Authors Note: I do not own Buffy, Angel (... I wish) or any other BtVs or AtS characters, they are solely the property of Joss Whedon &etc.
Setting: A few weeks after Graduation Day Part II.
Spoilers: Season 3 of Buffy to an extent.
Plot: Alternate ending to Graduation Day Part II.
Note: The time tenses are a bit confusing, but if you know the order of events for Graduation Day and work off of what characters say, you'll get it.

"Angel?"

A voice sounded his name - a miracle in itself. He hadn't allowed himself much human interaction. God knows he didn't deserve it.

"Death is too good for you!" Giles spat. "Let yourself live with what you've done to me, her family, her friends and the rest of the world. Go to her grave and lay down flowers with' love'," the word dripped with acid, "knowing you put her there. You wanted to live so badly? Live forever; I pray without a minute's peace."

"Angel?" The voice sounded again, it was cautionary and timid. He chose not to answer it. Light footfalls echoed down the halls, creeping closer.

"Angel? It's Willow. I'm sorry to... Barge in... I just thought you should know that... the funeral's tomorrow."

Angel wondered morosely why Willow was talking to him. It was reasonable that she should hate him just as the others did. She was closer to Buffy than any of them.

But Willow wasn't gone yet.

"And I don't think you should come. I could forgive you for Angelus. He wasn't you. We all know that. But you drained the life out of her, in the end. It wasn't him, it was you," she paused, the grieving teenager regathering her thoughts.

"Congratulations, Angel. You did what he couldn't. You killed her."

Something inside Angel snapped as his game face came into play. It was all he could do not to snap her neck in his momentary rage as he forced himself to remain vigil. Something about hearing the tinkling voice of an innocent remind him that he had killed her overwhelmed and infuriated him. He was amazed that he still had it in him to feel even sporadic anger towards anyone, he didn't feel like he had much room left for anything except malicious self-loathing and grief.

He heard Willow leave something on the ground - probably a stake, he mused - and leave quietly. He could smell with potency just how much she had cried in the last few weeks. She hadn't been crying when she entered his mansion, probably determined to seem tough. At least one of them was coping.
Angel stood and swiftly picked up what Willow had left for him. He exhaled in pain as the silver cross dropped to his feet.

It seemed like time was standing still around him; seconds, minutes or hours could have passed and it wouldn't have made any impression. Angel remained frozen as he delved into a cavalcade of memories, staring down at the cross at his feet.

She hadn't been wearing this when she died, but her blood was still on it. He supposed that was because of all the fighting she had done wearing it. Fighting against things she could kill easily, things she could hate, things she didn't have to, things she knew she could destroy, not things she would force to suck every drop of blood from her veins in one last sacrifice.

"Guess what precious? You're not one of them."

"I'm not exactly one of you, either."

"Is that what you tell yourself these days?"

As most would know, an enemy is usually in the habit of saying cruel or aggressive things on most occasions just for the hell of it. It's an odd sensation to realise with perfect clarity that everything said out of spite, anger, hurt and vengeance was right, and that that person who wanted to hurt you the most is the one who was absolutely correct.

"What, did you think she'd look at your face - your true face - and give you a kiss?"

To say that Angel had dealt with Buffy's death in any way would be entirely false. Unlike so many others before him, he had accepted it. He saw the body and the blood, he knew she was dead and he knew she wasn't coming back to save him like she had so many other times before, he just didn't know where to go from where he was.

He didn't want anything, God knows he had no earthly desires. Even thirst played little part in his regime. He wasn't sure if this was something he could recover from, and with no ties to anyone else except for causing the death of someone they loved, he didn't see how he could stand up and keep trying to exist, there didn't seem much point. He had known of powerful romances in his time; seen them - ended them, where Angelus was concerned - but he knew that there hadn't been anything like he and Buffy, never had a Slayer and a Vampire coexisted or loved. He imagined even if he'd been human, there wouldn't have been anything like the two of them. Some preternatural sense that created a physical buzzing that indicated that they were close. No, they had been unique.

He lifted his head and for the first time in several weeks really saw his environment. He had been so overcome with guilt and grief that he'd scarcely climbed from the safety of his mind for more than a few seconds each day.

He saw the smashed table, the wrecked silver pot and the floor that smelled so strongly of bleach that it was nearly intoxicating. The day after her death he had doused the floor in it after a snap decision not to burn the whole place to the ground. Looking into his bedroom, he also saw her leather jacket - the very same one he had given to her in her first year in Sunnydale, laying on his bed, emanating her scent. Resigned once again, he sat and held the necklace tightly in his palm, against his still-beating heart, ignoring the caustic effect on his skin and focusing on the ice that enveloped the entirety of his being.

*

"We both know what you hunger for, what you need. Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of, it's what makes eternal life worth living."

"No," Angel said.

"It's the only way," Buffy begged, her neck still exposed.

"Get away from me," Angel pushed himself out of bed, barely standing. He was almost dead, the vampire poison was quick. He was shirtless and sweating, and for the first time in God knew how long, he felt cold.

"It'll save you."

"And it'll kill you."

"Maybe not, not if you don't take it all."

"You can't ask me to do this," he pleaded.

"I won't let you die. I can't. Angel, the blood of a Slayer is the only cure."

"Faith."

"I tried... I killed her."

"Then it's over," said Angel, fighting consciousness as he stumbled from his room, crashing onto a small table in front of his fireplace.

Following, Buffy pulled him up to stand and looked him in the eyes.

"It is NEVER over. I won't let you die. Drink!"

"Please," he said, little energy remaining.
With an exasperated look on her face, Buffy swung her fist back and punched Angel, waiting for the change. A second swing, still nothing. On her third swing a growl sounded and Angels' game face was back. Not wasting a second, Buffy grabbed Angels' hair and forced him down into her neck.

Angels' lips were pressed to her neck, Buffy relying on his thirst and delirium to surpass his convoluted nobility and save him.

And it did, for a price.

"I'm not afraid of you. I bet she is, though."

Thanks for reading!
I'll post the next chapter in a few days, depending on views and stuff because hey, who wants to post something no one's reading anyway?
Comments are welcome. (: