connor.

Eventually, they slept. As the sun trekked high along the sky, as the humans and those terrorized by eternal night wept with the joy of a new day, ignorant of the reason for such a miracle, the lovers slept.

And when they woke, they made love.

Slowly, tenderly, taking care to touch and worship every inch of skin, Angel showed Her how much they loved Her, how very much needed Her.

“We can’t live without You, Buffy,” they whispered against Her neck. “We love You,” they whispered against Her belly. “We need You,” they whispered against Her hip.

And when they entered Her, catching the cry of their name, they knew She was right. Connor was at peace, safe from any who would use him for their own means. And they were safe within Her. The only place either soul or demon had ever felt safe.

“I love you, my Angel,” She sighed. Curling into them, She slept, relaxed though they could scent the heavy air of sadness surrounding her.

Gently extracting themself from under Her soft, warm body, they watched Her for a moment. The white-gold of Her hair, the pale, paleness of Her skin. Eyes no longer the pure green they remembered, but a deeper, darker color that told of Her trials.

Pressing a kiss to her shoulder, they covered Her with the blanket, dressed, and began packing. Connor’s things, mostly. Photos, toys, baby clothes they hadn’t been able to part with. The bear Spike had given him, the stake Faith had. Memories of a life they hadn’t witnessed, hadn’t got to share with their son.

It was then they remembered Tara’s letter.

Dear Angel,

I realize I may be the last person you want to hear from, but I need you to know the truth. It’s taken me a while to admit this, both to myself and to gain the courage to write you. Giles doesn’t know, nor will I ever tell him, and I know Anya won’t.

We’re all doing well, by the way. Giles has gone back to work for the British Museum and seems happy enough. Anya is a Vengeance Demon again, but bases herself in London with me. Apparently, the vengeance business pays well enough, so I can finish school here.

I’m stalling and know it, but what I have to tell you damns me as much as it does Willow and Xander.

We tried to bring Buffy back. God, Angel, I’m so sorry. We tried, but it didn’t work, and I don’t know if I’m sorry for trying and failing, or just failing. Or just trying. Willow thought she was in Hell, but I knew better, and still didn’t stop her. I wanted Buffy back as much as Willow, but…but I knew she was in Heaven. Is in Heaven.

That’s not the worst part. Or maybe it is, since Willow failed. She became obsessed with it, obsessed with bringing her back because she want needed her friendship, she just didn’t know how to go on without her, it seemed. What to do – Buffy had brought her into a world where Willow felt needed, and without Buffy’s guidance, Willow was lost.

It doesn’t excuse her, nor does it me or Anya. However, had we succeeded…Willow’s research didn’t reveal everything. I think she was in too much of a rush to really know everything, or really care.

Buffy would have been immortal had our resurrection spell succeeded.

The Silphium Willow used was an Ancient Greek form of contraception. In this spell, however, the meaning, ‘to prevent birth’ was literal. Once Buffy was brought back, Silphium would’ve meant that she couldn’t die. She was immortal.

I don’t think any of this is a comfort, but I needed to tell you as much for my conscious as for you to know. I loved Buffy very much, she was a wonderful person, kind, funny, and understanding. If anyone could understand what it was like, the different things that happens in life, I realized it was her. I miss her terribly, but not, I suspect, as much as you.

If you can’t forgive me, Angel, I understand. I don’t have the right to expect so much. But I hope, in time, you can understand why I initially went along with this insane plan. And I hope, somehow, you can find peace. If anyone deserves it, Angel, it’s you.

All my love and sincere wishes for your future. May you find the peace you deserve, and may you –someday- find it in your heart to forgive me.

Tara

Angel carefully folded the letter and replaced it in their pocket. So that was what Whistler was talking about when he said Willow made Buffy immortal. Or how, at least. They stood by their initial assessment – the witch had finally done something right.

Walking back to the bed where Buffy stirred, they ran a hand through Her hair. Theirs. Theirs forever.

“We forgive you, Tara.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had risen that day, as if it had never disappeared behind the night, as if the rain of fire had never happened, as if the world as Los Angeles knew it wasn’t on the brink of extermination. People had wandered out to examine the damage caused by that most bizarre natural disaster of some sort.

Wesley dragged himself into the hotel, the sunlight shining brightly at his back. It was good to have the sun, but the clean up was hell. The lies, the looks, the…bodies. There were so many dead, too many. The ones that were turned were harder to find, their ashes mingled with the rubble of the city.

He doubted she was Buffy, but the damage was done.

She was gone, disappeared out the window, taking the answers with her. Now they had to find both her and Angelus. And Connor, no one seemed to know where he was, either. Cordelia was also missing, and it was still night.

With odds like this stacked against him, how was he supposed to lead the victory? Hell, at this rate, he’d be happy just to finish victorious.

Lorne raced into the lobby, slammed and locked the doors behind him. “Wolfram & Hart,” he panted. “They’re gone.”

In the immediate silence of this rather momentous declaration, no one spoke. What was there to say? Lorne shook his head, headed for the minifridge he kept stocked with vodka for just such occasions, pity he was out of cranberry and grapefruit juice; vodka straight would have to do. Gulping directly from the bottle, a clear sign of how agitated he was, Lorne elaborated.

“Fire burnt the place nearly to the ground. I don’t even know how many people were inside. Word is, the Beast rampaged through, but no one knows anything more. No one alive, that is.”

Fred shuddered. “I don’t understand. Why would the Beast care about Wolfram & Hart? I thought it was all about no sunlight?”

“Who knows, sugarplum?” Lorne shrugged. “The building’s nearly gone, I don’t think we’ll be finding any answers from there.”

“No word on anyone else?” Gunn asked, nursing his arm.

“Nada,” Lorne sighed. “It’s almost like they disappeared off the planet.”

Wesley didn’t say a word. Yes, it was almost as if they’d disappeared, but that was impossible. Or improbable at the very least. No, Angelus had too many things here to tie up, family to kill, friends to stalk and destroy. He wouldn’t leave, Wes was sure of it.

Hefting the tranquilizer gun, he slipped from behind the counter into the lobby, and went upstairs. Maybe Angel’s room would yield the answers they so desperately sought. Would Buffy – or the fake Buffy – have returned? Wesley didn’t know, her appearance had surprised him so much, still did, he wasn’t sure what to think.

Did Giles know anything about this? Was her reappearance tied to the Beast? To Cordelia and Connor’s disappearance? Was she somehow – and no, Wes had no idea how – responsible for all this? Okay, all that was highly improbable, but he had no real answers, and was working blind. Deaf, blind, and at a serious disadvantage.

Carefully opening the door, Wesley flicked on the light, gun at the ready. He wasn’t really expecting anyone, but these days it never hurt to be prepared.

Angelus grabbed him around the throat, growling evilly and squeezing. He banged Wes hard against the wall, door still ajar. Not what the watcher was expecting in the not so empty room.

“Angel,” a soft voice said from the shadows.

Buffy.

Wesley blinked, tried desperately to gasp for breath and focus on the situation at hand. Angelus was half dressed, shoeless; Buffy appeared behind him, dressed only in a long shirt, Angel’s most likely. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they’d been doing. Or the danger in doing it.

But then Angel was already Angelus, so it didn’t matter.

“Buffy,” Wes gasped. “I-”

“You don’t get to say Her name, Wesley.” Angelus hand tightened around Wes’ throat. “No one does but us.”

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