DISCLAIMER: Jeez, you know, I wouldn't know how to write a straight one of these if I tried! They're not mine, even if I can't find legal-sounding words to say so.
TIMELINE: Six months since Rain's calling -- August 2291
SPOILERS: None, really.
SYNOPSIS: Angel and Rain are crazy about each other. But true to B/A form, that's never simple.
DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who already has stuff on their site is welcome to it. If you'd like it, email me
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've been fighting a plot for a while through this whole thing, but little by little, one is sneaking in. We'll start to see more of it here. As usual, this will be posted at the Babble Board -
FEEDBACK: But of course… how else will my fragile ego get stroked?
RATING: PG-13 for language and some mild sexual discussion.
DEDICATION: To Anja - I miss you, girl!!!! And to the Frosting Brigade -- Grab the butter knife, and damn the torpedoes!!! We're going in!

Angel:

I did a lot of reading, that summer, about transmigration and reincarnation and souls in general. You would think that someone like me -- someone whose entire existence had always hinged closely on the state of his soul -- would already know all there was to know on the subject. But other than the two years Buffy and I and all of our friends spent combing the occult world looking for a way to bind my soul, I really didn't have any other exposure to materials on the matter. And that had been over 250 years ago. Needless to say, I had forgotten most of it, at this point. Honestly? I didn't think I would ever need to think about my soul again, but for the vague wondering if it would be pure enough to join with Buffy's in Heaven when I finally died.

But now, it appeared that Buffy's soul wasn't in the Summerland at all -- it was firmly ensconced in the body (coincidentally enough -- or perhaps not? -- the same body) of the latest Slayer, my friend, Rain.

My friend… I say it like she's somebody I met for coffee once a week, instead of the essence of my life's only light, reborn.

In plain English, I was as deeply, desperately in love with Rain as I had been with Buffy. Which leads me back to my quest for understanding of the soul.

My feelings for Rain were something I tried with all of my might to avoid or deny. For the first year we knew one another, I kept myself at a distance from her -- both physically and emotionally -- that I thought could be considered "safe". I told her nothing about me, or my past, or her impending Calling, or her heritage. But fate, as they say, drags along the reluctant, and before I knew it, I was doing all of the things I swore I would never do -- I was letting her close to me… letting her care, and showing that I cared in return.

After I told her what I was, and she accepted me with a grace and humor I never, in a million years, would have expected, I took her in my arms (kind of… we were on a swing set, of all places…) and kissed her with all the love and respect and immense gratitude that clutched at my old, dead heart. It made me feel like a kid again… a human kid, sinking into the silky, cloudy, warm tunnel of deep, abiding love.

Hm. That's a damned strange metaphor, when I think about it.

But then, there's the guilt. Guilt has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. For a while, when Rain and I first met, I thought I had outrun it at last. That I had done my time, paid my debt, and was free now to wallow in the simple misery of a deathless being whose mortal mate had passed beyond the pale. Existing without joy, without purpose, to be sure, but I also never had to feel guilty again. I was faithful to my love, and I thought, to myself, and I simply waited for the end of time to come and reunite me with her.

But… Rain. I stepped out of that comfortable frying pan of mourning and right into the blazing fire of making the same mistakes I made with Buffy all over again. I'd started taking steps to correct my error-- I told Rain a bit about my life, and I told her what I was. But then, I kissed her.

And guilt showed up on my doorstep once more, laden down with that same old familiar baggage, more than ready and willing to pick up torturing me right where it left off. Kissing Rain made the little ball of passion that had curled in the deepest part of me since the day Buffy died explode into new and colorful life. I was in love… in lust… in admiration and helpless worship of her all over again.

I was weak. I'd been weak for as long as I'd existed on this plane… and now I felt like a heel. Like I was cheating on my beloved wife. But was I? If Rain was Buffy reborn, wasn't I simply fulfilling my vows as her husband? We never said "till death do us part". We said "until the end of time". I'd been the one to insist on it -- knowing it was entirely probable that I would outlive her by thousands of years, but also knowing full well that no matter how many eons passed, I would still love her. I made that part of my promise to her, so the sentiment would be forever bound by my word of honor.

So, being in love with Rain couldn't logically be seen as a betrayal of my feelings for Buffy, right? The more I learned about the transfer of souls and the wheel of rebirth, the more I was beginning to believe that.

But was my love for Rain as Buffy's reincarnated self a betrayal of the individual Rain was, in her own right? Of that, I was even less sure. But before I could get any more deeply involved… before I could move on beyond the initial stages of romance… before I could really tell her how deeply she was entwined with my soul, I had to find that out.

There were no sacred texts to point my way, on that one. No trusted friends to offer me advice. No Watcher to whom I could turn with such complicated metaphysical questions.

Except one.

*****************************

Rain:

I don't think I'd ever been so completely, utterly happy in my whole life. In fact, I'm sure of it. Colors seemed brighter, food tasted better, every song I heard brought Angel, and the way he made me feel, to my mind.

I'd busted my ass for over a year to break him down. And the minute I stepped aside in deference to the memory of his beloved Buffy, he turned around and claimed me. Talk about your weird plot twist!

I tended to babble a lot, in those days… and sigh, and smile mysteriously at minute details about the world around me, like bees buzzing and children laughing. It was like I had a secret that separated me from everyone else… and not because I was an undercover demon fighter, either.

In other words, I was in love. Crazy, wacky, flipped-out, rubber room insanely, in love. With a vampire, sure, but he was still Angel, and Angel is all the stuff every girl's dreams are made of. And now, in at least some small way, he was mine. Tall, dark and gorgeous like a model out of a fashion vid… mysterious and complicated; intelligent, gallant and sensitive, like a character form some old-fashioned romance novel.

See what I mean about the babbling and the sighing? Angel got to me, like that.

One kiss, and it was like all of the barriers he'd carefully built between us came crashing down. Another one, and I was swept away in a current of desire like a woman who hadn't touched a lover in a million years. I was starving for him, and it didn't feel like I would ever be sated.

I wanted him more than ever. And all of a sudden, I started seeing some small hope that I might actually have him.

The irony of three facts were never far from my mind: 1.) That Angel came as part of a confounding package known as slaying, packed full of monsters, sacred callings, and fat little Englishmen with really bad taste in clothes and a tendency to "cluck" at me a lot. Did I already mention the monsters? Which leads to: 2.) Angel was, technically, one of the monsters. Not that I would ever use that word to describe him. Angel was a lot of things -- infuriating… sexy… mysterious… but not a single one involved any measure of evil. But he was still a demon -- the ultimate irony. And, finally, 3.) Buffy. Angel had been deeply in love with her for hundreds of years before I was even born. In love with her so deeply that when she died (imagine my joy to find out of natural causes, at over a hundred years old!), he remained completely faithful and alone… until he met me. I was honored and flattered by the distinction of being his only post-widowhood girlfriend, but I also knew full well that that meant I would really always be number two in his heart. He'd never show it, of course. He lavished me with more love and affection than I'd ever experienced before. But I still knew my place.

So, being involved with Angel wasn't without its little problems. But damn it, I just didn't care! Most of the time, I just felt like singing and bursting into spontaneous little dances in odd places, like the supermarket.

What a paramour he was… (I stole that word from Roger Lowenthal. It makes romance sound like a foreign cabinet post, doesn't it?) Every night that I didn't have to patrol, he took me somewhere… walking hand-in-hand through gardens bursting with night-blooming flowers… dancing in the open-air clubs in the Spanish Quarter… or eating at restaurants where the chef brought your food to you for your examination before he cooked it. I liked that.

Angel treated me like a princess. When in Date Mode, he handled me like a precious, delicate flower, with tender caresses and gentle kisses, like he might break me if he was too gruff. That kind of treatment might have bothered me, a little. I mean, I'm no wilting flower, you know? That is, if he hadn't still done his level best to kick my ass when we trained. I had nothing against being treated like a lady, but I still wanted to be acknowledged as an occasionally kick-ass bitch. Considering my position, there was just no way any other guy would ever be able to see and respect both of my distinct personas.

Angel did. He gave his attentions to me equally, always, as both woman and warrior. And he was my perfect compliment on both levels, as if he'd been created just for that purpose.

So… romance. Great battles. Lots of emotional intimacy, further developing friendship, and lots of good, old-fashioned violence. The perfect relationship.

That is, if you don't ask about the sex. Not that the sex was bad… just that it… wasn't. We weren't having any. I could tell by the way Angel moved… how comfortable and sure he was in his body, that he would be an amazing lover. In fact, I thought about that fact so much, it often drove me to distraction at really inopportune moments. Like when the Larchah demons jumped us in the sewers under the Grant Street Mission one night. I was so busy observing the way his perfectly tailored pants draped over his incredible hindquarters, I was flat on my face from a blow to the back of the head before I even knew we had company. Very, very bad Slayer form.

Of course, Angel didn't hear them coming, either, so I have to wonder where his mind was…

But, the way things were going, he could have had a porno movie all scripted out in his head, with he and I as the stars, and I would never have known it. We did a lot of kissing… a lot of innocent necking and hand-holding, and general cuddling… but after three months, I was starting to feel a little weird that our physical relationship wasn't developing any further.

I know, I sound like Robo-Slut. But if you could see Angel, you would know exactly where I'm coming from. Just looking at him sometimes made me break out in a sweat. But still, we never even removed any clothing around one another. It was like being in high school again, full of attempts to express all-consuming desire with chaste half-touching.

In all fairness, I did understand why he was so hesitant to get as involved physically as we were getting emotionally. Angel was an old-fashioned vampire -- the former was a very profound and important expression of the latter, to him. A commitment in and of itself. And I know he was still struggling with some measure of guilt about his late wife. It was hard for him to let me as close to him as he had -- he'd been alone for so long, with nothing but his memories to comfort him, that allowing a whole new, living woman into his heart was more than a little harrowing. Feeling the way he did about sex, adding it to the mix would be something I was pretty sure he just wasn't ready to handle.

Yet.

But I understood, and I never pushed. I let him know how desirable I found him… how much I wanted him… but when he stopped, I stopped. I never wanted to hurt him, and I never wanted to give him a reason to regret letting down his guard for me.

So… holding pattern. Or, rather, not-holding pattern. Which, really, might have been a blessing in disguise, as I was so pumped full of energy, I swear I was in Super Slayer mode every time I spent time with Angel… and sometimes, for days afterward.

Roger Lowenthal was impressed with my ability and drive. He was not, however, impressed with the fact that I had a freelance demon hunter for a boyfriend, who spent a considerable amount of time training me outside of the Watcher's official sanction. Or that I had a boyfriend at all, for that matter. (Only, like I said, he used the word "paramour".)

He told me that a Slayer with close personal attachments was a distracted, unfocused, eventually very dead Slayer. He insisted that I give up my social life and my demon-hunting paramour, and concentrate on my duty. He told me to "keep my mind on the game" or something stupid like that.

I told Roger Lowenthal to mind his own fucking business.

"Miss Rain, do you not see that your energy is dangerously divided if there is another party for whom you feel responsible when you fight? A moment's glance to determine the fate of the other is long enough for your downfall. What would be the fate of the world then, hm?" he lectured.

I stared at his fat little face and fought the urge to poke the lenses out of his annoying wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Angel can take care of himself," I told him testily.

"Can he, then? And how exactly, is it, that your young friend knows so well how to battle demons?" he grilled me. Roger Lowenthal was constantly probing me for information about my "mysterious tutor". Thankfully, I didn't really have a whole lot. And what I knew, I had no intention of sharing with my Watcher. I was thinking the Council wouldn't look any more kindly on me dating a 500-year-old vampire than they had when he was with Buffy (and 250 or so).

"Family business," I told him cryptically. It wasn't completely a lie. The Slayer was his wife, and she was a demon hunter. Wife equals family, so…

Roger kind of scowled at me, and launched into his usual lecture about legend and prophecy and rules and sacred birthrights. He went on and on AND ON about duty and responsibility and the fate of the world, blah blah blah…

Not that I didn't take my Calling seriously, because I did. But I think Roger Lowenthal and his Council were those sort of stick-up-the-butt types that sat around and made up rules all day long because they were too wimpy to get out there and get their dainty manicures ruined by kicking ass.

So I tuned him out, like I always did, and thought about my meeting with Angel later. But 15 minutes into what I knew from experience was an hour lecture, Roger Lowenthal abruptly fell silent. I looked up from my open-eyed snooze, and saw his beady little eyes were bolted on the office door behind me. I turned to look and see who had violated the very private sanctuary in the very public library.

"Angel!" I said, all of a sudden wide-awake and totally breathless as I got up, "What are you doing here?"

He looked around the room, soaking up every detail, before his eyes settled on me, and he smiled.

"You said I should stop by sometime and see where the action really is," he said seriously. Thankfully, he didn't mention the fact that I had said "action" sarcastically. The only action going on here was dust settling on the ancient books.

Roger Lowenthal stood like his crumbling Italian loafers were nailed to the floor behind the big table, staring at Angel. He had a funny look on his face, like he recognized Angel from somewhere, but couldn't quite put his finger on where.

Who knows? Maybe he was in the old Watchers' books somewhere.

He strode confidently forward, rounding the big mahogany tale with his hand outstretched.

"Mr. Lowenthal. It's a pleasure to meet you at last," he said, friendly as you please. Like he wasn't a vampire introducing himself to someone whose life's work was devoted to ridding the planet of his kind.

What a gracious diplomat. Angel certainly hadn't gotten any positive impression of Roger Lowenthal from me that would make him eager to meet the man. I mostly said he was an insipid, stuffy dipshit. But leave it to my buddy to handle things this way, whatever I had told him. He liked to find out this sort of thing for himself.

Roger hesitated for a moment too long before returning the gesture, and his doughy hand disappeared into Angel's big, lean one. As they shook hands, Roger's eyes went a little wide, and he seemed to yank back a little too quickly.

Damn good thing Roger was never concerned with looking calm and cool, because he was far from it, right now. His discomfort was obvious.

Could he tell that Angel was a vampire from holding his cold hand? From some weird aura reading or something? Angel looked like he'd fed recently… his skin had a healthy glow that almost made him look alive. It stood to reason that it might make him warm, too.

Angel gave me a quick reproachful glance that clearly said, "You didn't tell him, did you?"

I shrugged apologetically.

Roger Lowenthal continued to stare at Angel as if he was a creature form another planet. I sat there watching them sizing one another up.

"So… what brings you by, Angel?" I reverted quickly to my first, and simplest, question.

He dragged his soulful eyes away from examining my Watcher to look at me.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said.

In other words, he was following me. I smiled at him like a ninny. It was just like he had dropped by to introduce himself politely to my father…except that I really didn't like Roger Lowenthal at all, and I didn't really give half a shit what he thought about me. But, it was still a pretty gallant gesture.

"Rain, would you please excuse us?" Roger said out of nowhere, never taking his eyes off Angel, "I would like to speak to… your friend… alone for a moment."

I looked at him, confused. "What?"

My Watcher's eyes narrowed as they set on me. "I would like to speak to Angel alone. Please. Wait for us in the library."

Now I looked at Angel. The expression on his face was neutral -- that old stony mask that hid whatever he really thought about what was going on. After being so close with him the past few months, that old barrier hurt like I was banging my head against it. He glanced in my direction, but said nothing before returning his eyes to Roger once more.

So, I got up. "Why don't I just go home?" I suggested, trying to sound much calmer than I really was. I didn't know what kind of pissing match Roger was about to start with Angel, but frankly, I was tired, and in no mood to sit out in the main library all night while they went at it.

"Fine," Roger said absently, once again fully absorbed in looking at my vampire.

"See ya," I said snidely to Roger's back, then, to Angel, "Come by when you're done, if you want."

Angel nodded and gave me his subtle 'don't worry' smile before he looked at Roger again. They were facing off like a couple of grizzled old gunfighters, and it was starting to give me the shakes. Worried? Who, me?

****************************

Angel:

Once Rain was gone… completely out of the building, as evidenced by the slamming of the library's enormous front door, I turned to look at Roger Lowenthal once again. His expression hadn't changed since his initial display of shock when we shook hands earlier. It was a look of surprise, but it was also a Watchers' gaze: cold, calculating, and full of arcane knowledge.

"You know who I am," I said to him, keeping my eyes locked tightly on his.

Was that fear I saw flicker there?

"I do," he confirmed, "I should have known before, when Rain spoke so highly of you and your experience in our field. If she had thought to mention that you were a vampire… I most certainly would have realized," he said to me, and slowly sat in the chair behind his desk.

Typical Watcher -- hiding behind his title and position of power because he was too impotent to face humankind's worst fears head on. In all my hundreds of years, I had only met two men who were exceptions to that rule -- two Watchers who had grown far beyond the confines of their calling, to evolve into men of infinite wisdom and admirable courage. Men both Buffy and I had trusted implicitly, and who had come through for us in more ways than I could even recall accurately, anymore.

But, again, they were the exceptions. The rule was that the rest weren't worth their weight in salt. I couldn't judge Roger Lowenthal on this single meeting, but if Rain was even close in her assessment of the man, he too would certainly prove true to formula.

"Perhaps," I said.

He gave me a smile that was less than friendly, especially considering what he said next. "Does Rain know what you are? Who you are?" he asked as I took a seat across from him. He folded his hands on the desk and regarded me with a smug certainty that he was about to have his suspicions confirmed.

"She knows what I am," I informed him.

Roger frowned. "I see."

I didn't like the way that sounded. But I wasn't there to butt heads with the man and whatever outrageous legends the Council might have invented about me.

"I didn't think it was appropriate for me to tell her about her lineage," I told him, "I think she has enough on her plate already."

The Watcher's pale eyebrows rose. "You want to shelter her, then… Keep her from learning the truth about you."

I frowned, not liking the position Roger Lowenthal was putting me in. He expected me to justify my pattern of half-truths with Rain, as though my past and what I felt about it were any of his business.

"Do you think it's wise to tell her everything?" I asked him, "What possible good could that knowledge do her?"

"I think she should know… really know… what she is getting involved with," he volleyed.

His choice of words incensed me. This was not a game I was going to let the little man win. I had my own relationship with guilt. I had no need for his attempts to give me more.

"Have you told her about her soul?" I asked.

It was a fairly decent shot, on my part. Roger Lowenthal's frown intensified.

"No," he admitted, "I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary until the right time arrived. I hadn't been anticipating your appearance."

I leaned toward him, feeling a little jolt of victory, and yet, a pang of fear and anger, tug at my gut. "The right time for what?" I asked.

Roger looked at me for a long moment, obviously debating how much he was going to trust me. I'm certain he had never had to consider such a thing about a demon before.

"Are you familiar with the D'Archit, Angelus?"

I wasn't. But it was his conscious choice of names to call me that hit a nerve.

"It's Angel," I corrected him politely, "And no, I'm not."

The rotund little man got up from his chair and walked directly to one of the many floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in his office. He glanced briefly over the spines crowding one shelf, and pulled a small, but thick black volume from among them. Then, he returned to his seat, and handed the book to me across the desk.

"These are prophecies and sacred texts of the highest order. More than the Pergamum Codex, more even than the Tiberius Manifesto, the D'Archit contains by far the most comprehensive, detailed, and accurate accounts of the evolution of Slayers. Of their origins, their unique importance to the human race, and their ultimate place in the universe."

I stared at the rather benign looking leatherback with no small feeling of wonder.

"There have been Slayers for thousands… perhaps hundreds of thousands, of years," Roger went on, "Each is only a building block in the larger structure of the forces of light. The D'Archit tells of the Immortal Slayer; the eternal essence of the final line of which Rain is only the latest. However, she is no ordinary Slayer, Angelus…" he caught himself, "My apologies -- Angel. The reason we waited for so long to call her was because we had to be certain she was the particular Chosen One which we sought. I think perhaps you should read this volume. It will certainly give you a better understanding of Rain's unique… lineage, as you say, as well as her Ultimate Destiny."

I held his gaze. "I will," I promised him, and rose to leave. I had a feeling the book Lowenthal gave me held all the answers I had been looking for. I was no longer interested in gaining his approval or esteem, and certainly cared nothing about what he might have to say about me and Rain. "Thank you."

"Angel…"

I turned back.

"Your part in the life of the Immortal Slayer -- the Kahtah, referred to in the D'Archit -- is no small one. Don't be so quick to ensnare it once more in human emotions and misguided attempts to find love. Your part is Guardian to Rain. She is not the First One… not your wife. Don't forget that."

I glared at him. "I imagine this book will tell me all I need to know," I said with as cold an edge as I could muster.

"I doubt that," he replied nastily.

I left without another word, afraid I might break into a Rain-style fit of cursing if I opened my mouth again. I really wasn't fond of Roger Lowenthal. But at least I had been correct in thinking he would have some answers to my existential and metaphysical questions.

I leafed through the delicate pages of the D'Archit as I walked toward Rain's house. Sanskrit… Aramaic… Latin… The thing was a hodgepodge of writings from numerous sources in a number of languages, only a few of which I understood. It was going to take me a good, long while to read it.

Not for the first time, I wished fervently that Wesley and Giles were still alive. At the very least, they could have helped me translate this thing. But, ideally, they would also have offered understanding ears, unwavering support, and sage advice, as my close friends.

I missed them.

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