I am very proud of this chapter. Even though its title kind of makes me the biggest dork ever. *shrug* I hope you like it.

It was odd. As Buffy climbed down from the roof, she barely felt her injuries from the fight. The image of her own hand plunging the dagger into Faith's stomach flashed across her mind, and she flinched away from it. Faith was probably dead by now, but it was for nothing. It wouldn't help Angel.

She hadn't felt this way after Ted. There had been horror then—horror, confusion, and crippling remorse. Now she felt empty. Numb. She had killed, and she had failed. But Angel wasn't going to die. Faith or no Faith, that was not an option. She knew what would happen next. It was as if she'd known it from the second the arrow struck him, and somehow, she preferred it this way.

Her sense of her surroundings was so vague that it was as if she had faded away at Faith's apartment and rematerialized at the staircase leading down to Angel's without traveling the distance between them at all.

Wesley emerged as she was descending the steps. The flash of hope that lit his features when he saw who was there died the moment he registered her expression. There was a brief silence as he took in her split lip and the bruises beginning to blossom across her skin.

"Faith?" he asked, if only to have his suspicions confirmed.

Buffy shook her head. She looked at the door, then back at Wesley. "How is he?"

In the pause before he answered, Wesley seemed to age several years. "Worse. Willow, Oz, and I have tried to keep him comfortable, but it hardly seems to be making a difference. For the most part, he's been unconscious but agitated. In the rare moments when he's been awake, he's had trouble recognizing any of us. I don't—" He broke off and swallowed before continuing, though his voice was still rather hoarse and he could no longer meet Buffy's gaze. "I don't think it'll be much longer now."

Buffy nodded absently. "Would it be okay if—" It was something of a struggle for her to focus on Wesley's face as she spoke. "I-I'd like to be alone with him."

Wesley bowed his head and moved aside for her without hesitation. He felt a fleeting urge to put his arms around her, but then it was gone. Instead, he simply touched her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way. She paused, and for a second covered his hand with hers, but then she had gone inside and closed the door behind her.

Alone in the hallway, Wesley leaned against the wall and tried to fight off the legions of miserable truths bearing down on him. The truest friend he'd ever had in his life lay dying through that door, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, nor was there anything he could do for the girl who loved him. Furthermore, Angel's attacker hadn't been some random nameless, faceless enemy—it had been Faith. This was particularly painful. As Faith's Watcher, he, Wesley, was supposed to have been her mentor and guide, and how much had his failure cost? At least two lives, soon to be three. Surely there was something he could have done to stop this from happening, but he hadn't. The Mayor would Ascend in less than twenty-four hours. Even with the knowledge they had gained from Anya and Professor Worth's report, they were no closer to knowing how to actually stop the Mayor from destroying the city in his demon form, and they would soon be left without one of their strongest fighters and with the remaining one severely hindered by grief. All around, prospects had never looked grimmer.

The sound of the lock clicking brought him back to the present, and the realization of what Buffy truly meant to do went through him like an electric shock. His first instinct was to throw himself at the door and attempt to stop her. His hand was inches from the doorknob when he remembered the look on her face and drew back, feeling worse than ever. He knew that she would not be stopped. All he could do was wait here and hope and pray that, this time, he would not have cause to regret his own inaction.

A moment of clarity came to him as he stood in that gloomy hall—one that had been forming in the back of his mind since Angel was poisoned. He couldn't keep pretending to the Council that he was still their man. He hadn't been that since the day he took over Smith's duties in the dungeon. In the aftermath of Buffy's mutiny, there would hardly be any point in staying anyway—assuming any of them lived long enough for it to matter. He could not in good conscience continue in the employ of men who had done what they did to Angel, who would undoubtedly consider Buffy a worse traitor to her calling than Faith for her relationship with him—and that was without even considering her reasons for locking the door. He shuddered to think what would happen to her if they ever found out about that—if she even lived through it, that was.

Quentin, his father, all of the rest of them—they were little more than blind old fools clinging desperately to tradition, unable to grasp the possibility that they might not have all of the answers or that their authority was based on the presumption that their knowledge gave them the right to control the existence a teenage girl.

He was not one of them.

[o]

The sight of Angel in his current condition was like physical pain for Buffy, but it was a pain that only strengthened her resolve. She walked the remaining distance and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him too much by the movement. She found the hand that was lying closest to her, took it in both of hers, and brought it to her lips to place a gentle kiss upon the knuckles, just beside his ring. At the same time, she couldn't help but remember weeks ago when she had woken up to him doing the same at her bedside when she was recovering from her unpleasant foray into telepathy. The recollection made her smile. Cradling his hand over her heart with her left, she moved her right to touch his face.

He stirred. "Buffy," he whispered. "It's you." It wasn't a question, but he still didn't sound completely certain. He squinted up at her through what looked like a haze of pain and exhaustion.

"It's me," she said.

"I didn't…want to go without seeing you," he said, clearly struggling to form words. She put a finger over his lips to keep him from going on.

"Angel, I can cure you," she said. He looked confused. She sighed. "Here, sit up," she said, and when he winced with the effort to comply, she helped him.

"You're going to live," she told him firmly, her voice cracking a little. "You have to live."

Angel shook his head, looking even more confused. "What…?"

Buffy shrugged off her jacket and tossed it aside. "Drink," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. He stared back, uncomprehending but now slightly afraid. "Drink me."

His eyes widened in shock and horror. "No," he said, shaking his head more violently.

"It's the only way," she said calmly.

"No," he repeated. "Get away!" He tried to put more distance between them, but she had deliberately cut his exit off with where she had chosen to sit, and she further prevented his escape by swiftly moving over and straddling him.

"It'll save you," she said.

"It'll kill you," he protested, still trying to escape, but to no effect, because his back soon met the wall, leaving him with nowhere to go.

"Maybe not," she said. "Not if you don't take it all."

"You can't ask me to do this."

"The blood of a Slayer is the only cure."

"Faith—"

"I tried," said Buffy. "I killed her." Voicing that fact aloud wrenched at her insides painfully, but she couldn't let it distract her now.

"Then it's over," he said. He tried to push her off, but he was no match for her in his weakened state, and she would not be moved.

"Angel, please," she said, and now tears were beginning to blur her vision. "I can't lose you again. I could barely handle it last year and we're so much closer than we were then. I can't watch you die when I know I can save you."

He had no reply to that, but he wouldn't have been able to voice one even if he did, because she had chosen that moment to kiss him. It was tender but brief.

Buffy couldn't help remembering the night she died. But this couldn't have been more different than when the Master bit her, in those moments beforehand when she knew it was going to happen. She had cried then, too, but those had been tears of terror and despair that the price for her stupid mistake would be much higher than her life alone. Fear had held her completely paralyzed then. The only fear she felt now was at the idea of Angel dying. It was unendurable. It had been hard enough to live with herself for damning him to save the world; living with the knowledge that she could have saved him but didn't would be impossible.

"I trust you," she said, and her face wasn't the only one streaked with tears now. "Please."

She kissed him again, more forcefully. The cut on her lip reopened with the pressure and began to bleed afresh. She knew that if their first kiss on its own had been enough to bring out his demon, this additional incentive would not fail to do the same now. Sure enough, she felt his teeth transform from blunt to deadly sharp the instant her blood reached his tongue. His body went rigid, but she could tell that his resistance was flagging. Even though he was attempting to push her away, he hadn't broken off the kiss.

Despite her unyielding determination, she couldn't help hating herself for the way she was manipulating him. She couldn't live with the idea of not saving him, but she was forcing him to live with the possibility of killing her to save himself. She knew how she would respond if he asked that of her, but it wasn't enough to make her relent. He had to live. He had to.

"Let me save you…," she breathed against his lips. After kissing them once more, she moved the strap of her tank top out of the way, tipped her head to the side, and pulled him forward until she could feel his mouth on her neck. At the same time, she pressed herself as close to him as she could get and wound her fingers though his short hair, seeking both to entice and to reassure. Her heart was beating wildly now, and as much to calm her own nerves as to soothe his, she clung to him more tightly and began to drop a series of fleeting kisses from his shoulder to the particularly sensitive spot she knew was just below his ear.

It was enough. He let out a groan—half in protest, half in longing. His arms went around her to pull her even closer and he bit down. Hard.

And with that, I flee! Before the subtext has a chance to become text!