For whatever reason, Collins had been awakening earlier and earlier lately. In the mirror, the telltale signs of stress had begun in his face. Reminded him of the difference in Bill Clinton's face from the beginning of his Presidency until this very morning on the news. Her hair was in his face, as was her neck, which until recently had smelled sweet; human and clean, the smell of smooth skin, life and possibility. No matter its smell now, Collins didn't mind. He was with her now. Details were immaterial. His arm slid tighter around her waist, his eyes still closed, as he snuggled closer, lips gently brushing that soft skin.

He didn't want to wake. Waking meant reality. Realization. They'd been lying to each other for months, but there was no way now to dispute it. Angel was dying. She'd pushed it as far as ever she was able, but even she had limitations. Yesterday morning, Collins had awakened, smashed into a regulation plastic hospital chair, to his hand being squeezed, however weakly.

"Not here," she'd whispered to him, a small smile playing on her pale lips. "Anywhere else, but not here."

And Collins understood. He'd pulled out her IV, bandaged her hand himself, and carried her bodily from the hospital, the HIV ward nurses following him behind like a murder of chattering crows. Which was all the attention he'd paid them, as well, putting his pale girl into a cab, only a sweater covering her thin pajamas. She'd lifted a hand and waved to the women as he'd climbed in and the cab pulled away.

That friend she had in the Plaza was kind. Even an assistant manager at a posh hotel had a past, Angel had told him, though she'd not even begun to explain what that meant. Collins doubted he'd want to know anyway and left it at that. It was enough that his baby was tucked warm and comfortably into a warm bed with clean sheets and no monitors communicating what they already knew. No more holes poked into her with promises that she would "feel better," when all the meds ever did was make her sicker. It had been to the point where Collins swore to himself that he would die in a fucking cardboard box in the tent city before he'd allow himself to be dragged off to the hospital.

His eyes open now, he leaned up on his elbow and brushed soft curls from her face, remembering how short her hair had been the night they two had met. Made it easier to be masculine when she had to, she'd told him, which made sense. But he'd liked playing with it, and she'd admitted a fondness for long locks, so between the pair of them, they'd convinced her to let it go, let it grow. She wasn't alone now; didn't need to even pretend to be a man anymore most of the time. But hair didn't make his girl. She didn't live there. Collins bent and kissed her cheek and her bright brown eyes opened, still energetic, still snapping with the life and good humor that were his bedrock. That was where his girl lived, and he was more than happy to see her still there every time she opened those eyes.

"Morning," he said, smiling and kissing her nose.

"Still my favorite way to wake," she murmured, her voice far stronger now than it had been in the hospital. She reached up for a kiss and he obliged happily, a small smile on his face. They still had time, they still had moments.

"Col, I think today's the day," she told him softly, nodding toward his knapsack on the armchair. It was almost as though she knew what he'd been thinking and they'd had enough such moments in their short time together that he'd begun to believe that she did.

Those words were the ones he'd been dreading. He knew full well what she meant. She'd fought; longer and harder than just about anyone he'd ever known, and she was done.

"When?" was all he could ask.

"Not now. Later. Kiss me?" He did, and her arms, now feather light, wound around his neck, holding him there until she was good and done. As soon as he was released, she glanced down at the top of her pajamas, then back up to him and he smiled, leaning his forehead into hers as he unbuttoned each button slowly, revealing sallow, thin ribs which were beautiful now only to him. She was easily forty pounds lighter now than the 165 of solid muscle she'd been the day he'd met her. "Not very sexy, huh?" she asked, wrinkling her nose at the black marks which marred her shoulder these days.

"Bullshit. You're very sexy. I believe the look is heroin chic." Collins had to go a little to keep himself from thinking about what she had said; what lay ahead for their day.

Angel giggled, sounding very much like her former self. "Fuck you."

"Anytime, anywhere, baby," he growled, a huge grin stretched across his face.

"Really?" She was smiling, but she was serious. "Like here and now? Can you get hard?"

"I--" Collins was flabbergasted. "I don't know."

"If I help?"

"Baby, you can't. . ."

"Shut up, I have an idea. C'mere"

He was already about as close as he could get, but she took one of his hands and placed it on her ribs, trying not to regret how scrawny she now was. It didn't matter what she looked like, this was likely to be the last time his hands would be on her and she wanted it, regardless of how she looked or felt. She reached up and kissed him again, one hand guiding his up her ribcage and to her nipple. He caught on and tweaked it a couple of times, then his lips began traveling down her neck to her collarbone. She still tasted sweet to him, regardless of the reality.

A gentle moan fell from her lips as he replaced his thumb with his mouth on her nipple, his hand having taken its leave of hers, traveling downward to the elasticized waistband of her pants. It was far too easy to slide them off of her as he kissed further down her body, his other hand supporting her to lift her butt off the bed, moving her clear of the only clothing she'd been wearing. She reached for him then, carefully unbuttoning his outermost shirt, then lifting off his t-shirt to reveal his perfect brown skin. She'd loved it ever since she'd seen it for the first time. That seemed like a world away, their meeting. One hand smoothed over his chest, its softness and smoothness familiar, comforting.

"I love you," she murmured softly, smiling up at him.

"Love you too, baby." There was clear truth in his eyes, no denying. Angel smiled again, then let her hands trail down to the waistband of his pants. She had trouble with the button there, the hole had always been a little small and Collins had to help her. But the zipper she could handle and it wasn't but a moment before he was as naked as she.

"Now what?" he asked, smirking down on her as though this were simply another of her silly games. That won him a tired smile and she brought her hand to her thigh, holding his cock in place between them. "You sure?"

She nodded. "Just keep kissing me. I wanna feel close to you. Before. . ." He did kiss her, cutting off what she was about to say, even though he doubted she would go so far as to say it. His lips moved off hers, on down to that place where her neck met shoulder. That one that had always made her squeal. As she did, he smiled and began moving his hips slowly into the palm of her hand, surprised that he was able to get hard for her.

"Don't think either of us is getting off today, baby," he told her shoulder.

"I don't care," she answered, keeping her hand flush against her thigh for him. It felt so incredible, just being there with him, connecting, being loved, treasured. Even though she knew--they both knew--there wasn't much left of it.

He soon tired and had to stop. There hadn't been much sleep for him for weeks and stamina had truly been an issue. She didn't care in the slightest. "Thanks," she murmured, kissing his neck as he slowed and slid off of her. He didn't dare lower any of his weight on her. Not now. She lay quiet in his arms for several minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts, their own moment.

"Needs to be now," she murmured gently, her hands stealing to his arm and holding onto it without much strength. Most of what she'd had had been used up in the past ten minutes or so. "Please, honey." He turned her to face him and the tears in her eyes caused the same to well in his own. Nodding wordlessly, he kissed her nose and moved away from her to the bag on the chair.

With an effort, she turned to face him, simply glad that today had been a day with little pain, in which she'd awakened in Collins' arms. She hadn't any illusion that the pain would return and she would simply drown in the fluid in her lungs. That seemed imminent as far as she was concerned.

Collins pulled what once was a manicure kit from the bag and unzipped it, laying out its contents with the care of a surgeon, going over his tools. He'd been squirreling away syringes, simpler to steal than he'd imagined possible; they seemed to be all over the hospital. New ones even. Not like it mattered. There was simply no reason they couldn't use old dirty ones now. The vial had been harder to come by, but Collins was crafty in ways that Beth Israel had never imagined. There were keys, there were inventories. He'd found both and had managed to get what he needed. It had almost been easy. And he knew where Roger still kept the rubber tubing he'd used for years. Silly that he'd never bothered to be rid of it, wasn't it? But strangely fortunate. He knelt alongside the bed, searching Angel's eyes for any hint of doubt. There was none. She'd lived her adult life, what little there was of it, on her own terms, and this needed to happen that way as well. She even smiled a little through her tears as she offered him her slender arm.

Collins sighed mightily as he tied the tourniquet around her bicep. Obligingly, she squeezed her fist as tightly as she could, causing a scarred vein to pop out on her elbow. Collins carefully drew up liquid into a syringe and made positive that there were no air bubbles within. So strange the things that concerned one in the moment.

"I'm gonna do this, baby girl," he told her, his eyes solidly on hers, assuring himself that there were no second thoughts. She nodded.

"And then, you're getting back in bed with me."

"I am."

"Okay." She sighed deeply, bravely, her eyes clear. Her mind was made up.

Collins thought he was never likely to find her vein, but almost as soon as he drew the plunger, a tiny bit of orangy-red stained the clear liquid. He glanced at her for assurance once more and she nodded, smiling again slightly, though tears had run down into her ears by now. "Do it."

He pushed morphine into his girl's blood, more than enough with her depleted weight and wasted health, then quickly drew the needle from her arm and caught her up quickly in his arms.

It was only a moment before her brain clouded, her head felt fuzzy and light, yet heavy all at once. Her eyelids were singularly heavy, wanting nothing more than to pull themselves shut as though they had weights tied to her eyelashes. "Love you so much, honey," she breathed. "Thank you."

"Love you too," he murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears, though his cheeks were drenched. "And I'd do it again."

"Know you would," she mumbled, a smile coming to her face. Her eyelids won the war and slipped close as her body relaxed, all energy sapped from it. Collins watched her skinny bare chest as it rose and fell a few times, each one rising more slowly than the last. In a moment that too stopped and she lay perfectly still. He let go then, a sob which came from his very toes, speaking of a primal, deep, and profound pain, the kind to which men had given voice for thousands of generations. He rocked her, holding her tight and close as he cried, wearing out the last of his exhausted strength. He'd have gladly gone with her, and the thought did cross his mind. There was certainly enough of the morphine left for him as well. But it truly wasn't his style and instead he curled himself around her body, vowing to call down to the desk when he awoke.

He was so incredibly tired.

It was over.