Riley groaned. The thrall thinned enough to let the pain in his chest rip through. He was on the verge of feeling truly and well beat-in, when a voice said, Might as well have a bit of fun with the boy. His body snapped to attention. –Your master commands you to carry the carpenter somewhere safe. Amidst the stone and wood of the wrecked hallway, a figure hovered over him, sagging face seemingly mild of concern and a great deal annoyed.

Riley felt the swelling inside his jaw and his chest dull. Fragments of the night slanted back into place. "You saved us."

Don't remind me.

"Who are you?"

Bollocks, who d'ya think I am—Angel? On your feet toy soldier. Let's see if some heavy lifting won't kill you.

***///***

"—And then I carried Xander back here, where he regained consciousness after some cold water to the face. That pretty much covers the night up till the present."

On Giles' couch, a cup of hot tea between his hands and a blanket thrown over his shoulders for good measure, even though he was more than a little sticky hot under the rough wool—Riley admitted to himself that he actually remembered very little of the night after he entered Dracula's castle. Two pairs of eyes, Xander's and Giles', gave him appraising looks. Riley wondered dimly why he was the one who was being treated like a disaster victim. A twinge in his side killed the complaint before it found voice.

"And you say that after you choked Xander into unconsciousness, you preceded to fight off Dracula's thrall and use the lid of the blue urn in Xander's pocket—which had just happened to fall to the floor and which you just happened to assume could defeat the reanimated vampire –to beat back the vampire prince all of your own accord?" Giles raised an eyebrow. His manner of breaking down the component parts of bullshit and selecting the choicest ludicrous claims to shame the teller was dead-on, as usual. But Riley persisted.

"That's how it happened sir," Riley said.

Giles and Xander traded a disbelieving look.

"Why is this so hard to believe?" Riley asked, turning ever so slightly from Giles to Xander. "Buffy did it."

"I think this should be stating the obvious, but you and Buffy—world of difference. For one, Buffy? Way more fetching in basic black. For another, Buffy usually manages to save the day without utilizing the Strangle Xander tactic."

"What Xander is trying to say is that the logical gaps in your story, to a skeptical observer, w-would make it seem like you're glossing over certain facts. Such as the involvement of another party?"

"There was no one—"

"—I remember someone—"

Xander and Riley stopped.

Riley tried to resolve the figure in his mind, but couldn't. "Angel," he said hazily, almost like a question.

Xander mulled over the name, visualizing the seconds before the aching, terrible black. He remembered the veins in his forehead screaming. Oxygen deprivation had to be given its due, but—he had felt annoyance. Annoyance beyond measure. And he had seen a brightly haloed head. The ferocity with which he wanted to spend his last breath staking his rescuer returned to Xander. His knuckles turned white. "I must have seen him before I passed out," is all he said.

Giles turned a cool, expressionless face to the other man. "Did Angel say anything—"

"No sir. You know—Angel—sir. Tall dark and brooding. Not big on the details."

"I'm sure it wasn't Buffy—" Xander said, compelled to elaborate as Giles' face recorded the fainted twitch of a very parental hurt. "I mean, if Buffy had news, the first person she'd call, I'm sure would be you—" Xander stumbled. He honestly wasn't sure. In all likelihood, Riley was Buffy's number one speed-dial. "It wouldn't be Angel. I'm sure he has contacts, people who know people, that sort of thing."

"Y-yes, well," Giles replied. Xander could see the brief struggle in the Watcher's emotions in the slight grimace that tugged on the corners of his mouth. The emotion, like others in the past, was banished, or maybe simply disguised, by work. "This appears to be the first instance of non-ritualistic reanimation in Watcher records. No doubt the Council will be interested. I should undoubtedly update the Chronicle..."

Giles hovered over the couch, perhaps looking to refresh their 3 am tea, perhaps searching their faces for the traces of the story that wasn't being told.

"Xander, make sure to swing Riley by the hospital." Giles motioned towards the door. "Take my car if you must." Giles said a few moments later with some finality. He excused himself and disappeared up the stairs.

"It could have been worse," Xander said after a pause. "It could have been Spike."

Riley put a hand to his wheezing, broken chest.

"—I guess it could have been worse—"

"—Yeah, it really couldn't have been worse—"

"Was it you who carried me back?" Xander asked coolly.

"Yes," Riley winced. Even in a fireman carry, Xander's weight had been almost too much to bear. But they, Xander and he, were friends. He owed Xander more than a free ride home.

"Needle and Gauze time," Xander nodded toward the door.

Riley felt the faint need to return to Lowell House wilt under the rush of blood to his chest. He refused Xander's proffered hand.

"Your funeral," Xander said. He backpedaled as Riley's legs wobbled and a hand went to his smashed-in forehead. "I'm sure not literally."

"It's funny—not ha-ha funny like head trauma—" Xander said as he opened the door to Giles' new convertible. "—but I can't help thinking, the vamp in the hallway was Spike."

"What would Spike be doing at the mansion?" Riley asked, lowering himself slowly onto the passenger seat.

"How would Spike even know Drac was in town, right?" Xander laughed it off. The engine revved up.

"We have impossible luck," Riley said.

"How's that?"

"I mean Angel picks tonight of all nights to visit Sunnydale just in time to rescue our sorry asses."

Xander was going to feed Riley the contacts line again when realization dawned. He slammed a fist into the steering wheel. For the second time that night, he allowed himself to more than half-remember Cordelia without actually giving name to his regrets. "He's got a girl who has visions."

"That explains everything," Riley said mildly.

"It sure does," Xander said.

The rest of drive to the hospital passed in silence. The night's action had simply been a detour, Xander thought as Riley was escorted out of the waiting room by the nursing staff. Thanking the nurse by name—Ben, you've been a big help, you have no idea—Xander and Riley fell into step out to Giles' convertible. The easy banter that they'd shared at Dracula's castle after Dracula's Demise, Part Un (A Film Presented in Many Parts) had evaporated.

"They loaded me up with morphine and a prescription for oxy," Riley said without prompting. "I don't think the lung's actually punctured."

"I didn't think they'd release you," Xander said conversationally as he unlocked Riley's door.

"Why did you wait?" Riley asked, uncharacteristically gracious as Xander completed the small gesture of opening the door for him—no doubt blissed out on morphine.

"It's sort of my specialty," Xander kicked the car into drive. "Taser-toting commando busts in doors, I look decorative in waiting rooms. Where do you want me to drop you?" Xander passed a quick glance over at Riley. "Buffy's?"

"Lowell house will be fine."

"Won't Buffy be worried?"

"She's not worried."

"Are things between you—"

"I'm fine. I mean, we're fine." A worried look passed over Riley's face. "We're fine, right? About earlier?"

Xander pulled up to a red. The empty intersection felt Lynchian as a strong wind set the street light waving. His fingers drummed faster on the steering wheel. He didn't have a ready answer that wasn't a lie and didn't sound like an inept glossing of the question that even Mr. Morphine could detect. Xander watched the streetlight click over to green. He gunned the engine.

As long as he was moving, it wasn't a lie. "We're fine."

The car took the turn onto campus harder than either man expected. Xander took a long look at Riley as they pulled up to Lowell House. The man sitting next to him wasn't Commando Riley, but a young man slumped down in his seat, one hand resting over his heart, taking care that his breathing didn't stretch his bandages. Vulnerability, he thought he saw, acknowledgement of uselessness . Xander had to restrain himself. Useless? He wanted to scream. You defeated the Prince of Darkness. I was the Master's butt monkey. You beat off the unstoppable vampire's mind control, saved my ass, and teamed up with what passes for your arch-nemesis to defeat an( un)common evil. And you feel useless because it's a little hard for you to walk with your dislocated ribs?

"When they were wrapping my ribs, Ben kept telling me to sit up straight, to stop fidgeting." Riley laughed. "I had a killer itch on my back."

"What happened to the urn?" Xander asked, voice full doubtful.

"I destroyed it."

"Do you need any—help?" Riley shook his head. Xander, completely unwilling to watch Riley hobble up to Lowell House like the pathetic loser Xander knew he wasn't, took off as soon as the passenger door slammed shut.

The early morning air distilled the quiet rawness to a single image pulled from his memory from his enjoining vision—Buffy & Riley on the edge of an endless desert, looking back on him.

"We're way ahead of you," Xander said to no one. He really fucking hated that desert.