"Elucidation - Grand Illusion"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: "Grand Illusion" is by Joan Osborne.
The Usual Suspects: Esmerelda, Serena, Kaz, and Dru -- You guys . . . Feel the love comin' atcha. Also, feel the fic comin' atcha ASAP.
Dedication: To Joss Whedon. Yes, I know what you're thinking . . . I don't know. I have a good feeling today. And to Margot, who's no doubt mostly to blame for said good feeling. And Ducks, 'cuz she's back! She's alive! She's *writing* with me!

The obliteration of your isolation
the complete explosion of your fondest notion
This disintegration is your elevation
It's a grand illusion, it's a grand illusion

She was having a nightmare.

If the tossing and moaning hadn't alerted him to the fact, her ridged forehead and elongated canines would have been a dead give-away. She'd had nightmares before, of course, but he'd never been very good at waking her from them. Gently prodding a disoriented vampire awake when said vampire was in the midst of a night terror was like poking a sleeping dragon -- if you wanted to live to see another moonrise, you just didn't do it.

Buffy was suffering, though, and Angel had never been very good at watching her suffer.

"Sweetheart," he whispered into her ear. He brought a hand up to her face; stroked her ridged forehead; tried not to notice how a hidden, hated part of him thought she was even more beautiful, now, than she ever had been as a human girl.

"Angel," she whimpered, "no . . . please, make it stop, please . . ."

"Buffy, wake up," he commanded gently. "Baby, wake up."

Amber eyes snapped open and her fist came out and socked him in the mouth. His head snapped back from the impact, and he felt his lip split. Her breathing was heavy and labored as her gaze darted around the room while she tried to reorient herself to her surroundings.

His tongue gently probed the tiny wound she'd given him. Angel winced and let it be. It would close in a few minutes, anyway.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she cried, her soft, mothering hands flying to his face, taking stock of his injuries.

"It's just a scratch," he assured her quietly. His hand pressed to her naked back, circling soothingly against her flesh. "What was it?"

"We were human," she said shakily.

He waited for her to expound upon that a bit. When she didn't, he leaned in closer to her.

"Wow," he said with a little laugh, "sucky dream."

Returning his laugh with an almost smile, she shook her head. Her arms wrapped themselves around her middle, and he moved until he was behind her, wrapping his arms around hers. She leaned back against him gratefully, her cheek pressed against his throat, the top of her head perfectly situated beneath his chin.

"We were miserable," she continued. "Enemies of ours came and held us down. They made . . . they made me watch while they killed you and turned you all over again." Her head shook again, this time in denial of what she'd seen.

"Baby, I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I've . . .I've had dreams like that. Only . . . the other way around. I know how hard it is to come out of it."

"Is that why you did it?" she asked quietly.

Confusion filled him, and he traced the underside of her belly with the pads of his thumbs. "Did what, sweetheart?"

"Is that why you didn't stay human?"

"What?" he croaked, his entire body tense.

Slowly disentangling herself from his embrace, she turned until she could face him. Then, she hooked her legs around his body and set herself comfortably in his lap. The position should have been intensely erotic, but as she circled his neck with her arms, and stared at him with her wide-open-I-love-you-eyes, he felt nothing but comforted, safe.

"I read your diary," she said with an embarrassed little wince. "And you wrote . . . I mean, it was pretty clear, and then also not so clear. You were human, but I don't remember it, and from some of the other things you wrote, I kind of got the impression that you became . . . =not= human because you were scared for my life."

"They said you would die if I remained mortal," he choked out. Tears clogged his throat and clouded his vision and he was back in that chamber, knowing the price for Buffy's life would be immeasurable.

In all the scenarios he'd worked out in his mind -- sacrificing his humanity, his very life, once again accepting the cursed existence that had been his most deserved punishment -- he had never anticipated that they would steal the very memory of her fondest wish.

"Who's they?" she asked softly. He forced himself to meet her gaze, and found, not the anger and recriminations he'd expected, but an inexhaustible curiosity, a longing to understand fully what had been taken from her.

And so, he told her in halting, vivid detail every second of that day they had spent together that had been erased.

"And then I forgot," she said around tears of her own. "Gee, that was really disappointing of me. You'd think those wiggy Slayer powers would be good for circumventing one little temporal fold."

It was a brave front she was putting on, and he adored her beyond words for it. She held onto him so tightly as he told her this final secret in his heart, and the weight that lifted from him once it was out made him feel lighter than he had, even on that perfect day.

"I didn't know how to tell you," he confessed, nuzzling against her palm as she wiped the tears from his cheeks with her magical fingers.

"It's okay," she promised him, smiling as best she could. Her lower lip became imprisoned between her teeth, and he knew she was trying to work up the nerve to ask him something she didn't actually want to ask.

"What?" he prodded gently.

"Do you . . . " She sighed, deeply, then apparently made the decision to plunge ahead. "Do you ever wonder if you made the right decision? Do you ever regret it?"

"Only about a million times a day." He tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow, and he matched her sigh for sigh. "It eats at me," he confessed at last. "But then . . ."

"But then . . . what?"

"I think about . . . what if you had died, really died, and I never got to hold you again? And that's unthinkable to me, Buffy. I can't imagine a world where you don't exist." He winced. "I second guess myself all the time, and I know how hard this new . . . phase of your life is for you, but I honestly don't think I could go back and make a different decision." He almost smiled. He really tried to, for her sake. "Here isn't so bad, anymore, is it?"

The smile she gave him in response was blinding, if a bit shaky, and nearly caused his dead heart to thump. Her hands cradled his face again, and she leaned forward until their foreheads touched. He remembered the position but it no longer cut as deeply as it had in the past.

"At least now we get to share forever, right?" she whispered.

Nodding, he tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her gently. Soon, gentle was a thing of the past, and the position they were in made its sensual nature abundantly clear as she began to rock against him. Human, Buffy had been a highly sexual creature, and if his experience over the past few months was any kind of gauge, she was an exceedingly sexual vampire, with all the stamina, desire, and endurance that entailed.

Fortunately for both of them, he matched her in every way. And it had been =such= a long time since he'd been allowed to revel in it . . .

Her face changed against him and the demon that lived beneath his skin howled in excitement. One of her fangs nicked his tongue (though intentionally or unintentionally, he couldn't be sure) and she sucked at it avidly. Part of him was more turned on by that than he had ever been in his life; another part of him was repulsed.

Still another part was too terrified to move.

They still had to be careful. The creatures that lived inside of them were bloodthirsty, slathering animals, capable of the most horrendous atrocities the world had ever known. Together, he had no doubt they would have succeeded where he and Acathla had failed, so long ago.

The sharing of blood with one's mate was a natural extension of what it was to be a vampire. It also brought back memories of Darla to him, memories of death and satisfaction and pain and pleasure that he'd just as soon forget. It seemed sacrilegious to share anything close to it with Buffy, whatever her current state of being was.

He had always been so careful to shield her from this part of himself, and at every turn, she had sought to discover more. Her curiosity, her gentle acceptance, had eventually loosened his resolve. He hadn't felt self-conscious when she attended to him when he was vamped out. She could bring him blood without him wanting to curl up and die for soiling her hands with his filthy 'habit'.

However, not until that night on the floor of the mansion had he truly lost control with her. And then, it had almost killed her.

Several times since then, he had drunk from her, and she from him. But there had always been something else in control -- his lack of soul, her lack of soul, Dru's creepy spell -- and so his automatic fear had been banished.

Now, that fear was very much present, and his equal, but extremely opposing desires -- both to flee from her hold, and to burrow himself inside of her until control became a moot point -- were serving to drive him insane.

The decision -- to act, or not to act, and if so, which action to take -- was removed from him by a chipper, insistent knock at the door.

It opened a second later, and Cordelia entered, her hand already covering her eyes.

"Please be decent," she begged. "I wouldn't even be in here, but it's been almost thirty-six hours since you guys left, and you've gotta be hungry or =done= or something by now."

Buffy and Angel scrambled for covering. Buffy snagged the black sheet, and Angel wound the comforter around his hips. Her head came to rest against his shoulder, and they sat, side by side, as though they hadn't been doing anything else.

The illusion would have been perfect, had Buffy's fingers not been inching lower and lower on his belly beneath the covers.

"It's safe to look, Cordy," Angel announced, covering Buffy's wandering hand with his own, and holding it against his abdomen gently.

Cordelia let her hand drop warily, then, seeing they were at least partially covered, made her way over to the bed, placing her hands on her hips as she looked down at them.

"Willow would like you to pretty please come down to breakfast even though she knows how precious this reunion time is to you, because she has something she wants to discuss with everyone all at once." Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Although why she couldn't come up here and tell you herself, we'll never know."

Buffy smiled, and delivered a smacking kiss to Angel's cheek. "I'm going to go take a shower," she announced, hopping out of bed with the sheet loosely draped around her. Angel couldn't help but watch as it drifted low on her back, revealing the soft curve of her ass as she walked.

"She's subtle," Cordelia noted.

Angel directed his attention back to the brunette before him. He smiled warily. He hadn't been alone with Cordelia since . . . his mind shied away, and he stared down at his hands, which were nervously picking at bits of invisible lint on the comforter.

"She's giving us a chance to talk. In private," Cordelia added, sitting on the edge of the bed. She made a face. "I really hope I didn't just sit in the wet spot."

He couldn't help it. He laughed, because she was just so =Cordelia= that he couldn't help himself. Then, he sobered, instantly ashamed, and once again looked away from her.

Cordelia sighed, in a distinctly put-upon Cordelia way, and leaned forward to wrap her arms tightly around his shoulders. He was so shocked, he couldn't move for a moment, and when he did, his arms went around her gently, but so tightly he was sure he was threatening her ability to breathe. She didn't complain, though, just held him, and the tears he felt against his shoulder prompted his own to fall.

"It's okay," she whispered into his ear. "You know I love you, no matter what."

"No, I don't," he whispered back. "But it's nice to hear."

You're crying, you're trying so hard now You'll be laughing a hundred thousand years

"Where are they?" Willow whined. "Cordy, you were supposed to get them to come down for breakfast =today=."

"Hey, I walked in there while they were doing God knows what," Cordelia said, holding up a hand. "I braved the fire. I carried your banner. Is it my fault that he went to take a shower before she'd gotten out of it?"

"Visual places," Xander reminded her, wincing from his position hunched over her majesty's fingernails. "Still trying to pretend they're just behind closed doors catching up on their reading."

"Oh, please," Cordelia huffed. "Not even you could be so delusional--"

"Could we please cease the disturbing sex talk once and for all?" Giles asked tiredly, sipping at his coffee.

"I can't believe you're giving her a manicure," Willow noted, staring at the intricate strokes Xander was taking with Cordelia's Purple Passion nail polish. She grinned evilly. "It seems really emasculating."

"I'll have you know a professional looking manicure with one of those blasted home kits is bloody hard to come by," Wesley defended.

Willow just stared at him. "Please tell me the hands that have touched my body--" Giles made a moaning-sighing-disgruntled noise in the back of his throat "--have not also given Cordelia a manicure."

"Twice," Cordelia confirmed. "Although he's nowhere near as good as Angel."

"Angel certainly has the touch," Wesley admitted admiringly.

"I agree, but I've got to say, not really comfortable with hearing you say it, Wes," Buffy announced as she and Angel entered the room, looking squeaky clean and shiny.

"Good, everyone's here," Willow said happily.

"Lindsey, Spike, and Faith aren't," Buffy noted. "Not that I'm all torn up about Spike," she added cheerfully.

"No one has seen Lindsey and Faith since the night before last," Giles informed them.

"I think they're doin' it," Cordelia announced.

"They are not doing it," Xander argued. "Just because people are absent in pairs doesn't automatically mean they're--"

"Put a sock in it, Denial Boy," Cordelia interrupted. "They're doin' it. End of story."

"And Spike?" Buffy asked, half-amused at this obvious re-hash of the ancient, once-thought-long-buried Xander and Cordelia Show.

"Spike already knows what this is about," Willow informed them. "I sort of ran the idea by him a couple of weeks ago, before . . . well, before." She winced apologetically at Angel, and he gave her a half-smile of acknowledgement. "Anyway, he's in his hole of a room sleeping the daylight off." Everyone looked at her strangely, and she bristled. "I'm just quoting him."

"Your point," Wesley prompted, watching as Xander started on the second coat of Cordelia's right hand, and Angel began applying the small decals to her dry left. His gaze met Buffy's across the table, and she shook her head at him. Their thoughts were identical; what is this power that Cordelia has, and where can I get some?

"My point," Willow repeated, taking a deep breath, "is that I think we should have a memorial service." She didn't give anyone a chance to digest this before she plunged ahead: "A big, giant service, 'cause . . . well . . . considering all the people we've lost recently, having individual services seems kind of . . . depressing. And I don't mean that it isn't depressing -- 'cause it is -- but . . ."

"We understand, Willow," Giles assured her gently.

Buffy and Angel both looked guilty.

"Tell Mopey and Mopier to turn those frowns upside down," Cordelia ordered, inclining her head toward them. She smiled sadly, gently, removing the sting from her words. "We've =all= lost people, you two included. You two =most of all=."

"Yeah, but I don't want this to be a grief-y, poor us sort of farewell type thing," Willow continued. "I think . . . I think we should have a big party, where everyone can share their memories and laugh and cry and be cleansed." She smiled in her Willow way, then frowned and wagged a menacing finger in Buffy and Angel's direction. "And this is a guilt-free party, so check it at the door."

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Buffy parroted, mock-saluting.

Silence spread through the kitchen.

"So?!" Willow asked at last, impatient. "Is it a go?"

"I think it's a great idea, Willow," Angel said approvingly.

"I say we go for it," Buffy agreed.

"Xander, you used the Purple Passion-- I told you I wanted =Poignant= Purple!"

Xander just stared at her. "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me."

A beat of silence passed. Then, Cordelia grinned at him. "I am, actually. Sucker."

There is only one day and tonight is the night It's a grand illusion

"Hey. Got a second to spare for an old enemy?"

Buffy looked up from her nails. She was attempting to apply some of Cordelia's decals to the nails she'd conned Angel into painting earlier. Cordelia might have power over All Men but she had power over One Man and that was all she really cared about.

"Is that what we are, Faith? Old enemies?"

Shrugging, the only human Slayer currently living took a seat opposite Buffy. "Didn't want to wrongly imply that we were old friends."

"We were, though," Buffy noted. "We were friends. A long time ago."

"Not so long," Faith disagreed.

"Seems like centuries," Buffy confided quietly.

"Lot's changed," Faith agreed. "And a lot hasn't. Last time we were friends, Xander and Cordelia were bickering, Angel was broody and totally in love with you, and Willow was trying to make everybody feel better about their crappy situation while Giles watched over us with a disapproving frown." She smiled. "Even when they change, things don't change that much, B."

"Like us?" Buffy asked, genuinely curious. "Do we change?"

"Slayers?" Faith clarified. Buffy nodded. "No. I don't think we do. I didn't. Even when I was so deep in that evil that I couldn't see left from right, there was something screaming inside of me: something primal that was screeching at me to destroy the threat. Since the threat was me, I turned a little self-destructive."

"That's why you came to Angel," Buffy said.

"I thought I could make him kill me," Faith said, "and instead, he reached inside and pulled me free. I still feel it, sometimes, trying to get its hooks back into me, but it doesn't stand a chance." She grinned crookedly. "I'm stronger, now. Or maybe I'm kidding myself. Either way, I win."

"I'm glad," Buffy said sincerely. "I'm glad you've found a little peace. I'm glad Angel helped you. And I'm really glad he didn't listen to me while I was being vengeful bitter psychotic girl," she added dryly.

"B, I gave you cause," Faith said lightly. "More than your share."

"No, you really didn't," Buffy said softly. "Not for the way I acted. Like I was God or something."

"You were only human," Faith objected. "I dished out major pain to you. It had to break you."

"It shouldn't have," Buffy maintained. "And it wouldn't have, it if hadn't been for everything else." Faith looked confused, and Buffy smiled gently. "We don't change," she reminded her. "We're not 'just human'. We're more. We're Slayers. We hold the fate of everything in our hands." She shook her head. "And I let a vampire rip my heart out and walk away. Then I got so obsessed with the idea of normal that I forgot who I was. Riley was a part of that. The fact that he couldn't tell the difference between us . . . sort of pushed me over the edge. Since I couldn't be mad at him, you got all the Faith-rage =and= all the Riley-rage."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"You don't know what to say. That's okay. You were never good at the female bonding thing." Buffy sighed. "I really wish I'd figured all this out sooner. It might have saved me a lot of pain when Riley eventually left."

Not to mention the pain it might have saved him. Buffy shut her eyes. Sometimes, she could still taste his blood in her throat. It was idealistic and bitter at the same time, filled with all the naïve dreams he'd had for them and the crushing disappointments he'd experienced once he realized she could never be what he'd needed her to be. That she'd been turned, and he'd been her first meal, had only been the last in a long line of scenarios that hadn't gone the way Riley had planned.

Faith cuffed her on the arm. "Hey, at least you got the last word in." She made a face to show she was kidding.

It was morbid, and wrong, but Buffy laughed. Then she covered her mouth. "Oh, God . . ."

Grinning, Faith kicked her foot out gently and nudged Buffy's with it. "I swear, it'll be our secret."

"Thank you," Buffy mumbled, guiltier now than she had been months ago.

"Hey, so I did something maybe stupid that I think feels really right," Faith said after a few moments of silence.

Buffy glanced at her warily. "I'm really hoping it wasn't sleeping with Spike."

"Shut up!" Faith laughed, punching her in the arm again. "That was possibly the =stupidest= thing I've ever done, and in no way was it right." She grinned. "But, damn, that boy's sure got skills."

"I'm not hearing this," Buffy moaned, plugging her ears with her poorly-decal'd fingers.

"You never liked to kiss and tell with Angel," Faith plowed ahead, "and DAMN do I get why. He's got at least a generation on Spike, and seriously, from the way he talks, he pays a hell of a lot more attention. If I had him in my bed--"

"Which you don't, haven't, or ever will," Buffy assured her menacingly.

"--I wouldn't let anyone else in on my big secret, either," Faith finished as though she hadn't been interrupted.

"So what's the other stupid thing?" Buffy asked.

"I kissed Lindsey. Or, you know, he kissed me."

"Lindsey?!" Buffy shrieked.

"Jeez, try it a little louder, I don't think Spike heard you down in the Batcave."

"Lindsey?!" Buffy hissed.

"I've been dreaming him, B," Faith confessed quietly. "I knew he was coming at me before he ever hit my radar. I've been fighting it and fighting it from the minute I connected those really crappy dots, and I can't fight it anymore."

"Are you in love with him?" Buffy asked, shocked.

Faith shrugged. "Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

"Is he in love with you?"

"How the hell should I know?" Faith snapped.

"Come on, Faith," Buffy chided, "I know you're more the screw 'em and leave 'em type, but you =know= when a guy's in love with you."

"He let me help him into bed," she muttered quietly. Buffy raised an eyebrow. Faith gestured. "He's only got the one arm, right? So getting undressed, pulling back the covers, snuggling in real deep . . . it's not so easy for him. He let me walk him to his room, come inside, and . . . help. I stripped him down to his boxers, helped him take off his plastic hand and tucked him in." She shook her head. "Jesus, I =tucked= a grown man into bed, what the fuck is wrong with me?!"

Buffy grinned widely. "You're in love."

"Fuck me."

The devastation of your separation The disillusion of your constitution

"Angel, that book of Grecian prophecies . . . is that the original translation, or the modernization?"

"Original," Angel answered absently, barely glancing up from the journal he held in his hands. Though he'd sat down in his chair last night with the intent of reading it, his thoughts had been too consumed with Buffy to get past the first page. After the night he'd spent in their bed, however, he couldn't stand to put it down. Was it possible it held all the answers to the questions that had plagued his mind and soul for as long as he could remember? Had he lived and died with his love, only to forget it all when the next life cycle began?

Would he live and die with her again, and once again sacrifice the memory of all the tears and joy they'd shared in the hopes of being granted another lifetime at her side?

For that was what the journal implied; that their past counterparts had been so sure of a next life, so sure that they would be reunited eventually, that not even the threat of final death had dampened their passion for one another. If Lindsey was to be believed (and Angel's instincts definitely believed), it was Angel that had been the Slayer, and he had died at the hands of his lover , the last souled vampire to walk the earth.

Last, that was, until Darla had insisted their twisted family tour the Romanian countryside . . .

He could still remember it. The modest house he and Darla had shared; the hotel a few streets away Spike and Dru had taken. He'd tried to instill in both of them how much easier it was to kill people who owned their own space, instead of travelers passing through. Their accommodations were yours for as long as you deigned to have them; but Spike had been impulsive, and he and Dru had already decided on a young couple, on holiday from London. Besides -- Dru always used to love room service.

It was for the best, Angel realized now. If Spike and Dru had stayed with he and Darla, no doubt she would have been displeased; so displeased that she might not have brought him that little present, bound and gagged and so scared her blood slid down his throat like finely aged wine . . .

His eyes shut tightly, and he forced the images, the full sensory recall away. He hated himself for recalling how =good= he'd felt at the time, drinking that poor, frightened girl's life away. And yet, her death might be the one he regretted least. Because it -- or, more accurately, her tribe's reaction to it -- had set him on the path he currently walked with at least a modest amount of pride.

And besides -- how many more people would be dead now, by his hand, if he hadn't been cursed in those woods over a century ago? It was unnatural, and the curse had made his existence seem like some twisted cosmic joke, never more so than after he'd learned of its escape clause, but surely, it was better than the alternative. Better than more blood on his hands. The monster inside him had been caged for over a hundred years, give or take a slip or two, and no matter the intense burden, Angel preferred it that way. Quietly, he even believed he deserved it.

Once again, his attention returned to the journal in his hands. He'd barely read a quarter of it, skimming the rest, and already, he was filled with questions, doubts, and uncertainty. Was this Blessing really any better than the curse? Naturally, the lack of an 'out' clause (assuming it really did lack -- what was perfect happiness, anyway, and was he even capable of it anymore, without benefit of pharmaceutical or magical intervention?) made it =seem= a lot more humane than the Romani alternative.

But what of the rest of it? The idea that his soul had been floating out there < was it in heaven or hell somewhere else entirely? are the souls vampires destroy and bodies they animate doomed for all time? is there peace outloomingwaitingwhen monster meets a dusty end? > < Buffy's > without a body to tether it . . . what did that do to the theory of reincarnation? Had his soul been reborn, and when the Gypsy elder woman called it forth to be returned to his body, had his new form simply died on the spot?

He could no longer argue against the idea of reincarnation -- his soul =knew= he had been this Slayer that wrote the journal he was gripping much too tightly -- but he was still as far in the dark as he had ever been, as to the nature of his existence. More so, perhaps, if he took Buffy into consideration.

And how could he fail to take her into consideration, when she was at the very center of the existence that puzzled him so? If those nights in Romania had set him on the path, Buffy had shone a great light onto it, guided him on his way, kept him from tripping in his darkness, both necessary and self-imposed. Even trapped in the dark as she was now, Buffy was still the brightest light he'd ever known.

Yet there were things about her new state of being that frightened him; things he knew she still didn't fully understand. He was filled with disquiet when he realized she wanted to 'play' at being a vampire, to indulge the whims and desires the demon whispered in her mind, without facing the consequences that came after. She had never appreciated the fine line he walked each and every day, and because her flirtation with the darkness had lasted such a short time, he doubted she ever would.

The journal called again, and he began absently flipping through it, noting a few of the words and phrases that so eloquently spoke of devotion and longing, the desire to ease the pain of the vampire this Slayer had loved so desperately. His existence had been as dark and lonely as Angel's, and his past self hadn't known how to help him anymore than Buffy had.

Was it so unnatural, not just the idea of Slayer and vampire lying down together, but of a vampire possessing a human soul at all? Had the Watchers, in their infinite shortsightedness, done the right thing for the wrong reasons when they put an end to it?

Were he and Buffy now a continuation of a race that was much better left extinct?

"Meanwhile, I've decided to learn how to juggle, as my talents would clearly be put to much better use as a circus performer."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Wesley sighed deeply, regarding Angel with a patient scowl. "You haven't heard a word I've said for the past ten minutes."

"I heard something about juggling," Angel defended himself. He paused for a moment. "That was a test to see if I was listening, right? Because you and juggling . . ."

"Yes, it was a test," Wesley confirmed. "Although I've been prattling on for the past ten minutes, trying to work up to a conversation about the new woman in my life, and you've been a thousand miles away."

Gesturing with the journal he still gripped tightly, Angel stood, walking over to where Wesley sat. "I've just got some . . . heavy thoughts . . . on my mind," he explained, taking a seat beside the former Watcher.

"Which is completely understandable," Wesley allowed. "It's just . . ."

Angel smiled gently. "You want to talk about your new girlfriend."

"Yes," Wesley confirmed enthusiastically, putting aside the book he'd been looking through. "Angel, I don't know that I've ever felt . . . quite like this before."

"Willow seems . . . happier recently," Angel offered.

"She does?" Wesley sounded so eager, Angel's heart broke a little for him. He truly hoped her affair with his friend was more than a coping mechanism. Saving Angel from having to answer, Wesley frowned. "In all the babbling you completely missed earlier I'm sure I never got around to mentioning her by name."

Uncomfortable, Angel tilted his head to the side. "It's, uh . . .a predator thing." He shifted a little. "Buffy knows, too," he added in weak defense.

"Ah. Of course." Wesley's gaze seemed riveted to the journal in Angel's hands. "Your heavy thoughts wouldn't have anything to do with the events of the past week, would they?"

Grimacing, Angel reluctantly set the journal aside. "It's never far from my mind. I don't think I've apologized to you yet for--"

"Angel, there's really no need," Wesley interrupted.

"You and Gunn were close, closer than he and I--"

"Yes, and since we were so close, I can assure you that I don't blame you for what happened." Wesley smiled a little. "Although Gunn would probably give you hell for it."

That almost made Angel smile. Almost. "Cordelia . . . she's been very understanding. Much more so than I expected, given how . . . difficult it was to rebuild things after . . ."

"I'd dare say the last time, to Cordelia, was far worse than what has just transpired. It's much easier for her to put you in separate boxes -- Angel, good, Angelus, bad -- and see only what she wishes to. When . . . when you fired us . . . things became complicated for her. And we know how much Cordelia detests complications." The two men shared a smile. "She loves you, as we all do. We don't blame you. I'm not sure what is to blame, what Power decides who lives or dies and which of us are used as pawns to that end. But no one here blames you for Gunn, anymore than we blame Buffy for her . . . shall we say, indiscretions?"

"That's a very . . . kind . . . way to put it," Angel demurred, wishing he could accept Wesley's absolution. His gaze was drawn to the journal at his side; the journal he had yet to share with Buffy, with anyone, really . . . Perhaps Wesley would be able to lend an impartial opinion on the matter . . .

A loud crash disrupted Angel's thoughts.

"VISION!" someone yelled from outside the office.

Wesley beat Angel out the door, but only because the vampire took an extra second to stuff the journal between the really boring books on the shelf.

It's exhilaration, it's your liberation It's a grand illusion, it's a grand illusion

"Buffy, I can handle it," Angel insisted for the third time.

"I just don't like the idea of you getting mangled without me," Buffy maintained.

One of Angel's crooked smiles challenged her phrasing, and Buffy relented. "Fine. But if you get banged up too bad, just remember I might have prevented it all."

"If I get banged up too bad . . . maybe you'll kiss it and make it better."

Never, not once, had she been able to resist that look on his face. Standing on tiptoe, Buffy wrapped her arms around Angel's neck and gave him what she liked to think of as a Super Slayer Special Knock-Out smooch. The dazed expression on his face when she pulled away seemed to confirm that assumption.

"Be careful," she instructed.

"It's just a Fyarl hassling some kids. I'll be back before you have time to miss me."

Not likely, she thought, but kept it to herself. "I still say the two of us could crush it faster."

Angel glanced over her shoulder, then looked back into her eyes. "Wes is meeting me with that magic dust that's supposed to make everything go down smoothly. I . . . I'd rather you stay here, and take care of Cordelia."

Glancing behind her, Buffy noticed that her former high school nemesis really didn't look too hot. Over the past few months at the Hyperion, Buffy had gotten used to Cordelia's visions. So used to them, in fact, that she sometimes took for granted what kind of toll they took on her. At the moment, Buffy was the only other person around. Angel was right, his over-protectiveness aside. Cordy needed someone.

Buffy squeezed Angel's hand, and again mouthed 'be careful' before she snagged a glass of water and some Advil from the side table, then sat beside Cordelia on the red couch in the lobby.

"Thank you," Cordelia said gratefully, downing four tablets quickly. Her eyes were watering. Buffy refrained from asking if she could get Cordelia anything, having learned from Angel and Wesley how unwelcome that question seemed to be. Amazing, Buffy thought, that the most self-involved person she'd ever known was also one of the bravest.

"It can't be easy," Buffy noted.

"What?" Cordy mumbled, washing the pills down with a few healthy gulps of water.

"Queen C., getting visions of people in need so that a vampire with a soul can go save them."

Cordelia smiled wryly. "It's certainly been an adjustment."

"You seem . . . resolved to it, though," Buffy added. She still wasn't sure how to relate to Cordelia. It wasn't that she was jealous of the other girl, although how dear she was to Angel made her . . . not uncomfortable, really, but . . . unsure. Which was stupid, but Buffy had learned a long time ago that pretending you weren't feeling something was worse than just letting yourself feel it.

"Resolved," Cordelia laughed. "Yeah, you might say that." She shrugged it off. "I'm committed to be with him until the bitter end. And hopefully, it'll be more sweet than bitter."

"We'd all like to win the war," Buffy agreed.

"Plus, you know, once he shoeshines and turns human, I'm pretty sure the skull-crushing visions go away for me, too." Cordelia smiled brightly, standing. "Thanks for the Advil."

Buffy sat, staring at the antique axe hanging from the opposite wall, long after Cordelia left the lobby. She listened to the borrowed blood pump slowly through her veins; didn't even remember to keep up the affectation of breathing. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was a small, frightened sound that no one was around to hear.

"Human?"

You're crying, you're trying so hard now
You'll be laughing a hundred thousand years
There is only one day and tonight is the night
It's a grand illusion

 

The End

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