- WARNING: this chapter will include references to substance abuse, self-harm and suicidal thoughts. Read at your own discretion.

- IRISH SLANG:
- wains: kids
- watch yourself: take care
- cracker: fun

Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series, nor do I make any money from this.

It was dark.

Angel groaned, blinking slowly as he tried to adjust to his surroundings; it was unusual that he couldn't see in the dark, it was never a problem before, but considering the battle he just fought, there was a first time for everything.

The battle. Images of it flashed through Angel's mind like the beam of a camera going off. Rain poured down as the demon army advanced with screeches and roars. Illyria bared her teeth, looking vindictive and infuriated as she ripped off the head of a Grappler demon. Dragon-fire hot against Angel's cheek, nearly burning him as green scales glittered in the dark. Gunn disappeared amidst a horde of demons, his face frozen in determination and pain. Women Angel didn't recognize wielded weapons, huddled in a battle formation, a speck in a sea of demons. Spike jammed his sword into the head of a Karithian demon giant with a roar, blood and rainwater running down his cheeks. Blurs of Lagalaos demons fell to the ground, Angel ripping through them with his sword, and then-

"Look who finally decided to join the party," Spike came into view, waving a flashlight in Angel's face and he recoiled, grimacing at the sudden light; he made a move to sit up, only to grunt and fell back at the intense pain that suddenly burst in his chest. "Don't move. Your body's pretty fucked-up right now."

Angel sucked in a breath, the pain still lingering a little and he grimaced; his body felt odd, frail and weak, not quite as endurable as before, his muscles were stiff and he felt hot. Huh. His forehead was sticky, almost slick with sweat but that wasn't possible, he hadn't felt any sort of temperature in centuries. Unless...

"Shanshu came true, and it made its choice," Spike remarked, reading the expression on Angel's face. "How does it feel?"

"Painful," Angel frowned. "But I signed it away...the Circle made me. I shouldn't...it should've been you."

But instead he was human now. Shanshu finally came true, and it felt like a horrible, unfathomable burden to bear.

"Guess that's the thing about a prophecy, it's not really up to anyone but fate. You've been out for two days. The pain in your chest is bruised ribs, your ankle's broken, you might have a concussion too and your body is covered in bruises and scrapes. It's a wonder you're alive. Illyria should be back soon with some more supplies. Here, take this."

Spike slipped a blue pill in Angel's mouth, and gave him some water. "Connor, my son. Is he…?"

"Dunno."

If Connor hadn't made it out...Angel wasn't sure he could get through this. He'd already lost so many people, but not his son. He couldn't lose Connor again.

Spike had a pre-made mushroom purée cup in his hand and ripped off the lid, sticking a plastic spoon in and began to feed Angel, who hesitated before reluctantly complying. They'd spent many years together, travelling and killing, but never had they played nurse to the other. "This is a little humiliating, if I'm being honest."

"Hey, I'm the one that has to feed you," Spike scowled, scooping up more purée, " believe me, I won't be telling anyone about this."

"Good," they fell back into silence for several minutes, when Angel asked another question he'd been dreading. "So...it's just you and Illyria. Gunn...he really is-"

"Yes," grief flickered to life for a moment, Spike looked exhausted but he recovered quickly, focused intently on feeding Angel. "I wanted to retrieve his body, Wesley's too but it's chaos out there. It's dangerous to even step outside right now, Illyria's lucky she can impersonate people and get supplies for us."

"Wait - so where are we?"

"Subway station. We're in a staff room - safest place we could find. The power's out, but the water system still works."

"What about the hospitals?"

"Some are damaged, so they're not operational and the rest are overpacked. And who's to say you'll be safe there? I may not be some prissy doctor, but if Wolfram & Hart decide to send us some more friends, you'll be safer here, and this is hardly the worst crisis we've been in. Remember Belfast, 1886?"

Angel just stared at Spike as he fed him the rest of the purée. A sudden bang at the door made both of them jump, Angel grimaced at the pain in his chest while Spike watched the door warily, reaching for something but calmed down after the door opened, footsteps approaching. Illyria came into view from above, peering down at Angel, looking almost surprised.

"He wakes?" she asked, her eyes scanning him intently, setting down supplies.

"For a while now. What did you find?" Spike replied, examining some of the items Illyria brought. "The good stuff, thank god. You did well, Blue."

The corners of Illyria's lips were upturned slightly, almost looking somewhat pleased before she went back to her usual haughty look. She bent down next to Angel, peeling back gauze and bandages around his torso, throwing them away to put on new bandages. "Your healing process is frustratingly slow, and you are still quite injured. I have acquired modern medicines for you. Will they help?"

"With time," Spike told her before Angel could answer, "he's human now, so he's fragile. We have to be a lot more careful with fixing him up now that he's awake."

"You don't have to fix me," Angel said quietly, which earned him a sharp look from Spike and Illyria tilted her head a little in confusion.

"What's the alternative? Letting you die?" Spike snapped.

"Why not? Would that be so bad?" Angel retorted vehemently, his eyes hot, " Maybe you should've just left me in that alley. I did this, right? I led everyone into battle, one I knew could destroy us, and now look at what I've done to the city. All those people injured and killed because of my decisions. I got everyone to join Wolfram & Hart," Angel realized he was crying, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and his vision was blurry. "I killed them."

"You are feeling guilt," Illyria commented, an edge of curiosity in her voice. "It must be powerful for you to excrete fluid from your eyes."

"Oh, nancy boy here's been feeling guilty since the moment he was born, it's part of his nature," Spike replied grimly, "and I'm the one who has to tell him to snap out of it. Get your head out of your arse, we were all adults who agreed to your plan, we had the choice to walk away but we didn't. You didn't force anyone to do anything, and you fought like hell when the time came. This apocalypse was bound to come, sooner or later, all you did was ensure you were on the right side of things. We destroyed their territory here, we cut their power! Imagine how much worse things could've been if you hadn't done something. Enough with the torture, alright? We're all that's left, all we have so let us fix you."

Illyria began to wipe Angel's cheeks, albeit reluctantly like her hands were touching a dead animal, but her eyes studied Angel closely. Spike held up his flashlight to read the instructions of a pill bottle. Angel's eyelids fluttered, starting to feel heavy - he was so tired, he just wanted to sleep to take him away from the pain of grief and guilt. So, he let it.

They make small talk on the way to Angel's place.

Buffy tells him about the Slayers Organization, how it was built up using whatever funds and resources were left of the Watchers Council, that their headquarters is in Scotland with two outposts, with scouts and slayers active worldwide. She talks about how Giles and Xander are working in Scotland, Willow's still exploring another plane, Faith's at the Cleveland outpost and Dawn's enjoying college life in Liverpool.

Angel talks about Lahinch, how it's so small that everyone here knows everyone, and naturally, they're fascinated with him. He's the newcomer, the supposed-American immigrant who's fluent in Gaelic, but whose slang is severely outdated and is extremely private about his past. He explains his job as a worker in a metal factory, just to make money and he's still trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life. There's so many career choices now compared to the 1700s, it's a bit of an overwhelming decision to make.

They only discuss the smaller details of their lives, they've settled on catching up for now and avoiding any heavier questions, especially when it concerns their relationship.

They finally reach Angel's apartment complex, a pale blue three-story building with wide windows, surrounded by thin trees and colourful flower-beds lining the sidewalk. It's quiet, and as usual, Angel's landlord, Mrs. Burke is sitting on the wooden bench in front of the building, working on her crossword.

As Angel and Buffy come closer, Mrs. Burke looks up, her eyes glancing between the two curiously and she gives them a warm smile. She greets him in Gaelic, waving a hand. "Good afternoon, Liam."

"Hello, Mrs. Burke. How are you today?" Angel responds in Gaelic, he knows Mrs. Burke's English isn't the greatest; he can feel Buffy's eyes flitting between them, polite but slightly confused.

"M'daughter's bringing her wains over for dinner, ach, I'll have to prepare a feast! They eat so much these days, you wouldn't believe how much food they can put away," Mrs. Burke smiles fondly, her eyes flickering towards Buffy, "I see you brought a visitor."

"She's an old friend of mine from the States, she came to catch up and see my place. I'll probably show her around Lahinch, find something cracker to do."

"That sounds nice. I'll leave you to it then, watch yourself, dear."

"Enjoy your day, Mrs. Burke," Angel nods as a goodbye, leading Buffy inside the building.

They head up to the second floor, Buffy trailing behind Angel as he turns right and heads to the end of the narrow hallway where his apartment is the last one on the left; he unlocks the door, letting Buffy step inside first to examine his place. It's not so different from his basement-apartment in Sunnydale, made up of new furniture and whatever belongings he saved from the destruction in LA.

"It's nice, homey," Buffy comments casually, peering at his shelves lined with books and a few photos made up of ones that Connor sent him and Cordelia's old picture albums. "Wolfram & Hart's cushy salary couldn't buy you a fancy beach home, huh?"

"Oh, it could've," Angel moves into his small blue kitchen, Buffy following as he unpacks his groceries. "but the money disappeared pretty quickly after what I did. Thankfully, I still had some funds saved up. Spike helped too, he paid to get me a new passport, social security number, driver's license, any sort of registration I'd need."

"He was the one who got you out of LA."

"Yeah, he and Illyria did all the work. When I woke up after the battle, I was pretty injured so we were hiding out in a subway station for a couple weeks. Once they could move me, we got out of LA. Drove across the country until we reached the coast, and took a plane to Galway. We buried Wes and Gunn, then drove until we hit Lahinch. Spike and Illyria left a couple days after that, and I started my new life."

"With your human name, Liam."

Angel nods. "I go by Liam Wyndam-Chase now."

His voice catches a little at Wes and Cordy's last names. He'd wanted to honour them, keep their memory alive somehow but it still hurts a little to hear it sometimes. It's a painful reminder, but not one he ever wants to banish.

"Liam Wyndam-Chase," Buffy repeats, the name sounding foreign in her mouth but he thinks he can get used to that. "It suits you. I guess this means I should start calling you Liam now."

Angel smiles. "It makes no difference to me, you can call me whatever you'd like."

Wrong thing to say. The silence that follows somehow pulls his eyes to hers, her mouth parted a little and the look on her face is reminiscent of their relationship post-Acathla, when they had to constantly resist the temptation of the other. He'd only meant for it to be light-hearted, but now it feels like he's back in her bedroom the night they kissed, his body aching with want to just press his lips against hers.

"Uh, do you want something to drink?" Angel grabs a jug of orange juice from the fridge, pretending to busy himself with pouring a glass.

"No, I'm okay."

"Where have you been staying?"

"Doolin Inn. It's not too bad, they have free breakfast and there's always a cute little chocolate on my bed at the end of the day."

"That's good to hear."

"Yeah."

They've reached their limit for talking. They were never good at being friends, they can only keep up this act for so long until it runs dry. Angel knows they have more to say to each other, things to address but it still feels as if there's a chasm between them, and he doesn't know how to cross it.

"It's good to know she didn't kill you on the spot, I thought I'd have to haul my ass to Ireland to go kick her Slayer butt."

"I told you I'd be fine, and I'm not totally useless, you know. I still exercise, I have a stash of stakes and a shotgun in my closet. I can still defend myself."

"I'm sure you could, old man," Connor responds with a chipper voice, a little garbled through the long-distance call, "but I'm also pretty sure I could kick your ass now."

"Do you give your parents this kind of attitude too?"

"Nah, I like to reserve it just for you, so I can make these phone-calls more interesting for you," Angel knows Connor's teasing, he can hear the smile in his son's voice.

They normally talk a couple times a month, Connor calls when he can or they send letters, but ever since Buffy asked Connor about Angel, he's been calling much more often. He checks up on Angel when he gets home from work, practically interrogating him about whether he'd seen Buffy in town or heard any rumours about any blonde tourists coming in. Angel knows Connor won't ever admit he's been worried, they're not quite at that level of honesty in their relationship yet. But, things are improving every day, and they're managing to, quite tentatively and awkwardly, talk to each other.

"And I hope you're not planning on boring her to death with your geriatric Irish village. Make sure she doesn't just have to stare at cows and endless amounts of grass."

"As an Irishman yourself, you could try paying your heritage more respect...but I have no problem with any slander on the English. Even if that's part of your heritage too."

There's a pause on the other line. "My mother. But I thought...?"

"She immigrated to America, but Darla grew up in England."

They occasionally talk about Darla, at least much more than they ever did before. Never for long, it presses on old wounds for both father and son, but sometimes Connor's curiosity gets the better of him. He asks about the night he was born, Darla's pregnancy, and about their lives together as soulless vampires. Still, even if things are much better than before, they still rarely, if ever, talk about the Cordelia-Jasmine debacle.

"Cool. Well, maybe you should take Buffy out tonight, like to dinner or a movie...get some drinks at a bar...I did that back in high school with plenty of girls."

"You mean girls you'd take on dates."

"And? Show her a good time, compliment her outfit and buy her flowers."

"Are you giving me dating advice?"

"You need to keep up, old man. What, you guys were just gonna sit around, do nothing all night? At least make her dinner and plan some kind of nice gesture for her. Sweep her off her feet!"

"Connor, it's still...complicated between us."

Connor sighs heavily through the phone, clearly exaggerating his frustration. He definitely didn't get those dramatics from Angel's side of the family. "Dad, when is anything not complicated with you? Just consider it. Or, do it for me. Give me something to look forward to. My parents are happily married, but I still have a father who enjoys brooding and sitting in the dark."

The creak of a floorboard in the hallway catches Angel's attention and he gets up from his bed, moving over to see Buffy examining a photo in the hallway. She had to step out to call Giles and Dawn, so Angel took the opportunity to call Connor but now she's back, waiting patiently for Angel to finish his call.

"Buffy's back, I better go now. Until next time?"

"Until next time. Stay safe, call me if you need anything, and think about what I said. I'd recommend tulips, roses are overrated at this point."

"Thanks for the tip," Angel tries to sound exasperated, but he can't help the note of affection in his voice, "you call me if you need anything too, don't overwork yourself and make sure to go have fun with your friends. Have a good day, Connor."

Angel hangs up the phone, smiling a little and opens the door, stepping out into the hallway to greet Buffy. "Sorry, I thought I'd call Connor while you were out. He's been checking up on me a lot lately, I just wanted to let him know you were here and everything's fine."

"No, no, it's fine, don't worry, it's sweet that he's checking up on you. He seems like a good kid."

"He is."

"Is it hard, being so far from him?"

"It's the hardest thing about living here," Angel answers honestly, "but I'm not sure if I can ever go back to California, so it's good enough, knowing he's safe."

"Wolfram & Hart's gonna send their evil henchmen after you if you do?"

"Maybe. They still send demons occasionally to Spike and Illyria, never to kill but just to attack. It's a reminder that they're still out there, and they haven't forgotten what happened. They probably know I'm alive, but I'm no longer useful or much of a threat now, but I still did a lot of damage. They probably don't want me back on the turf I destroyed."

"But no demons have come to attack you? Wolfram & Hart hasn't gone after you?" Buffy asks, a shadow of anxiety and worry on her face, but he shakes his head.

"No one's come to bother me."

She relaxes, tension leaving her shoulders. "That's really good to hear, I'm glad. Definitely a relief. Right, yeah, so...Spike and Illyria. Are they a thing?"

Angel shifts uncomfortably, ignoring the part of him trying to detect jealousy in her tone; he knows she and Spike have talked, but he has no interest in learning about the intricacies of their relationship. "I don't know. Spike's always been drawn to powerful, eccentric women, and Illyria would leave if she didn't want to be around him...but I don't think she's quite over the whole I'm-superior-and-everyone-bows-down-to-me mindset. If they are together, I doubt it's healthy."

"She definitely was one of the weirdest demons I've ever met, and that's saying something," Buffy chuckles, and it sounds genuine, leaving Angel unsure what to think, "So, what's the plan for tonight? I guess it's not like old times, where we'd patrol together, find some demons to kill...but we could stay in, go out. If you want to. If you made plans, it's fine."

"No, I'm not busy tonight," for some reason Connor's words keep coming back to Angel, talking about nice gestures and dinner, "we can stay in, I'll cook for you. I've been practicing."

"You've been practicing?" Buffy's giggling a little, and Angel's cheeks redden. Stupid blood circulation.

"It's a good way to learn, and Martha Stewart is really creative with her recipes."

"Oh, so it's Martha Stewart you've been following." Now she's really laughing, but the sound isn't making Angel as grumpy as he should be. She eventually calms down, a hand covering her mouth a little to stifle any lingering giggles. "Dinner it is, chef."

Angel woke up again, an oil lantern lit next to him, casting odd shadows and Illyria sat next to him, looking in the direction of the door with blank eyes. A few days had passed, maybe a week, but Angel was constantly sleeping and being fed painkillers, which made time woozy. His body was slowly healing, the pain subsiding little by little but the grief only got worse. All he could think about was that his friends were dead, his son missing, the city in ruins, all because of him.

"You wake," Illyria observed, her voice echoing throughout the room, "Has the pain resumed? Shall I feed you more medicinal tablets?"

"No, that's not it," Angel replied hoarsely, his throat rough, "Where's Spike?"

"Feeding and searching. To find news of the world outside and the wolf, the ram and the hart. It's uncertain whether they will continue to send their forces after us. Demons are slowly starting to flee, as humanity sends in their measly fleets to attempt to repair the destruction we made."

Angel shut his eyes, as if it'd stop him from being confronted with his guilt, his doubts about whether he did the right thing. If the gift of humanity was really worth anything, it seemed so futile now. How pointless it was to be alive, getting his wish after all these years.

"Are your tear glands going to excrete fluid again? Spike informed me this act is referred to as crying."

"No," his voice came out shakier than he'd intended. "Just tired."

"Then sleep again. Your body will return to its normal health with rest and time."

"It's a different kind of tired."

"I don't know what that means, or how I can help," Illyria frowned, her face pinched in thought, clearly going through several emotions. "I do not like this feeling. It is quite vexing."

Angel smiled grimly, he knew all too well how that felt; utter helplessness settling in your chest, nudging at you, a reminder of how useless you could feel. He'd been feeling that ever since he woke up as a human. "You get used to it. Eventually you learn to carry it around with you, and live with it everyday."

"There is no cure for this discomfort?"

"No. But you do want to help, which is important...but why me? Why do you want to help me?"

Illyria was silent for so long that Angel thought she was ignoring him, but eventually she responded. "This world is already harsh enough. I still do not understand it, nor like it. But you and Spike are the only...familiars I have. Everyone else is gone. I have no desire to watch you die."

Somehow Angel managed to give her a genuine smile. "That might've been the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Illyria gave him a sharp look. "Would you prefer I lie to you?"

"No. Your honesty is appreciated," Angel could feel his mental battery draining away, his thoughts becoming harder and harder to discern, but he needed to know. "Has...my son, Connor, have you found...?"

"No sign. There are too many sick and injured to find your offspring."

Angel's tongue felt heavy again, his eyelids drooped a little and his body was on the verge of shutting back down. He just needed to get these last few words out. "I'm not leaving...you tell Spike...don't move me until I know Connor's alive."

He didn't hear Illyria's response, maybe she didn't say anything at all but regardless, sleep took over. He was dragged back into dreams of his friends dead at his feet, his son disappearing beneath rubble and smoke, a dragon burning his skin until he was nothing.

"So, this is the only brand of garlic bread you like?" Buffy's grinning amusedly as she gestures to the garlic bread baguette she's cutting up. "I never knew you could be so particular about food." Angel never really thought much about his eating habits, but looking at it through another person's eyes, he's starting to realize he's a little...picky.

"It's the perfect balance of texture and flavour. Everything else is just...too bland and too soft."

"God, you sound like Dawn," Buffy chuckles, putting the garlic bread onto a baking tray, "You two could start a picky-eaters club. I think the only problem would be who gets to be president."

"Definitely Dawn," Angel concedes seriously, Buffy giggling as she slides the tray into the oven and closes it with a flourish. "Could you grab the oregano for me?"

"Sure, where's your spice rack?" Buffy asks, beginning to look in cabinets carelessly.

"On your left, right at the - wait, no, no, not that-"

Buffy's staring at the prescription bottle of Paxil and Angel goes over, shutting the cabinet door abruptly, pausing awkwardly before shuffling back to making the stovetop where he's making the pasta sauce. He can't look at her, he cannot bear to see what he'll find in her expression.

"Sorry," Buffy says softly, her eyes looking his way, "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, there's no need to apologize. You would've found out eventually. I started taking them a few months after LA happened, I was in a bad place and it became clear that I needed medication to help with that."

"I'm glad you got the help you needed," Angel's still not looking at her, even if her tone is steady and earnest. "Angel, it doesn't make a difference to me that you take antidepressants, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It'd be incredibly absurd if none of us needed any help after everything that's happened. This doesn't change anything, you're still Angel to me."

"I was just a little worried about how you'd react," he admits quietly, finally sparing a glance at Buffy, "it's a big thing to tell, especially to you."

He hadn't exactly meant to say that last part, but it's out there. What surprises him more is what she tells him after. "I still love you, you know."

He stiffens, wondering for a second if he misheard what she said. "I...I didn't know that. I wasn't sure if you were done, uh, baking."

"Baking?" she asks blankly, and Angel shifts to look at her, recognition dawning on her face, "Oh! Oh, when you came to Sunnydale to give me the amulet. God, I can't believe I called myself cookie dough," she chuckles weakly, before taking on a more vulnerable look that makes Angel tremble a little at her next words, "It's not that I'm necessarily done...baking. I'll probably spend the rest of my life becoming whoever I want to be, but I want to do that with you. I'm done pretending like I don't want to be with you." For some reason, Angel can't seem to form a response, his brain is still partially convinced this is a fantasy of some kind. "Um, I'm just gonna go use your washroom for a few minutes...maybe longer, and you can just...stand there."

She turns to leave, but Angel finally takes action, reaching her in the hallway entrance and pulls her in for a kiss. It's warm and familiar and natural, her lips tasting of a sunrise that brings light, of a home that was made for him a long, long time ago. When they finally come up for air, tears shine in Buffy's eyes and he can see his emotions reflected in her: surprise, desire, tenderness but most of all, there is love, the one emotion they've had to bury for so long. But not anymore.

"I love you too," Angel whispers, his hands cradling her cheeks gently; she lets out a watery laugh, a wide grin on her face and he draws her in for another kiss.

"Connor." Angel's eyes swam with tears. His son stared down at him, looking extremely relieved but slightly bewildered at his father crying. Angel fumbled for his son's hands, clutching them tightly, wanting to make sure this was real, and Connor looked flabbergasted, but didn't pull away. "Connor. You're here, you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm fine...Dad, you don't need to cry, it's okay," Connor looked helplessly at Spike and Illyria for direction, an explanation as to why Angel was so emotional. Angel didn't understand it either. Maybe it was the drugs. Or maybe it was the return of humanity, eating away at his stoicism and silence. "Is he...is it the drugs?"

"It is difficult to discern the cause. His emotions have been highly unstable ever since he woke up as a mortal," Illyria told Connor, regarding Angel with cold fascination. According to Spike, he'd become the most interesting thing for Illyria to "study." It surprised him how much he didn't care.

"Oh," Connor grabbed a rag, awkwardly wiping away the tears on Angel's cheeks, "Dad, maybe you should try to get some sleep again. I'll be here when you wake up, I'm staying until-"

"No," Angel protested firmly, getting more of a hold on himself. "I wanted to see you, before...before I leave."

"Leave?" Connor frowned, "You're still hurt, you shouldn't be going anywhere."

"It's not safe for me here, I have to go. I wish I didn't, but-"

"But what?" Connor demanded angrily, "What excuse is good enough for you to leave me, huh? Everyone else is gone. My mother. Cordy. Fred. Gunn. Wesley. And now you're gonna take off too?"

"You can't expect him to stay, boy," Spike spoke up harshly, uncharacteristically defending Angel.

"He's my father, of course I expect him to be here!"

"Spike, it's-" Angel tried to butt in, but the two paid him no attention.

"He's a human who pissed off very dangerous and powerful demons! You don't want those nosy lawyers finding out he's still walking and talking, do you? Much less that he's still here, still a possible threat? He's delicate now, he may have killed their army but they won't need much to kill him now. You can't expect him to heal here!"

"So, what, you're getting him to run off and hide?"

"Your father could die if he stays!"

"I can take care of him, I can protect him just fine!"

"Connor," Angel said loudly, finally getting his son's attention and Spike quieted down for once, "I can't ask you to do that, change everything around just for me. I want you to have a normal, long, happy life and if I'm putting that at-risk, I can't stay."

"Dad, I don't care about happens if you stay, I-"

"But I do, especially if it means you'll be in danger if I don't go. Do you think I would leave if I didn't seriously believe it was the safest option?"

This got Connor quiet, and he searched Angel's face, looking for some trace of doubt but found none. "Where would you go?"

"Small town, probably. Somewhere quiet, where it'll be hard for anyone to find me."

"And you're sure about this?"

"As much as I hate to say this, Spike's right, I need to go. The only people who need to know the truth about what happened are in this subway station, let everyone else believe I'm dead. It's the best way for me to start over and keep you safe. I wish it wasn't like this, that we could be a family now that I'm human, that I could stay here and be the father you deserve-"

"Dad, come on, things haven't always been great but that's all in the past, I've forgiven you for-"

"Please, just let me say it," Spike and Illyria disappeared to pack any last supplies, leaving Angel to say his goodbyes."I wish I could've been there for it all. I still do, but I can't right now. Maybe one day, if things are different and they finally work out for us, we can be a family again. But that's just not a possibility right now, so as long as I know you're happy and safe, that's more than enough."

"I wish things were different too," Connor admitted quietly, and took out a crumpled receipt from his pocket, using a pen to scribble something down. He tucked it in the pocket of Angel's jacket. "You have my number and address now. Let me know when you're settled, will you?"

"I will," Angel managed a feeble smile. "I love you, Connor."

Connor gave him a weak smile back, and Angel thought he saw a glint of a tear in his son's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "Goodbyes are too final. How about until next time."

"Until next time," Angel echoed, and Spike came back into view.

"The sun just set, we have a small window until the demons start coming out. It's time to go."

And Connor gave him one last look, his hands slipped away until he left, back to his life, a life Angel wasn't sure he'd ever really get to be a part of.

Angel shuts the mirror cabinet in his washroom, wiping his hands on the towel next to the sink and turns off the light, walking through his dark apartment to the only room with light. He pushes open his bedroom door, Buffy already in bed and flipping through a magazine. He's about to tug off his shirt to go to bed but stops, looking at Buffy. "Is it okay...?"

"Go ahead," her eyes are dark, her gaze almost hungry and she shifts in bed as he slips off his shirt, trying to suppress a smile. The look on her face suddenly morphs into horror, drawn to something on Angel's chest and he looks down confusedly, grimacing slightly when he realizes what she's looking at. "Angel...what, what is this...?"

She's crawling across the bed, reaching out a hand gingerly to touch the mark on his chest. He understands her reaction, he can't blame her for it; Spike had been caught between fury and shock at the mark, and even Illyria had looked somewhat disturbed. The Circle of the Black Thorn tattoo is still on his chest, slightly faded ever since LA but in bright contrast against his skin. The newest addition to the mark is the narrow pink scars around it, only marring his skin but not the tattoo.

"It's why I started taking Paxil," he explains quietly, trying to avoid Buffy's stare but her eyes seek him out, drawing him in. "I'd been struggling for a while, and then it was the one-year mark of Cordelia's death that kinda made me lose it. I had a breakdown...I don't remember much of it, I blacked out a good chunk of the night."

But he remembers crying. Walking around in circles in a field off the road, just repeating they're dead over and over. Empty bottles of liquor in his backseat. Fumbling for something sharp in the glove compartment, his eyes heavy. He remembers the pocketknife going over and over his skin, panicked mumbles slipping out of his mouth when the mark didn't disappear and blood dripped around it.

"I'd been drinking, driving around and I tried to cut off this tattoo. It's the symbol of the Circle of the Black Thorn, I got it to prove I was loyal to them but it felt like a reminder of what I'd lost. But the mark was made with magic, so I couldn't get rid of it and just ended up hurting myself. I passed out at some point, someone found me and called me an ambulance. I was in the hospital for a couple days, and Spike was my emergency contact, so he and Illyria came back to town."

Angel remembers lying in the hospital bed, nauseated and drained, looking up to see Spike and Illyria in the doorway, dressed more suitably for human society but both wore dark expressions. The way Spike had looked at him - they'd known each other for over a century, lived together, killed together, fought as friends and as enemies, but that look in the hospital still haunted Angel a little.

It had been as if Spike was staring at a stranger lying in that hospital bed.

"Spike was furious. We had a huge fight, the worst in a long time, I don't think we'd ever been so vicious with each other."

Oh, they'd said horrible things to each other. Angel was sure it would stay with him forever; he remembers Spike yelling at him, saying he was a disgrace to his friends who died fighting for the cause he led, he was a pathetic excuse for a Champion, Connor should be ashamed of him. Angel hadn't appreciated those comments at the time, and fired back by calling Spike a monster, heartless, forgotten by everyone he ever cared about.

Illyria had just sat there quietly, watching the fight unfold like she was watching a television series.

Angel had regretted everything the morning he woke up, he knew he'd made a huge mistake but by then, he'd already gotten used to finishing off a bottle of liquor a day and it was easier to be angry, especially when Spike could rile him up easily. He was tired of being tired, tired of going through the motions and that night, he just wanted it to be over. Maybe he was hoping Spike would've killed him out of anger by starting a fight, but no, they knew each other too well. They didn't like to give each other what the other wanted. And they knew exactly how to hit each other where it hurt.

"But then Spike called Connor, told him everything right in front of me and Connor refused to speak to me. Once I started screaming and begging Spike to let me talk to him, that wore me down and I said I'd get help."

Even now, he can recall Spike standing across the room, jaw set as he listened to whatever Connor was saying while Angel screamed at him, almost incoherently begging for the phone. It wasn't even that he had anything different to say, Spike told Connor the entire truth but Angel knew he'd hurt his son, and he wanted to fix the situation.

But Spike just stood there, watching Angel and talking to Connor until Angel started crying again and swore he'd get help. Spike was quiet for a long time, listening to whatever Connor said and speaking occasionally until he told Angel the terms. He'd eventually passed Angel the phone, only for Connor to tell him if you ever do something like that again, you will never hear from me again for the rest of your life and hung up. He hadn't called for a week after that.

"I started seeing a psychiatrist, going to AA meetings and when I was recommended to start taking Paxil, I did. It took awhile, but I'm okay now."

Buffy's eyes are brimming with tears, her hand clasping her mouth clumsily. "Oh, Angel...I'm so sorry, I should've been there, I'm sorry-"

"It's not your fault," Angel says gently, "I did this to myself, this was something I had to deal with by myself. I needed that wakeup call, even if I have an ugly scar to show for it now."

Buffy moves closer, shifting onto her knees and leans forward to gently kiss the scars, a bead of a tear dripping onto his chest. "I still think you're beautiful."

"It doesn't bother me as much anymore," Angel reassures her, "it's a reminder that I won't ever try to give up this gift again."

Buffy releases a shaky sigh and looks up at him with a smile, it's genuine but her eyes still look a little watery. "Come on, come to bed."

She pulls him down into a kiss, soft and warm, and he responds, a gentle hand on her cheek as he moves in tandem with her onto the bed; his heartbeat is picking up in speed, something he hasn't felt in a long, long time and the feeling throws him off a little but she is there to anchor him.

And yet, he unravels at her touch, layers stripped down and peeled away, his very essence remaining, something only she has ever really managed to access. Teeth graze his skin as he buries kisses along her neck, nimble fingers brush his abdomen and clothes are thrown across the room carelessly. Buffy's nails dig into his back as he nuzzles the dull bite mark he made so long ago, and the heat between her legs welcomes his touch.

They are allowed to find heaven within each other again.

Angel smiles down at the photos Connor sent him of his trip to San Francisco with his friends, admiring the city streets pictures and the sillier ones he took with his friends. He slips the pictures back in the envelope, tucking them into the pocket of his coat and picks up a rock, running his thumb over the flat surface of the rock. He bends down slightly, throws it and watches the rock skip over the water a couple times before disappearing.

A hand slides across his side and lingers on his chest, right around his heart. Angel leans into her touch a little, putting a hand over hers. "Everything okay back home?"

"All good."

Something in her voice makes Angel turn around to face Buffy, she's smiling but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. He doesn't need to guess what the problem is.

"They want you to come back."

"I was always going to, whether I found you or not," she answers seriously, "I still have work to do, people counting on me to help them."

"I know," he reassures her. He could never fault her for her courage and heart of gold, her spirit that so clearly embodies that of a Champion. "I'd never force you to stay, you're making a huge difference with everything you do, no matter how small."

"Come with me," Buffy blurts out, her tone pleading and he can see the delicate hope in her eyes, she so badly wants for him to go with her. "Come to Scotland. I know you're trying to build a life here, but we could have one together too. I can't...I had to ask, I couldn't leave without trying. This is our chance, we deserve a real shot at this. I've waited so long for something like this to come around, and now that it has, I'm not ready to give you up."

Angel thinks about his friends, the people who fought by his side and gave him the gift of Shanshu. He remembers watching Darla sacrifice her life to bring their son into the world. He looks back on a bright California day, watching a young girl's life change in an instant, and loving her all the same. "I'll have to pack my things, tell Connor about this and quit my job. It'll take awhile."

"But you'll come?"

"I'm coming."

Buffy's face lights up, a grin blooming on her face and it makes Angel beam happily too; he pulls her closer, wrapping his coat around her and she leans towards him, sharing a kiss full of joy and excitement, the taste of hope lingering. They break apart after a moment, the two of them still wearing giddy smiles and her hand is back on his chest, resting right where the thump of his heartbeat resounds.

Angel extends a hand to Buffy.

"Let's go home."

Thank you for reading, reviews are appreciated. I hope you enjoyed this story, Bangel forever!