He was certain he was in hell, because he was not worthy of heaven, and this was pain beyond human endurance. Giles knew his day would one day come, because the scales were still tipped. He had paid with Jenny, but even that was not enough to sate whomever kept the cosmic scores. He had hoped he would pay in life and have a chance at something besides eternal torment. He had spent years—decades, now—atoning for his misspent youth, and his feeling of guilt and unworthiness still surpassed even what his penance portrayed.

He should have expected this. He had used magic for selfish ends. He had reveled in it, until he had been forced to kill his possessed friend. None of the others had the strength to end it for him. Giles knew it was the right thing to do, even then, even now, but taking a human life was never without consequence. What you gained from magic, would always be taken away by magic. It demanded payment.

Someone pulled the hood off his head and he looked up, for all the good it did him. In the darkness, he was as good as blind without his glasses. His vision had always been poor and only deteriorated with age.

"Rupert."

For the briefest of seconds, the world came into focus, and he saw Jenny. But that couldn't be right. Jenny was dead and did not belong in hell. He still allowed himself to hope.

"J-jenny?"

"Shh," she said. "You're safe now. Everything will be okay, but you have to tell me how to stop Angel. I don't know what I need to stop him from doing."

"I missed you," he said.

"Tell me, Rupert. Please."

Just before he answered, he experienced a moment of clarity. If he was alive, she was dead. If he was dead, he was in hell. He would be alone, separated from everyone he cared for. It couldn't be real. He didn't want it to be real. He didn't want Jenny to suffer anymore.

"Tell me, and all this will end."

"You're…you're not Jenny," he mumbled, blinking and squinting his eyes, though he knew that would not help him see. Then he reached out with the power within him and looked for that bright spark of energy that was Jenny, only to find a dark void.

"F-fuck you, you f-f-fucking demon!"

Kendra was dead and the police thought she did it, Snyder had expelled her, her mother wanted nothing more to do with her. Her life had gone to hell in the span of a few hours, but it had been hell to begin with, these past months. She had accepted being slayer since coming to Sunnydale, but maybe she hadn't accepted it enough. She had still tried to carve out a piece of happiness for herself with Angel, and it had cost him his soul and her so, so much. Her friends so, so much.

She tried not to think of Giles, but she did anyway. His stammers and blushes when Ms. Calendar was around, and the hate and anger she had seen in him the night she died. She had talked him down and probably saved his life, but these past weeks, she would have preferred him to be angry. He just seemed so empty now. Quiet, even more than before, with fewer sarcastic remarks. Tears that welled in his green eyes, when he thought no one was looking, pooling just below that patch of brown in the left, but never falling. And the constant, frantic cleaning of his glasses.

And now she didn't know if he was even still alive. Angelus had taken him and was probably torturing him right now. The only assurance she had was Spike's remark that he "wasn't quite dead yet" and the flimsy chance that the vampire would actually hold up his end of the bargain and keep Giles alive. And that was supposing he would be able to, even if he wanted to.

For the first time in what felt like forever, no vampires and demons approached her in the dark. Maybe it was the huge, gleaming sword she carried, the look in her eyes, or even her reputation. Or maybe it was Angelus, that they knew the coming end, knew that he claimed her as his to own and his to kill.

Just as he was hers to kill. This was all her fault. She had caused all this, and she would do everything she could to set it right.

But it could never be set right.

Selfishly, she wished Giles or Willow or Xander or Oz or even Cordelia was here. Anything to keep the loneliness away. But she knew it was better for her friends to be safe far away, and she knew Giles would have been at her side without hesitation. She was alone now, but she still had herself. Angelus could never take that away from her, not even if he killed her.

He closed his eyes tight. Even in the dim light, the movement and bright flashes were too much for his aching head. The man had been angry-ready to hack him to pieces with a chainsaw for his failure to comply with his demands-but a droll voice had bemoaned the cleanup that would have to follow. He wasn't sure how he felt about that-it would have been a terrible way to go, certainly, but at least it would have been over. He had lost almost all sense of himself.

With the last of his strength, he lifted his head and squinted his eyes, trying to will his senses into focus. He may not be able to see with his eyes, but he trusted in his second sight, the sight of his soul, even damaged as it might be.

He nearly recoiled at what he saw, and he would have, had he seen it with his eyes.

A being of energy of pure white, flaming white, sword locked in battle against black fire. He knew the white being, he was certain, and a name slipped into his mind unbidden. Buffy. The Slayer, his Slayer was here, so maybe not all was lost. Just as the black fire sputtered and started brightening to a pale yellow, he dropped his head, no longer able to stay conscious.

"B-buffy?"

A small, broken voice that could not have come from Angelus. Buffy knew that voice, it was Angel's voice. Angelus could never manage to get the same tone. And if his voice wasn't enough, she saw the spark return to his eyes. If she had looked away, she would have missed it, but for a moment his eyes glowed a blazing yellow, like the sun.

He was on his knees, disarmed. Her blade was inches from his chest. It would be so easy to end it all, so simple to tell the others she had killed Angelus. But this was Angel. She knew it, she could hear his sad soul whispering to her own. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Buffy dropped the sword. It clattered to the ground.

She hadn't dared hope that Willow would succeed. That little bit of hope would have been dangerous, and might have stopped her from putting the blade through his heart.

And it had. But somehow, he had never worked out how to wake the demon up and bring hell to earth. Another apocalypse averted, she supposed, but that didn't change what had happened. Kendra was dead. Her friends in the hospital. God only knew where Giles was and what shape he was in. And Jenny, of course. The nightmare had ended, but like so many of hers, it was real.

Angel's arms were wrapped around her waist, pressing her close to him as he wept. Unwillingly, Buffy let her hand stroke his bristly hair. She wasn't listening to what he was saying. She couldn't.

She didn't have anything to say to him, either. She couldn't make it all better and neither could he. He had done all these things, and now it wasn't just to nameless people in the distant past. Maybe it hadn't really been him, but Angelus. But that didn't matter. Angelus was Angel, a fallen Angel, but still him.

Buffy must have stiffened, because Angel loosened his grasp and looked up at her. Forgive me, because I can't forgive myself.

"Angel," she said, not quite aware she was speaking. "You need to leave."

She had wanted him back, but now she only wanted him gone.

Angel held on for a moment more, but then he released her. His dark eyes begged her for something different, anything different, even though he knew he deserved it. He didn't even know he was begging, tearing her up inside. Angel would never mean to do that. He would take his burdens and brood alone, but Buffy imagined having no soul and then suddenly having one must be quite a shock.

But that didn't change things.

"You need to leave," she said, a bit firmer now. She thought maybe she should kill him anyways, but maybe the gypsies had been right. He needed to understand what he had done, even if it wasn't really him. He may be a vampire, and she the Slayer...but she didn't have it in her to kill something with a soul.

Buffy shoved Angel, who was still kneeling. "GO!" she shouted.

Then, with a sad and resigned look in his eyes, Angel stood. He reached towards Buffy's cross, the one he had given her, smiled, and then turned and walked out the door.

A gentle touch against his face welcomed him back to consciousness. But that couldn't be right-nothing about this place had been gentle or kind. And if he was dead, well, he didn't particularly expect that to be gentle either.

His eyes fluttered open, for all the good it did him without his glasses. He tried to reach his magic again, but it was too far away and he was too tired to chase after it. He couldn't remember the last time it had been entirely out of his reach, he didn't know if it ever had been. He wondered if he was dying.

"No, Giles."

He flinched as something wet dripped on his face, but then he realized it was only a tear. Not his tears, not anymore, but hers.

"D-don't," he managed to stutter.

"Don't what?"

Giles knew who she was now, or at least what something was pretending to be. Buffy, his Slayer. He didn't dare let himself believe it.

"You're not real."

"I am," she said, brushing her hand against his cheek.

A moment later, the touch was gone. He sighed in relief, that the trick was finished. But soon enough, he felt tears pooling in his eyes. He didn't dare move, even breathing was agony, but he had never felt so helpless and alone as he did, staring up at the dark ceiling. Everything his father had said about him was true. He didn't deserve to be a Watcher, he was weak, it would have been better if Eyghon had taken him, or if he had never been born at all.

He closed his eyes, wishing for sleep or some other respite. Even though it had been days since he truly slept, it would not come.

Someone patted his face harshly. He closed his eyes tighter. What did it matter if he opened them? Whatever was going to happen would regardless, and it wasn't as if he could see well enough to make sense of anything.

"Giles!"

His eyes fluttered open. Buffy again, and now she sounded panicked.

"Giles," she said again, gentler and calmer this time. "I need to get you dressed. You need a doctor, bad."

Warm hands seized his arms and pulled him upright. To his shame, he let out a sound that was half-whimper, half-gasp. He would have vomited, if there was anything left in his stomach. The hands stayed there as he swayed, and he tilted his head and squinted. It was her hands, more than anything, that convinced him this wasn't just another trick. Vampires were cold. Her touch was warm.

It was possible she was a hallucination, but at least she wasn't a trick.

"Buffy," he murmured.

"I'm here, Giles. It's okay. It'll be okay."

Rough fabric rubbed against his bleeding, raw back, but he didn't resist or even twitch. He let Buffy guide his arms into the sleeves. As she started to button the shirt, he murmured, "I'm supposed to tell you that."

"Tell me what?" Buffy said lightly, working his legs into some pants.

"It's okay," he mumbled, swaying again.