Disclaimer: As much as I wish Angel belonged to me, he doesn't. And none of the other characters belong to me either. But that would be fun.

Chapter 1.

"Spike, duck!" Angel called out the warning all too late as he watched his companion fall to the ground after receiving what, for a mortal, would have been a fatal blow, but for Spike it only knocked him out of his senses for a few moments.

"Balls." Spike murmured as he rose to his feet to face the rather large, rather stinky, rather strong, rather fast demon.

The team of heroes was fairing well against the unimaginable odds. Except Gunn who, as Illyria had estimated, fell limp after only ten minutes. Though his last minutes were more admirable than most peoples would have been given 1000 minutes. He had killed at least 3 demons, and for a wounded human, that was amazing. He would truly be remembered—unless of course they all happened to die and no one would be able to tell their tale.

The number of demons quickly dwindled down, though throughout the brawl the number of heroes, minus Gunn, had stayed the same. Up until a female clad in black emerged from the alley, immediately identified as Faith. Without words the rouge Slayer joined the fight, aiding Spike in his squabble against the demon that ended almost as soon as Faith joined. Spike only nodded in thanks and moved onto the next of the demons. Angel, on the other hand, was piling up the demons without any help. There were at least 7 dead in front of him, and countless other corpses scattered about that he'd vanquished. That's when his eyes again fell on the dragon, taunting him in the sky. As soon as it landed… he attacked…

The dragon fell to the ground, and a very wounded Angel tumbled off its back, onto the wet ground near to it, clutching his bleeding side. Moments later the head of the dragon fell a few feet away from its body. Angel just sat near his finest kill, smirking widely in spite of the wounds, and ongoing fight. In his current condition now, he wouldn't be much help anyway. And there were only a few demons left, although he soon noticed that the only fighters left standing were Faith and Spike. Illyria had fallen at the hands of a huge demon. Though he had hardly warmed up to Illyria as of yet, he still grieved for her. Although his grieving was cut short, as he fell unconscious.

The chocolate brown orbs that belonged to Angel slowly fluttered open as he was shaken by Faith. His eyes settled on her, and as the blur faded from his vision, he could see that she was crying. His gaze shifted away from her, around the alley where the biggest battle of their lives had taken place. No one. He was alone with Faith. "Angel." Faith sobbed, relief surrounding her tone. "I thought you were—but your heart, Angel—your heart." She didn't even have to say it. He knew it. He could feel it. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, he could feel his lungs finally working. He could feel his humanity- restored. But why? Why, when he'd signed it away. So willingly, so selflessly. That's why. The Powers That Be admired Angel so much so that they decided to give him everything he'd wished for since he first laid his eyes on her. Her, you ask, who is 'her'? The only Her in Angel's mind. Buffy Anne Summers. He slowly sat, a smile creeping onto his face. He failed to notice every cut and bruise; they lined his body so fully… he was so wounded. Faith, though, looked alright. A cut here and there, and a few bruises, but all around she looked fine. Angel slowly, with help from Faith, rose to his feet. "Stay down." Faith advised Angel, it appeared he didn't even hear her.

"Buffy…" Angel muttered softly, causing Faith to arch a brow.

"What's B gatta do with anything?" She inquired curiously.

"I-I have to go see her. I'm human. I can—I have to go. She-I-I have to go now."

"Woah, woah, woah, B can wait! You've gatta take a trip to the hospital!" Faith told him, he shook his head.

"No. I have to go to her!" Angel, at this point, jerked out of Faith's grip, leaving her stunned that this new and injured human could walk alone with no help. But he could, of course, nothing would keep him from her, not now that they could be together without risking his soul and her safety. They could be happy.

The airport was only a few miles from the alley, but to Angel it seemed as though it had been thousands. His wounds had stopped bleeding and scabbed over. God, he looked horrible, in a totally not horrible way, that is. His face was covered in blood, from wounds on his forehead, lip, and the top of his head, and his cheek. His arm was limp because of a gash on its upper portion. His knee was broken and his body was covered with blood, both his own and not. He wasn't questioned by security or anyone, after all, he was the CEO of the LA branch of Wolfram and Hart—when it stood. He was wordlessly boarded onto a private jet, heading for Rome—heading for Buffy.

Hours later he arrived and hobbled off the plane, walking towards Buffy's home. He'd been there twice or so, and he already knew the way by heard. As the home cae into view he was having second thoughts: What if she doesn't want me anymore? She's with The Immortal, what if she's happy with him? She could be happy with me! Why is she with him anyway?! That obnoxious arrogant cocky bastard! I'm MUCH better looking than he is! How could she sink so God damned low?! She has the MOST horrible taste in men!... Other than me, of course.

At that point he found himself standing at the door, nervously urging himself to knock. Finally, he did. Even more nervous as he waited for the door to open. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't let him. This was it. The knob was turning like Angel's stomach as cocoons hatched small butterflies that fluttered inside his gut. God, how he wanted to run… stupid legs.