CHAPTER NINETEEN

In the Harsh Light of Day

It was a shell-shocked and ragged group that, slowly, painfully, emerged from the wreckage of Dawn's former home. Of Arach, as expected, there was no sign. Neighbors steadily began clumping in hesitant, suspicious groups to whisper and stare in their direction, and when they heard the sound of sirens all mutually concluded that it was well past time to depart. Dawn, still clad in pajamas and clinging to a stone-faced, silent Xander, made it clear that there was nothing she wished to take with her.

Buffy wrapped her bleeding wrist in Giles's sweater as he drove her to Xander's house … Xander and Dawn's house, in truth … and although Giles asked her a number of pointed questions about Angel, Buffy pled that he please drop the subject for now. Giles, eventually, did so with a great deal of reluctance. Even though Angel wasn't there, Buffy could feel his eyes on her, protesting her anger, believing that she was only a few feet away from being torn to shreds by the blast, that he had done the right thing.

During the drive, Buffy took the time to type Angel a message.

I don't want to see you at Xander's or the townhouse. Pack a bag,

and be somewhere else before I get back. Please don't make this

any harder than it already is. If it isn't about saving someone's

life, don't text or call.

She hit the send button, then proceeded to stare out the passenger window in a numb haze while Giles drove. The memories suppressed by Arach's spell had rushed back all at once, giving her no chance to process them. She sorted through recollections she now recognized as false, mourned the years Dawn had lost, and found it difficult to not become lost to grief.

"Giles," she finally said as a thought occurred to her. "Why only change Dawn's life?"

"What do you mean?" Giles asked.

Buffy crinkled her brow in thought. "Arach basically said we were pests, so why not just ensorcel us to retire, go be librarians or something?"

Giles shot her an aggrieved look as he replied, "I beg your pardon?"

"You know what I mean."

Giles thought about the question for a moment. "I doubt he could, at least not without someone at Wolfram & Hart noticing. I very much have the sense that whatever mission of revenge he is hellbent on seeing through to fruition, Wolfram & Hart knows nothing about it … in fact, I rather suspect that he was using his affiliation with them as a means to an end."

"The truce?" Buffy asked. "He couldn't mess with our minds too much because of that?"

Giles nodded. "As a Wolfram & Hart partner, he was bound by it, just as we are. I imagine that playing god with Dawn's memories, and our memories of Dawn, was the furthest he could magically affect us without the Senior Partners noticing."

"If he's worried about the Senior Partners, he can't be that tough," Buffy opined.

"It might be best if we never reach a point where we need to find out."

. . . . . . . . .

When they reached Xander's house, they found Willow hugging Dawn and Oz talking to Xander on the driveway. Dawn was coaxed indoors, at which point she firmly declared that she was thankful for everyone's concern, but that she needed to be alone for a while. Ignoring the worried looks, she had then retreated upstairs, where the sight of an extensive wardrobe she'd accumulated two years prior prompted a fresh round of weeping.

The sounds of Dawn showering echoed through Xander's living room as the group began to take stock of the situation. Angel's absence was noted and commented upon, but Giles, at Buffy's urging, had remained silent on the specifics. Willow and Oz both seemed to guess that matters had were strained between Buffy and Angel but seeing Buffy's mood they decided to stifle their curiosity. Spike demonstrated no such restraint, and when he saw Buffy's wrist he exploded with angry questions and not-off-the-mark guesses, but eventually the younger Buffy managed to convince him to drop the subject. Xander, for the most part, sat in silence.

When Jess and Dana arrived, they had taken one look at group's torn clothes, dirt and blood smeared faces, and vacant expressions, and Jess had said, "It looks like you guys were in an explosion,"

"That's pretty accurate," Colleen had confirmed. "Sorry you missed the party."

The ensuing strategy session was rather brief, considering the events that had just transpired, and rather straight-forward. The patrols would continue, Buffy had an election to win, and thwarting Richard Wilkins remained the priority. At least Arach didn't seem to be interested in killing them at the moment, though even if he was, they had no way to find him.

Faith's slayers, for once, held their tongues and did not argue with Buffy's plan moving forward.

Xander, who had remained notoriously silent during the discussion, eventually roused himself to indicate that he needed to speak to Dawn, and that while he hated to be a bad host, they needed some time alone. Everyone immediately stated that they understood.

Without prompting, Connor indicated that he'd grab his things and give Xander and Dawn space, and he'd also assured Buffy that he'd find Angel and try to find out what was happening with him. Buffy nodded but offered no further reply. Faith, too, indicated that she'd be moving out of Xander's house, and although Colleen, Dana, and Jess had not appeared overjoyed at the prospect of adding a fourth roommate, they'd extended her an invitation anyway.

The only moment Xander showed any emotion to any of them was when Faith indicated that she was leaving. He'd roused himself to stare at Faith, and though Buffy wasn't sure, she thought he might have mouthed the word 'sorry.' If Faith replied, Buffy couldn't hear it.

Giles, who had been red-faced with anger for most of the meeting, and Willow had discussed a research plan focusing on the terms 'Arach,' 'Stavkirke,' and anything they could find on valknuts and triskele lore. Oz had watched Giles and Willow's discussion, his face unreadable, and Buffy noticed that his hushed conversation with Willow as they walked to their car seemed urgent and heated.

At the moment, she couldn't find it in herself to worry about anyone else's relationship woes.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," her younger self had offered as everyone trickled out. It was odd to see such a degree of sympathy from a wrinkle-free version of her own face, but she found it comforting nonetheless. "Thank you," she replied with a forced smile. "I'll be fine."

"Will you?" Spike, ever the diplomat, asked her bluntly. "Do you want to talk about what happened with Angel?"

The younger Buffy did a very good job of hiding her reaction to Spike's offer to confer with Buffy on the affairs of her heart, but Buffy politely declined.

"Really, I'll be fine," she said.

Xander stood on his front porch, his eyes staring vacantly into space, as they left.

Giles offered to walk her to the townhouse, and though he couched the offer as being a way of ensuring Buffy was suffering no ill effects from the explosion, she surmised that, in fact, he wanted to ensure that Angel had departed … or perhaps confront him if he had not. She thanked him for the offer, assured him that she was fine, and proceeded to the townhouse alone.

When she entered, she found Angel waiting for her.

. . . . . . . . .

"Are they gone?" Dawn asked hesitantly as she appeared at the top of the stairs.

Xander closed the front door and walked over to the fireplace. "They are," he confirmed. Despite it not being a particular cool night, he turned on the gas line and with a few clicks of a nearby starter, ignited the fuel in the hearth. Blue tongues leapt from the decorative log as a red-orange blaze began to twist.

Dawn watched as Xander sat down on the couch and stared into the fire's depths. The light of the flames danced on the walls, and Dawn pulled her nightgown close as she descended. With quiet footfalls, she navigated the stairs then joined Xander on the couch, sitting close enough that their legs and sides pressed against each other.

When Xander continued to sit silently, seemingly content to do so indefinitely, Dawn put her hand on his knee and spoke, "I'm sorry I hid upstairs, I just couldn't take talking to everyone right now." She took a deep breath, wiped at eyes that were, yet again, wet, and continued, "I'm finding it very hard to keep things together, Xander."

Xander nodded. "I know the feeling." He lowered his head and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't even know where to start. When I think of you with that monster, for two years, stuck in that house, living a nightmare … meanwhile, I've been here, wondering occasionally why my dream home looked like something a suburban dad would need, and … and … there were other things that happened while you were gone, Dawn."

His words trailed off to a whisper, but Dawn knew exactly what Xander meant.

"I understand about Emmy," she said with as much comfort as she could muster, given her own heartache. "Or anyone else for that matter. It isn't your fault."

"It feels like my fault," Xander intoned. "Every day you sat there with him, while I was across town, enjoying life."

Dawn chuckled sadly. "It wasn't every day. Now that I can remember the truth, Eric … Arach … wasn't there all that often. Just every once in a while, when he had business in town, or maybe to keep an eye on me. I do have all of these horrible memories, like giving birth to two children that I now know don't exist," she shuddered and turned pale, "but they don't feel real anymore … they're just bad dreams."

"Bad dreams," Xander said in a near-growl. When his eye began to glow, Dawn rubbed his knee.

"Hey … hey," she said. "Your setting the couch on fire isn't going to help anything."

Xander laughed, and the light in his eye went out. "Two years," he finally said. "Two years of your life you've lost."

"We lost those years, Xander," she reminded him. "Both of us."

He sat silently and stared at the fire. "I'll kill him," he finally said. "I swear it, I'll see him dead."

A palsied tremor shook Dawn at the words. "Xander, let's just take it one day at a time, okay? I don't want you rushing off now that we're finally sitting here together."

Left unspoken were Dawn's true thoughts.

My erstwhile husband didn't seem in the slightest bit worried when all of us had him cornered … maybe it's best to hope we never see Arach again.

When Dawn thought of Arach's face, she found herself on the verge of vomiting once more. She could only hope that the sound of the shower had drowned out the noise she had made when she was sobbing in the tub, emptying her stomach.

Xander nodded once, then resumed staring at the fire.

The question on her mind had to be asked. She had to know, and even though she suspected that it might be best to give it a day or two, for her, the last two years were like a bad dream, and she had to know.

"Xander," she said quietly.

Something in her voice must have triggered a protective instinct in Xander, as he turned to her and laid his own hand upon her leg. "What is it, Dawnie?"

"What about us?" she asked. "I don't mean right this second, I think both our brains at the moment are blenderized by magic, but … I need to know." Her voice grew apologetic, "I don't care about Emmy, or any of that, like I said I don't blame you, but for me, it's like I just came out of a two-year dream. I still remember packing my things to move in here, watching the construction guys hammer in the final trims, and giggling with Buffy over whether that castle upon the ridge would be finished in time for us to consider it as a wedding venue. I … don't expect anything from you … I just need to know. That's if you have an answer, I mean."

Xander's eyes were solemn as he looked at her. "How can you ask me that?"

Dawn pulled her hand away and cast her eyes downward. "I'm sorry, you're right, it's too soon. You've been living life for the past two years, I've been in a magic coma, and it's been completely different for you. Something occurred to her. "And when I wasn't in a magic coma, I was arguing with Buffy over her being a slayer." Dawn closed her eyes and groaned.

Xander reached up, laid a hand on her cheek, and turned her head so she was staring at him. His red eye gleamed in the light of the fire, but it was his other eye … his human, light brown eye … that captivated Dawn.

"Dawn, nothing has changed about the way I feel," he said, then paused a moment, and continued, "everything is just … what is the word I'm looking for … oh yeah, awful." His words were filled with fresh hurt that he struggled to contain.

As a deep well of grief welled up as she pondered the lost years … the endless months spent sitting on a couch trapped in a nightmare of false memories, Dawn found it difficult to reply at all. Finally, she simply replied, "I know."

She reached up and wiped away a tear as Xander leaned in, parted his lips, and kissed her softly. It was a brief, gentle thing, but it was enough. Xander sat back against the couch and put his arm around her. For a long while, saying nothing, they sat and watched the fire.

. . . . . . . . .

"I asked you for one thing," Buffy said as she slammed the door closed. "One thing, Angel, and you couldn't even do me the courtesy of not being here when I came home."

"We needed to talk," he replied.

She shook her head and held up a hand to keep him away as she walked past him. "No, we don't. I'm going to take a shower. Have your bag packed and be gone before I get out."

"Buffy, that spell could have easily killed you," he protested.

Oh, Angel, suggesting that you were in the right is NOT the way you want to go right now.

Despite her strong urge to simply ignore the statement, she swiveled to confront him. Angel seemed nervous, and smaller than normal, though that might be because his coat … affectation that it was … had been shredded and discarded at some point.

"Do not play that game with me," she warned him. "Do not pretend that what happened at Dawn's proved you were right." She looked away and inhaled sharply before continuing, "You once told me that I deserved better than demons and darkness? That I needed someone who could walk with me in the light? How could the person who said that chain me up in our bedroom? Like some damsel in a tower?" It was all she could to keep from screaming. "I want you out."

He took a step towards her, but thankfully stopped when she again held up a warning hand. "Buffy, maybe that wasn't the best way to go about it, but it was a mistake for you to come."

"BEST WAY TO GO ABOUT IT!" she gave in and screamed.

Angel glanced at nervously at the walls.

Let the neighbors call the police. I don't care.

"I cannot believe you still haven't gotten it through your thick head that when you make decisions to try to protect me, all you do is end up ruining my life!" Angel tilted his head and shot her a quizzical expression, as though what she was saying had never occurred to him, despite her suggesting it repeatedly, on multiple occasions, over the years.

"What?"

"You break up with me to protect me, even though we could have figured out how to make it work, you turn back into a vampire to protect me and the world, what kind of hero complex is that, and now you're handcuffing me to furniture to protect me? What's the next step, Angel, you cocoon me like some sort of caterpillar?"

"This is different, Buffy, you know that …" "Get out!" she screamed again. "Or I won't be calling the cops, I'll be calling Giles."

Angel actually looked worried for a moment. "This is private Buffy, why can't we …" She held up her wrist, caked with dried blood, and interrupted him again, "It stops being private when you keep me from helping my demon-hypnotized, kidnapped sister, or when I have to decide whether I need to go to the hospital to get stitches."

"I'll leave," Angel said. Thank heavens. He paused near the door, "But Buffy, remember, every moment we argue, every day we're not together, it's time we're not getting back."

Buffy found herself laughing despite herself, a desperate, convulsing heave that had no mirth behind it.

"Oh, Angel," she finally said as he stared on, confused. "That's rich. First, I'm not sure at the moment whether I ever want to see you again, and second, it's pretty ironic that today, of all days, you maybe finally … finally …. understand what it was like to watch you sit there, ageless, while every day that we were apart I knew that it was a day we'd never have together. Maybe think about what you took from me when you scampered off to Los Angeles and left me to weep in Sunnydale. Think about that."

He opened the door and stared at her sadly. "Like I said, Buffy, I went about this the wrong way, and I shouldn't have done what I did, and I'm sorry. If you need a break, I'll give you a break. As long as you need."

"A break?" she said incredulously.

"Call it whatever you want," he hastily replied. "I just … hope you can understand and forgive me. When you're ready." The last words were said in a rush, hastily, and Buffy couldn't bear to look at him.

"It isn't about forgiveness," she replied. "I kind of forgave you when it was happening, it's about trust and it's about respect, it's about so many things that I would expect you, of all people, to understand."

He took an eager step forward. "If you kind of forgave me, why can't we talk about this?" She closed her eyes and spoke through gritted teeth, "Get out." It was not until she heard the door close that she opened them again.

. . . . . . . . . .

Angel, feeling in desperate need of a third party's opinion, began to mentally run down his list of possible conversation partners. He was fairly certain Giles would turn him into a frog, or worse, so he discarded that option immediately. Speaking to the younger Buffy, who probably wouldn't have much to add anyway, would be about the worst choice he could possibly make, assuming word got back to the older, very-much-pissed-off, version. Besides, she would be at Giles's house, so he rejected that possibility as well.

Willow, even if pregnant, also represented the aforementioned frog-transformation possibility, and that meant no Oz … which was unfortunate, as Angel had a feeling Oz was who he really should be seeking out at the moment. He briefly toyed with the notion of asking Oz to chat with him privately, but he didn't want to request his friend keep secrets from his wife.

There was absolutely no chance he was going to disturb Xander and Dawn, and that left Faith as the only realistic possibility.

When she didn't pick up her phone, he realized he did, in fact, have one other option. In spite of himself, he drove towards Moonridge University, parked, and proceeded to trudge towards an apartment complex looming in the distance. When he reached Spike's apartment, which oddly enough, had a cheery 'Live, Love, Laugh' welcome mat in front of the door, he decided that he'd hit rock bottom.

He heard what sounded like giggling inside after he knocked and had just decided to scurry off into the night when the front door swung open.

Spike paused in the middle of pulling a shirt over his head and stared incredulously at Angel. "I was expecting Chinese," Spike said as he glanced around. "Not tall, dark, and emotionally constipated."

"I was hoping we could talk," Angel said.

Spike stared at him, his expression a mixture of exasperation and confusion. "Talk? Us?" He gestured towards Angel then back at himself. "What makes you think we're pals all of a sudden? Share each other's burdens and all that shite? Piss off."

"It's about Buffy."

Spike grimaced and sighed as he closed the door. "Just for a minute. I've got company."

Angel didn't press, but he felt he had a pretty good idea who Spike was likely entertaining in his apartment.

"I know that look," Spike informed him. "Just … keep your opinion to yourself. It isn't your business." He narrowed his eyes. "Really, it isn't."

Angel shook his head. "I'm not here about your love life. There was something I wanted to ask you about Buffy."

"Have at it then." Spike glanced back towards the door. "You're keeping me from more entertaining conversation."

"Did Buffy ever mention to you that she felt like people were ruining her life by being over protective?"

"You mean like tying her to something solid?" Spike scoffed. "Overprotective like that?"

Angel shook his head. "Not recently, I mean, but going back … maybe to the beginning?"

Spike considered the question for a moment. "People, no." He pointed at Angel. "You, yes." He smiled. "She liked that about me, I didn't just tolerate all her reckless foolhardiness, I encouraged it."

"What did she say?"

Spike ran his tongue along his front teeth as he thought about the question. "It isn't about what she said, it's about what she is. She's still a slayer, Angel, and she always will be. Maybe she doesn't have the flashy jump kicks or rockin' sockin' punches anymore, but the instincts are still there …" he tapped Angel's chest … "where it counts. I think you forgot that, assuming you ever knew it. You've got to learn to stop trying to protect her. She doesn't want it, and you'll lose her for it. If you haven't already." He shrugged. "I know where I'd lay my wager on that last part."

"But … she's not a slayer."

Spike tapped his head and grinned. "And that statement, my friend, is exactly how you ended up on my doorstep all whingy and mopey, while Buffy is bandaging a bloody wrist and wondering whether she can ever again trust you with handcuffs."

Angel began to argue, then thought better of it.

Does Spike actually have a point?

"So, what do I do?" he finally asked.

I can't believe I'm talking to Spike about this.

Spike shook his head. "Nothing is my guess. Leave her be for a while, give her some space, and maybe take some time to suss out why you can't let go."

"Let go of what?" Angel asked. "And when did you ever give Buffy space?"

Spike's face was unreadable as he stared at Angel. "When you can figure out what you need to let go of, you'll realize what the real problem is with you and the little miss." Spike's face grew serious, and he stepped closer. "As for my not giving her space, guilty as charged. I didn't, not for a long time, and look what happened?" He stepped back and shrugged. "But this ain't my circus no more, and you certainly ain't my monkey. Figure it out with Buffy, or don't, but this isn't on me."

Without waiting for a reply, Spike opened the front door and vanished. A moment later, Angel heard renewed sounds of giggling, and he shuddered as he retreated back to his car. For a long while, he sat in the driver's seat and considered heading to his office to sleep on the couch. As he found the notion depressing beyond all measure, he instead chose to do what men since time immemorial had done after colossally botching things with their significant other. He found the nearest Irish pub and found a comfortable looking stool that afforded him a clear view of the television.

. . . . . . . . .

It wasn't more than half an hour before Spike heard another knock.

"This time it must be the takeout," he said as he swung open his apartment door. "I'm finding a new Chinese restaurant that …" His words trailed off when he realized Buffy was standing on his doorstep.

"Got a minute?" she asked.

Spike rubbed his forehead as he closed the door. "I should get a placard or something, maybe start charging by the hour for head-shrinking."

"What?"

"Never mind," Spike brushed off the question. "Let me guess, you want to talk about Angel?"

Buffy shook her head. "I'm not here because of Angel."

Spike snorted derisively and stared up at the night sky. "You don't lie very well or very often, but when you do, seems like it's always a lie you're telling yourself." He glanced at his door, then folded his arms and stared at her. "You know, what doesn't matter. Say what you came to say."

"I came to apologize," she said. Guessing Spike's likely reply, she continued speaking before he could interject, "and I didn't want to do it over the phone or by text. What I did with you and … with the other Buffy … that was wrong."

Spike held a hand up to his ear. "I must be hallucinating. Did you actually admit to being wrong?"

Same old Spike.

"Hey, it was my baggage, I shouldn't have tried to offload it, and I'm sorry."

Spike considered her words for a moment, then shrugged. "Consider yourself forgiven."

Buffy blinked at him in shock. "What? That quickly? I'm being serious here, Spike, I really did something wrong."

He stepped closer, his blue eyes shining softly in the light of the streetlamps. "I know, I'm glad you realize it, but you are forgiven." He held a hand over his heart. "Officially, I forgive you."

"How do you do that?" she asked. "Forgive so easily?"

His voice grew somber. "Maybe I've had a lot of practice in needing it, myself." He glanced down at her bandaged arm. "How bad are the cuts?"

She instinctively cradled her wrist against her chest. "Not as bad as I thought … I think it will be okay."

"That's good," Spike replied. "Now, are you ready to stop pretending you don't want to talk about Angel? Because I really am expecting food any moment."

I might as well.

"Angel thinks I'm weak," she admitted, "and I can't live with him being afraid for me all the time."

"He should be afraid for you," Spike informed her, bluntly and tactlessly, in the way that came easy for me. "You constantly do bloody stupid things, and you kept doing them long after you should have realized you can't bounce back from them." He stared at her pensively. "But that's on you, I guess, and it isn't his call to make, but why do I have a feeling I'm telling you things you already know?"

Does Spike actually have a point?

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she admitted. "Maybe because you're the only person, after … after I lost my powers, who treated me the same way Of course, that meant with indifference, for the most part, but you never once seemed to feel sorry for me at all. Why?"

"Why would I?" he asked. "You don't need your powers to be you. You're still the strongest person I've ever met. Truly … just, not strong with the slaying. Not anymore."

A voice called out from inside the apartment.

My voice. My … younger … voice.

I'm an idiot.

"Spike, I didn't know you have company, I should go." Buffy felt a flush rising to her face, and the realization that she was blushing embarrassed her beyond all measure. She felt very old, very foolish, and very alone.

Spike saw the change in her demeanor, and his expression softened somewhat. "Listen, you've had a bad run of it lately. Why don't you and me, maybe talk in the next few days, when it isn't well past dinner time for normal folks?"

Left unspoken was the fact that a different Buffy was waiting for him inside.

Not trusting words, Buffy simply nodded and turned to go. Behind her, she heard the door slam shut, then shortly thereafter peals of laughter. With tired footsteps she began trudging towards home.

. . . . . . . . .

Angel was well into his third beer, the taste of which was near-overwhelming, still, to taste buds that had been half-dead for decade after decade, when he realized that the voice he was hearing was speaking to him.
Angel rotated on his stool to find small cluster of young men and women, a few of whom looked rather familiar, staring at him.

"Do you remember us?" one of the young women said. "We were with you … in January … at the castle. When …" her voice trailed off.

"He knows what happened," a large, heavy set young man with thick, curly brown hair and black rimmed glasses said. "Don't you?"

Angel grabbed his beer and took a long swallow before he nodded in reply.

"We asked all of you not to talk about that," he reminded them. "It's dangerous."

"After Jonathan, and after Angelina, you don't need to be warning us how dangerous Moonridge can be," another one of the apocalytes said.

"Well then," Angel replied as he turned away and rested his elbows on the bar. "Mum's the word."

When he felt a hand on his elbow, he spun back around and fixed them an angry glare. "Something I can help you with?"

"Yeah," the heavyset apocalyte said. "You can tell us why you, and all of the rest of your team, or whatever you call yourselves, let two of us get murdered without even offering to help, or warning us, or anything?"

"None of you even went to their funerals," said a small, woman with short black hair and a hurt look in her eyes. "Angelina knew you … and you weren't there."

Angel's anger vanished in a moment, and he found himself at a loss for words. "Things in Moonridge," he tried to explain, "they've been really bad."

"Really?" another one of the apocalytes said heatedly. "And you think you're the only one who's noticed? We didn't even have Angelina's body to bury, just … ashes."

"The man who did that, he won't ever hurt anyone again," Angel said in a low, quiet tone as he glanced around. "I promise you."

"We kind of figured," one of the apocalytes said, "but that doesn't explain why you've shut us out all year. What is happening to this city?"

The black -haired woman spoke again, "Some of us fought with you … and you couldn't even give us a head's up that we were being hunted?"

"Nobody feels worse about what happened than me," Angel tried to explain, though the words sounded ridiculous as soon as he said them, "but we had no idea that he'd be targeting any of you."

"You should have known after Jonathan," the woman said.

"You don't even know any of our names, do you?" one of the young men, who had been silent thus far, asked. "Do you think nobody else in Moonridge is trying to make a difference?"

Angel looked them over, and realized he didn't, in fact, know any of their names.

He turned away and flagged the bartender down.

"Can I get a pen?" he asked.

The bartender nodded, reached below the bar, then tossed him a shiny, silver ballpoint. Angel retrieved a number of business cards from his wallet and scribbled hastily on the back of each of them.

"That changes, starting now," Angel promised as he handed each of them a card. "Forget the office line, that's my cell number on the back. Text me your names, contact info, and anything else you're comfortable with me knowing, and we'll try to do better." He cast his eyes downward. "I'll try to do better. We shouldn't pretend this is our fight alone. Thank you for help, we needed it, and I'm pretty sure we'll need it again."

Something in either his expression or the tone of his voice must have clued them in that something was wrong.

"Are you alright?" asked the woman who had spoken first.

Angel forced a smile. "I will be." He picked up his beer and tilted it towards them. "Sorry, again."

After a few, slightly more cheerful, nods and well-wishes, the group departed and Angel was left alone once more.

When he spun back to the bar, he was surprised to see a familiar face staring at him from a few seats away.

"Kate."

Kate's light blue eyes, softer than he'd remembered them appearing over the last few months, looked him over long enough that he began to grow uncomfortable. She was wearing a tight, long-sleeved blouse, snugly fitted jeans, and heeled boots that certainly didn't appear to be standard issue at any police department he'd ever heard of.

"I haven't heard from you," he asked. "In fact, I assumed you left Moonridge. With Ryan Anderson dead, what are they having you do around here?"

"Nothing," Kate replied. "I quit … turned in my badge, like I think I said I would back when we found you, your partner, and your partner's girlfriend in that warehouse."

Angel blinked in surprise and spilled a few drops of beer on his shirt. "You quit? Why?"

I went through a lot of trouble to get you your badge back.

"Can't do it anymore," she explained. He waited, but she offered no further explanation, and he decided not to pry.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked.

Kate ran a hand along her blonde locks as she contemplated her own beer. "I'm not sure. Try to make a difference some other way, maybe find something new to do. My pension kicked in a few months ago, so I've got some time." She took a long draught of the beer, and Angel watched her throat flex as she pressed her lips against the glass. Finally, she set the mug down. "I didn't think your conversation with those kids was going to go down the way it did." She eyed him appraisingly. "I'm surprised."

"Kids?" Angel asked. "They're older than … Xander or Willow were, at the beginning," he almost mentioned Buffy's name, then thought better of it.

Kate nodded and took another drink, and Angel realized it was the first time he'd seen her with her hair down since Los Angeles. In fact, he decided as he looked her over, it was the most relaxed he'd seen her since she'd arrived in Moonridge.

"Maybe you should take a photo," Kate finally said. "Might be easier than eyeballing me."

Angel blinked and looked away. "Sorry, it's just a little weird."

Kate shot him a curious look. "What is?"

"Your talking to me without being pissed off."

Kate laughed, another first since she'd arrived in Moonridge, then she covered her mouth with her hand as though she was embarrassed at the display. "Fair enough," she said. "Maybe it looks like you've had a rough time of it recently, and I'm taking it easy on you."

Angel nodded ruefully and finished his beer. He flagged down the bartender and ordered another.

Kate's blue eyes were narrowed and piercing as he lifted the fresh mug to his lips. "I've seen the look you've got on your face before, and it usually means one thing: women trouble."

Angel coughed, and this time beer splattered all over his shirt.

"Fight with Buffy?" Kate asked.

Angel felt an icy knot form in his chest. "Something like that … I screwed up bad."

"You do make a habit of that sort of thing," Kate informed him as she ordered another beer.

He found he didn't have the heart to argue with her.

When you're right, you're right.

"How'd you know?"

Kate glanced over. "The look on your face. Your being here alone on a Friday night. Your stunningly atypical display of self-awareness a few minutes ago." She arched an eyebrow at him. "I am a detective, after all. Or used to be, at least."

The empty bar stools separating the two of them seemed to loom large as they sat silently and drank together, alone, for a while.

"I'm sorry, Kate," Angel said as he finished his beer.

"Don't do that," Kate admonished him. "Just … don't."

"Fair enough," he replied. "It's not like apologies ever really fix anything I've broken, anyway."

When he raised his hand to order another beer, he was surprised to realize that Kate was leaning on the bar next to him. She reached out and laid a hand on his, then looked at him.

"It was a long time ago," she said quietly, gently. "A very long time ago." She blinked a few times, then stared down in surprise at the hand she'd laid upon Angel's.

"What?" he asked.

"You feel warm," she said with a slight smile. "It's … odd."

"Took me a while to get used to," he admitted. "I'm not sure if I ever will, really."

She removed her hand and chuckled. "Yeah, I can imagine." She glanced at the bartender, then back at Angel. For a moment, Angel felt as though the air in the bar was filled with the possibilities of what Kate might say to him, and he wondered if, depending on what words passed her lips, he'd have to hurt her all over again.

"You take care of yourself, Angel," she finally said, and the old wounds that had colored her words during all of their conversations the entire year seemed to have, at long last, vanished.

"I'll try," he said as he raised the freshly filled mug to his lips.

When he finished drinking and gazed once more to his right, Kate was gone.

. . . . . . . . .

Richard Wilkins hung up the phone and pensively stared at the rather flustered and angry young man … vampire … slayer … whatever he was … standing in front of him. A chill wind, the first seasons of fall, whipped through the stone window of the castle, and the papers on his desk rustled with its passing.

"We have new representation," he announced. "Mr. Aurum appears to have rather abruptly left the employ of Wolfram & Hart, and in the wake of his departure there seem to be a number of pointed questions floating about as to how he ever joined their ranks in the first instance, and who, or what, he actually was."

"You promised me that I'd have a chance at vengeance," Joshua growled. "I've been watching his house for months, making sure he was still in town, and now what? I'm supposed to track him down? He's the one really responsible for my mother's death, and for … everything … and we don't even know what he really looks like."

"Oh, I've got a pretty good idea of what to look out for," Wilkins reassured him. "And he'll be back in Moonridge soon enough, mark my words. The moment Illyria pops her head into this town, keep an eye out for him."

"Mind sharing what I should be looking for?"

Richard Wilkins tried to keep from chuckling at his own wordplay as he replied, "Let's just say that when we see Mr. Aurum again, I suspect things are going to get rather medieval around here."

. . . . . . . . .

"Why don't you get an apartment?" Xander finally asked Angel after discovering him

asleep on the office's lobby couch, yet again, upon his arrival. "Or a motel room?" He snapped his fingers. "I bet Connor's cultists would love to have you."

"Very funny," Angel said as he sat up and worked a crick out of his neck. "How much longer can Buffy stay mad for?"

"Oh, for a very long time," Xander said as he wandered towards their coffee-maker. "Indefinitely, I'm thinking, which is something you don't seem to have picked up on yet." As he filled his mug he poked his head around the doorframe. "You and I work together, professionally, so I don't have to forgive you, personally," he pointed at Angel, "and just for the record, I don't forgive you, but Buffy? That's another story entirely."

"This is getting ridiculous," Angel moaned as he stood up and stretched.

Xander sat behind the lobby desk, sipped at the coffee, and stared at him. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Angel frowned at Xander as he felt his temper rise. "If you could have done something to keep Emmy, or Dawn, safe, would you have?"

A dull, sullen red glow appeared in Xander's eye. "Knock that shit off," he warned Angel in a low, ominous tone. "I'm trying to keep from literally going insane over what happened with Dawn … she hasn't stepped foot out of the house in weeks, and she spends half of every day crying … and the crap you pulled with Buffy has nothing to do with me, so don't even start."

Angel glanced away, then nodded.

Time to change topics.

"Since I'm persona non grata with Giles and Willow, I'll ask you: have they made any progress on Arach, or the Stavkirke, or anything?"

"Buffy said you could call in on speaker," Xander reminded him. "Business is business, so maybe swallow your pride?"

"Next time," Angel promised half-heartedly, "but did they find anything?"

Xander took another long sip of coffee before he answered. "Nope. It's like Arach ruined our lives, then vanished into thin air." He shook his head and sighed. "Whatever that wood carving and that church are supposed to do, they can't figure that out, either."

"Arach will be back," Angel promised. "I know it."

The red glow in Xander's eye intensified, but he made no reply.