Usual disclaimer: the characters, etc. belong to Joss Whedon. I've just borrowed them temporarily.


CHAPTER THREE

Several hours later, he was still trying hard to take it all in.

He had taken her back to the apartment he shared with Cordelia, though, luckily for them, Cordy was visiting a friend and wouldn't be back until the following day. She was taking a break from what she termed the "all pain, lesser gain" business. Still, she helped, and had helped since he'd arrived in LA. He gave her points for that... even if she did drive him crazy on more than the odd occasion.

Buffy had talked, and he had listened... until it had got too much, and he had just wanted to shut it out. Now, she was sitting on his bed, fingertips resting lightly on the coverlet, the picture of calm. He stood by the window, fist pressed against the wall, staring at the city below but seeing none of it. Thoughts were running around his head with such speed it was making him dizzy. On the outside he might seem calm; inside he was in turmoil.

Unable to be still any longer, he bashed his fist hard against the wall, welcoming the momentary pain, and turned to her.

"Are you sure?" How many times had he asked that question? He was losing count.

She regarded him with sad eyes. "I'm sure," she said, and then lost a little of that calm she'd wrapped around herself.

She stood up, looking at him, a sort of wildness about her expression. "Don't you think I'd have checked something like this?" she asked, her hands making nervous gestures near her sides. "And double checked, and triple? Even checked ten times to make sure there could be no mistake?" She gave a bitter laugh and turned, walking away from him, around the room. "It's not every day you learn about such a special breed of vamp."

The Order of the Lost.

Angel closed his eyes in pain. Buffy had told him about them soon after they reached his apartment. They were integral to his understanding, she had said. She had been right.

The Order of the Lost was a group of vampires who thrived solely to stop the Slayer... but not by using any normal methods. Life didn't matter to them, undead or otherwise, and from the minute they pledged allegiance, they considered their lives lost. They consumed the worst concoction of poisons known to man and demon, letting them absorb into their very structure. But before they could perish from the deadly onslaught destroying them from the inside, they sought the Slayer, walking homicidally towards her, until she could stake them by hardly moving her hand. Such an easy kill for the Slayer, but as the dust of the vampire settled around and on her, unconsciously, she would breathe it in, and, with it, the means for her destruction, completely unaware of what she'd just done.

The visions it was conjuring up of Buffy cut Angel inside, like a knife. The pain was far worse even than when Buffy had died at the hands of the Master.

"Are you sure there's no cure?" he asked, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

Buffy approached him, her eyes catching his, not letting him look away.

"Angel, I told you," she said patiently, quietly. "For even the slightest effect on that amount of poison - not to mention the variety of the icky-stuff -" - for a moment a smile crossed her face, as she tried to lighten the atmosphere -"I'd have to consume a massive overdose of drugs... Now, wouldn't that make an interesting twenty-first birthday?" She smiled wryly, inviting him to share it with her.

But he couldn't. Her twenty-first birthday. Tomorrow. God, she was so young. Most Slayers didn't even reach that, he knew, but, somehow - obviously in that dream world of his - he had thought she'd live forever.

Instead, the poison she'd absorbed was already working inside her, burning her from the inside out, much as it would have destroyed the vampires if they'd thought to keep the concoction to themselves.

It would work slowly - she probably had about two more years to live - but it would weaken her, sap her strength, and, little by little, the pain would grow... until, near the end, she would be in agony such as no mortal creature could endure. Except, she was the Slayer, and had greater endurance than most, so the pain would be prolonged.

Angel grit his teeth, fighting against the cry that wanted to escape. It was too unfair. He should be able to do something, save her... and yet over-240 years of life had afforded him nothing!

The loud crash, and Buffy's startled expression brought him back to the room. He looked around, pretty sure what he'd done.

Sure enough, the chest of drawers on his left was missing a drawer. That drawer was in a mess on the floor, the handle ripped off, creating a jagged hole. His fist was still clenched around the handle.

Suddenly, he felt Buffy's hands on his face, a gentle touch, but one that exerted enough pressure to turn him back to her.

She was determined when he finally faced her, her lips stubbornly pressed together. She smoothed her hands over his forehand and cheeks, releasing her expression as she did so.

Angel felt the vamp face he hadn't been aware he was wearing, fall away from him under her hands.

She smiled so sweetly, then, as she looked at him, that he couldn't help the slight intake of breath - a reflex, nothing more; vampires didn't breathe - the only betrayal of his reaction to her.

"Angel," she said gently, trailing a finger lightly down his cheek, in an unconscious and innocent gesture, "you have to accept this. Like I've had to."

As if she suddenly noticed the feel of his skin beneath her hand, she watched her finger's path with growing wonder in her eyes.

Angel struggled to stay still under the feather-light caress, but Buffy's news had managed to break down just about every emotional barrier he had erected, and his feelings for her were very near the surface. It didn't need much for him to react to her in normal circumstances, and these were exceptional ones. Still, it couldn't be. Their love was essentially forbidden...

It was as if she had read his mind. She looked down as her hand dropped to her side. When she looked at him again, the sadness was once again in place.

"I need your help, Angel," she said simply. "Can you deal?"

For one hundred years he had kept a tight hold on his emotions, on one of his more deadly instincts. He'd had to: to give into the bloodlust would have been the worst kind of defeat possible, and the loss of life would have weighed on his conscience far more than anything he had done when the demon was in control.

Now, Buffy was essentially asking him to use that control to accept something he couldn't. There just had to be another way...

Then, he caught the look in her eyes. There was resignation, and just a little bit of hope. He'd put that hope there; she was relying on him. There was no other way.

As he admitted it, it felt like something inside him was breaking up, shattering, but his expression didn't reveal a thing.

"I can deal," he assured her quietly.