A/n:    at end.

                The sun has gone down again.  A soft knock on her door; he starts suddenly, realizing what time it is.  "Yes?" he says.

                "Angel?  Want some dinner?" Dawn's voice comes through the door, slightly muffled.

                He creaks to his feet, spine popping from having sat still for so long.  "Sure, Dawnie.  I'll be there shortly."

                As her footsteps recede, he looks around him again for the last time, still loosely holding the ring and letter in his hands.  As he passes the mirror over her vanity, he catches a glance of himself.  White face, eyes bloodshot.  He passes a hand over his face, trying to scrub the life back into it.  The walking dead pops into his mind, and he chuckles humorlessly to himself.  Opening her door, he begins the trek downstairs, to Dawn and Xander, and to too many questions and looks he just doesn't think he can face.

                They sit in silence, Angel pushing his food around on his plate, trying to feign interest.

                "Just stop," Dawn says finally.

                "Stop what?" he answers her, confused.

                "Stop trying to eat.  That scraping noise is driving me crazy," she tells him, placing her fingers on the hand holding his fork.  "You don't have to pretend for us."

                Angel sets his fork down, sighing.  "I'm sorry, Dawn.  Xander?  Can I see you outside?"  He stands, the chair legs scraping the floor.

                "Uh…sure.  I'll be right there."

                Angel props his foot up on the edge of the porch, calmly waiting for Xander to appear.  A few minutes later, the screen door creaks open, and he appears.

                "What's up, man?  You feeling okay?  You were upstairs for quite a while."

                Angel speaks, but doesn't meet Xander's gaze.

                "I found a letter."

                Xander squints at him, eyes widening again as he understands.  The moon glints on Angel's hand, and Xander notices the pair of silver rings he holds.

                "Was it…did it tell you what you wanted to know?"

                "Yes.  And no," he says, feeling foolishly like the Cryptic Guy Buffy used to accuse him of being.  He has no intention however of explaining his feelings to Xander Harris, of all people.  Even if he is almost 50. 

                "I know I told you I would explain everything.  And I owe it at least to Dawn, if not to you.  But I just can't.  Not now, not after…this."  He waves the letter in his hand around, voice cracking.  "I don't belong here, Xander.  I don't fit into this new world.  And no matter how hard I try to force myself into it, the reason, my reason for wanting humanity in the first place, is cold in the ground.  And there's no coming back this time.  Do you see?"

                Xander nods slowly, trying to understand.  "I guess.  But Angel, death aside, Buffy would want you to live your life, with or without her.  The little connection she still had with you was the one thing she had left that still made her happy.  Losing Willow, losing contact with Giles; after all that I didn't think she would make it.  But she still had me and Dawn.  And she still had you.  I know you think she chose to lose touch with you on purpose.  And maybe she did.  She was always proud.  Too proud to beg you to see her.  Too proud to tell you when she was sick.  Too proud to ask for you when she needed you most…" 

                He cuts himself off, not able to talk without tears dripping down his face.

                "I never understood it.  Her obsession with you.  She always held you first, you know?  Always.  You were always first in her heart-"

                "It wasn't an obsession, Xander!  It was…it was what it was.  And now there's no chance at all.  And I won't disgrace her memory or feelings for me by walking around like a dead thing in this world."

                Apruptly he whirls toward Xander, leather coat flying, reminding the other man once again of a large, dangerous animal.  A beautiful but deadly one.

                "So take this.  Give it to Dawn.  Bury it with her.  I don't care.  I just…I can't do this anymore."

                He shoves the rings and letter into Xander's hands, and bolts down the stairs, toward the night and awaiting oblivion.

                Xander can only stare after him, shock gripping his tounge, no words appropriate enough to say reaching him.

                The wind whips his hair; the sting of salt in his mouth as he crouches on the sand, not caring about the dirt and water grinding itself into his pants.

                He knows what he had to do now.  The only thing he can do.  Maybe, God, just maybe, he'll see her again soon.

                And that one maybe is enough to convince him.

                The beach had always been one of her favorite places.  Only fitting for him to be here to do what needs to be done.

                The knife he took from Buffy's kitchen gleams in the moonlight next to him.

                Blood shouldn't bother him.  Not after all that he's seen.  And done.

                Humanity without his reason for humanity is a joke.  All his reasons gone.  Each and every one of them.  He pictures their faces in his mind.  Fred.  Wesley.  Gunn.  Oh God, Connor.  Darla.  Kate.  Cordy.  Doyle.  And lastly, her.  Her blond hair shining, her smile glowing in the dark just for him.  He would brave a million stinky sewers and hordes of death dealing demons to see that smile one more time. 

                He would give up his life to see it.

                A small rational part of his mind screams out to him, in abbhorance of what he's about to do.  What about the shanshu?  You got it!  Don't waste it!  There will be others!  Fight the good fight!

                Doyle's voice always seems to come to him in the worst possible moments.

                "I've lived so long.  What's one less human cluttering up the world?" he whispers to the wind, and waits for an answer.

                Nothing comes.

                He realizes he is a coward for doing this.  But after all those years alone, after finding Buffy and accepting he could be someone, could become someone again, he knows he can't learn to do it himself alone.  Can't face the monsters and the darkness, and the plain stink of humanity again.  Not again.  He can't now.  He doesn't know how.  And God forgive him, he doesn't have the strength to learn.

                If simple cancer can take the life of a slayer, if the Powers can dictate that one such as her gets such a short span, surely they won't care a whit about one ex-vampire with a soul who suddenly can't stomach his mortality.

                He picks up the knife, waving it slowly before him, the steel shining brightly in the fading darkness. 

                The sun's coming again.  And he doesn't want to see its face.

                His head lolls back into the sand, the grains making a soft cushion for his suddenly heavy skull.  He can't see too well anymore, and laughs briefly at the thought of his once cat like eyesight reduced to blurry spots and tracers of light.

                He brings his wrists up to his face, and the soft plunk of blood on his cheeks rouses him some, and he clumsily tries to wipe it off, only succeeding in smearing it all over himself.

                Sensations pass through his dying body, and he marvels at each one. 

                It was worth it.  He'll see her again.  He'll see them all again.   He knows it.

                Briefly he's sorry for Xander and especially Dawn, having to go through this funeral business a second time in such a short few days.  Then that thought dashes its way out of his head, as he begins to see flashes of bright light at the edge of his vision.

                A soft voice speaks in his ear.  He can't quite make it out, and reaches out with his crimson stained hands to pull it closer.

"Angel.  Come home."

"Buffy?" he croaks, and suddenly, oh my god! She's there. 

He knew he would see her again.

                Dawn comes brilliantly over the horizon, illuminating everything in its path.  The sun shines down like a beacon, and finds on a small beach it's long lost child, and although it weeps for the loss, knows that it's for the best.

                For the child has found it's humanity at last.

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A/N:  Okay, I did not expect this to go where it went.  I'm very into the tragic aspect of humanity, esp. how Angel would deal with his if all he wanted in life was gone by the time he got his shanshu.  Sorry to everyone who expected a happy ending.  I will be writing more soon.  This story just had to be told.  And I really enjoyed writing it.  I hope you enjoyed reading.  So push that little button and tell me.   J