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Chapter 10

Blood.

It was all he could see. It was all he wanted. As though somehow it could have made up for what they did to his son. Nothing would ever do that. Because nothing would ever bring him back. And the mere thought alone was heartbreaking. How could it be that such a sweet little innocent boy could have been singled out, and harmed? The same boy that upon meeting, Angel immediately feel in love with. Liam, his precious child.

Three weeks had come to pass since the dream he'd shared with Buffy and discovered that startling information. And in those three weeks the furious vampire had spent whatever time he had away from the slayer searching for Liam's murderer.

As it turned out he didn't have far to look. Yesterday after Angel had finally found his old friend again. Lorne had been able to relay what he'd read from Buffy and hadn't chosen to share with him at the time.

Lorne also gave him the who. But that was all. The green demon couldn't tell him where to start looking; instead Angel had to find that out on his own. And every time the vampire got a little closer to the killer's murderer, Buffy kept pulling him back. And yet she never made one move. Instead some part of her tortured soul screamed for him, begging him to stop searching. Telling him that the answers were just too horrific.

He continuously reassured her that no matter what he found he would be there for her. And that they would deal with it together. But Buffy still seemed to disagree. And only four words told him that. "No. You hate me." It was all she would say when the subject was raised. All she thought about whenever Angel was around and his own thoughts were on his son and his tragic death.

And now as Angel drove back towards the institution after yet another failed attempt at finding a person that he wasn't sure whether he wanted to hug or shake the answers out of, he realized why his search bothered Buffy the way it did. And the vampire wanted to kick himself for not seeing it much sooner.


She sat still. Barely on the edge of her bed. Her healing hands folded in her lap. Her straw like hair tucked neatly behind her ears. And her motionless eyes staring so vehemently at the wall. That wall, it always taunted her. Showing her pictures.

Death, blood... fire.

That wall was her one true enemy, and every time she tried she could never defeat it.

There were times when its cool surface offered her warmth, and protection. And she could draw peace from it just by doing something as simple as closing her eyes and leaning against it. But that was before he came along. Now it only resembled hate.

She slipped off the edge of the bed, her hands clenched tightly together, before breaking free. Her hair fell forward, shadowing her hardened face, and eyes that were now darker than before, as she moved slowly.

Death.

She promised it to every single one of them. They would pay, over and over again. With whatever weapon she could get her hands on. A knife, to stab them with numerous times before finally giving in and slitting their throats. A stake, again with the stabbing; only this time in places no human could bare the pain of. A gun, but what would be the fun in that? Where were the slow and painful deaths she secretly promised? She wanted them to suffer, and that's what would happen. So weapons wouldn't do. No instead she would kill them like any warrior would.

Her vicious bare hands would be their slow and excruciating destruction. She would tie them up like they had done to her. Then she would beat them for hours.

The slayer crawled across the marble floor. Her slim body resembling that of a ferocious feline preparing for its attack. Ready to make its kill. A kill that no animal ever attempted half heartedly. A kill for revenge.

In not even a second flat she sprung to life. Leaping for the white wall. Clawing, and then pounding with her fists, trying to break through. To get to what she was seeing. To save her family, and offer the kill she promised to the evil souls inflicting the pain upon them.

But like any other time she tried, it wouldn't work. She couldn't reach them. And she was left face to face with a wall that was cool to the touch (like him) and an anger that refused to dissipate. That wall, it held everything for her. It resembled her world. And she never knew whether she was meant to hate it, or love it for that. This time as the picture faded from sight, the hate seemed to win out as it burned so brightly in her eyes. And this time unlike every other instead of continuing with her fists she opted for another way to express her aggravation. With two shaky hands trembling for a thirst of desperate revenge, Buffy forced them palm down against the wall with a loud smack. Then not even a second later, her head followed that pattern, cracking against the wall. Tainting it yet again with her dark blood.


In all the years Gunn had spent living on the streets with his sister fighting the good fight, trying as hard as they possibly could to rid the world of a few more demons Gunn knew that he'd never stooped as low as to stay at a filthy place such as this shelter, or whatever the hell it was.

But things had well and truly come to that. He had no money, and whatever he did manage to get his hands on usually went on cheap booze, and just as cheap sex. It was all about making him feel something. Anything than the loneliness he'd bought upon himself.

It seemed that in the last decade he'd managed to lose everyone that ever meant anything at all to him. From Alonna, right down to Angel.

It was his own fault though, he knew that much himself. He wasn't stupid. The alcohol may have fucked up his memory, but things like that had been burnt into his damned soul. He screwed everything up, and after the first drop of liquor, he didn't seem to care anymore.

And now as he ran his hand over his closely shaven scalp, trying to ease the pounding in his head, 'hair of the dog' was the only thing on his menu.

Pouring himself a shot of whisky, as his eyes adjusted to the light spilling in from the dilapidated roof. Gunn hoped that alcohol would have an affect on his sense of smell as well as everything else. Funny that his hygiene had well and truly gone down hill when it was one thing he'd always been known to maintain. But again that was years ago. When he was a better man. Now he couldn't even refer to himself as that three letter word. But another came to mind. Now he was nothing but a bum.

And yet after a few more shots, he'd be fine with that.

One person who wouldn't, stayed back. Watching him, as he stuck to the shadows. And although he'd seen the image before he still found it hard to believe that the dark man before him was once a champion. After everything Gunn had done, after all the battles he'd fought to be not only a man, but a true warrior, Lorne couldn't believe that alcohol, the same poison that had helped him secure his own case of depression had been powerful enough to take his friend down as well.

That was when the decision was made. After all he gave a damn about him, even though he wished he didn't, Lorne couldn't do anything but. So he stepped forward, showing himself. Hoping he could do something to help, and maybe in the process of doing that, he'd be able to help himself as well.


The blood blurred her vision, seeping from the wound, through her hair, and down her brow. But that didn't stop her.

Crack, scream, crack.

She continued to thrust her head into the wall. Desperately trying to rid herself of the frustration, the anger, but most of all the horrid pain inside. But as usual, it didn't work. It never would.

She cried desperately. Howling in pure agony. He was dead, in every sense of the word. And yet again her sick mind was making her relive the moment. And every image was so real, that she swore she could actually feel it. And that she was there.

The scorching flames singeing her skin. The smoke filling her senses, and the screams of agony, so loud they were deafening. "Dawnie!" She could hear her, her baby sister. Dying.

Blood mixed with tears, and yet again she didn't stop.

Crack, scream, crack.

"Mommy." A strangled cough erupted through the flames.

Her eyes flew open. Red and watering from the smoke, she struggled to see. He was faint, so far away, and she had so little time... "Liam!" Buffy screamed.

No one answered, and all the slayer could hear was the building creak, and break, as the room started to cave in. "No!" She screamed again. Searching from side to side, trying to find him. Rushing from room to room, until she could barely see where she was going.

Pausing briefly by the six foot window, that was almost pitch black from the flames, she closed her eyes, and tried to breathe. Just wanting to listen, to feel...

Thump, thump, thump, thump...

His heart, she could hear it beating. It was crazy; her hearing was never that good. Buffy couldn't explain it, maybe it had something to do with that mother/child bond she'd often read about while pregnant in all those 'What to expect when you're expecting' kind of books. All she knew was that she could feel/hear him reaching out to her, and she wouldn't turn away. "Baby." she whispered as she took a step towards him, eyes still closed, tears streaming down her face.

Thump, thump, thump...

The building exploded, and so did her world.

Shards of broken glass flew from every direction, as her body was thrown through the second floor window. And outside, on the ground, she lay there, blood surrounding her.

Crack, scream, crack.

After what could have easily been the twentieth time of pounding her fragile skull into that wall, Buffy felt her body being pulled away. She felt his arms wrap around her so tightly, then everything faded to black.

Frantic and noticing she'd passed out; Angel swooped her into his arms and carried her out of the room within seconds. As he searched the hospital for Margaret.


For twenty four hours Angel did nothing but sit by her bed. Cursing himself constantly.

He never should have left her alone, she wouldn't be here, and most certainly not like this. Lying flat on her back. Her eyes closed, her face almost pale, and her body hooked up to more machines then he'd seen in over two hundred and fifty years, forcing her to live.

He hated himself so much for setting out on his search. Sure revenge over his son's death was something he wanted desperately, and it was also something he was deprived of, and sure he'd wanted to know who it was that had beat him to it. But he should have realized that his answers had been staring him right in the face the whole time.

She'd done it. Buffy had killed the people responsible. One of them being Quentin Travers. Angel had originally thought him dead and buried when the council exploded years ago. But as it turned out he'd been anything but. Another thing the vampire didn't have the answers to. It seemed that the deeper he dug the more questions he raised.

And yet he wasn't even half way done. Quentin's was after all the only name Angel had come across in the past few weeks. And since then his face had been on instant reply in his mind. As Angel envisioned all the things he would have done to the council leader if he'd gotten his hands on him first.

But as it turned out Buffy had beaten him to it. She'd become a murderer to justify the deaths of her family and friends. And now on top of everything else, it was eating away at her.

If only he'd of known, he would have found a way to make her see that what she'd done wasn't murder, and that she had no reason at all to feel guilt over it.

Angel couldn't help but feel completely responsible as he sat there, waiting and hoping that her slayer strength would get her frail body out of this mess, and bring her back to him. All he needed was one more chance, and if it were granted, Angel knew he wouldn't fail her ever again.

He finally realized that getting his answers was something that had to wait. As it wasn't really helping him accomplish the most important thing. That being getting back the girl he'd lost years ago.