*****

``Liam, come inside now, it`s time to come inside.``

His mother`s voice, carrying over the wet breeze woke the small boy from his reverie. The grass was smooth and long and the air was thick with the scent of late summer. Rain and heat and crickets. He had been sleeping.

He opened his eyes to the heavy Corn Moon, full with the harvest, heralding the end of the season. Lammas was coming soon, although that meant nothing to the boy; his family were Good Catholics, and tomorrow morn he would hear the Rosary. The Church had long ago outlawed pagan rituals; so Liam would never eat a small loaf of bread in the shape of an Autumnal god, and when he came of the age to drink his fill of ale, it would be devoid of all ritual significance.

But he would always feel the pull of the moon, when she was big this way, brimming with life and staring down at him, rimmed in gold, and in silver. The size and color of all the coins in his Father`s pockets, the ones he assured Liam he would never have, because he wasn`t bright enough, wasn`t strong enough, wasn`t *good* enough. And Liam believed him, of course he did; he was a Good Son, and at the age of six, still loved his Father with a quiet desperation that he could not articulate.

But She called to him, the Moon, and when she did, he had to answer....because maybe She would take him in, and he would be apart from here. He would be free of the cold, disapproving eyes of his Father, and the distant, rueful gaze of his Mother. She tried to protect him, she did, and he loved her for it, but there was only so much she could do. She was as Useless as Liam, finally, thusfar unable to bear more children, to make a son that was Worthy.

If the moon would only take him, then he would be --

``Liam! Did ya hear yer mother, ya useless brat!? Get inside now and get to bed! Dinna make me have to come find you, else you`re sure to regret it!``

And Liam, aged six, who had never really thought much of any Higher Powers beyond the despot which ruled his own small home, closed his eyes and whispered something aloud to the sky...Tether me to the moon, he thought. Tether me to the moon, or I will be swallowed away....

***

Angel heard their voices before he opened his eyes...

``Been down there for over a day....//Says it`s his fault....//I`m so sorry....//I know I shouldn`t have called...That you`re trying to stay away...//Didn`t know what else to do...``

``No..you did the right thing....//So sorry for your loss....//your friend....``

``A`right, pet, let`s go find 'im, ay?``

There were others, they had brought others, but he didn`t notice, didn`t care.

He could smell them before they left the elevator, entered his darkened apartment. It had been raining, and he could scent the drops on their clothes; in their hair, the platinum specks of moonlight.

Huddled on the couch in yesterday`s blood-spattered clothes, his voice was soft and wet. Noone other than they would have been able to make out the words.``You came,`` was all he said.

Then there were two small pair of arms around him, two small pair of hands in his hair. Crushed against them and held there, tight, so tight...And his thoughts, twisted now by fear and rage and drenched with unshed grief. How they could both be so small and still so strong. How they could both still love him. How they could both be here.

They held him while he cried, and coaxed re-heated blood down his throat. Then they led him into the bedroom, and those same busy hands removed his clothes, and their own.

Somehow, there was room enough in the bed for all of them.

***

Angel hovered on the verge of sleep, and something that smelled like damp grass lingered on the other side. He was loathe to go there, though he knew he should; his joints ached, and his muscled twitched, and it was *time*. They were here and he was safe and he could rest now....but they were ...here.

How could he sleep?

And he was so afraid to dream.

***

He`d forgotten what he`d done wrong...that was the problem...his Father was asking him...screaming at him...to confess....but what had he done? He couldn`t remember...couldn`t and he was trying... really he was.....But it was hard to remember, hard to see past the haze of his Father`s rage and the leather belt.

He was crying. That was only making it worse. He should be taking his punishment like a man, but he wasn`t a man, not yet...Mother in the bedroom, humming softly to drown out the sounds of his Father screaming and him screaming.....

And then a fist in his hair, and his Father`s spit on his face as the screams grew louder, and he was just trying to get away...just trying to protect himself....he wasn`t raising his hand against his Father....no..he wasn`t..he wouldn`t... But his Father didn`t know that...of course, how could he? So it was all his fault, really, all his fault that his Father lifted his small, ten year old body by his arm, pulling it cleanly out of joint, and tossed him backward into the wood stove...all his fault, the singed hair, the burned flesh, the screaming and the pain and the screaming...and when his Mother came running in, and pulled him away from the steaming black hearth, and his skin came away with it, he could still his Father telling him

//all your fault//

Angel awoke with a small cry, and immediately two pair of arms tightened around his waist. He cursed the familiar dream, feeling weak and stupid. Such an old fucking theme. Two hundred forty six years and still he could not forget. What did it want with him *now*?

Darla had been right all those decades ago. Who we are in life infects what we become in Death. He was still....infected.

He would bear that burn scar on his shoulder until the night he died in Darla`s arms. Then the tattoo which heralded his rebirth would serve to cover the twisted, reddened flesh. But even as the monster Angelus, it could never begin to cover the rest.

The grip around him tightened again, and tiny, featherlike kisses traced along his shoulders. Chaste and sweet and covering him. So small these two were. So soft. Hair and eyes the color of sun and sky and things he would never see. The only difference between them here in the dark was her mortal heat.

He burrowed into that sacred warmth and felt the cool arms behind him slide around his waist as he did so. Inhaling the scent of clean air and sweet smelling soap, soda pop and forgiveness, Angel fell asleep.

***

Burning. Something was burning.

His Father told him once that the Heathens set fire to giant straw dolls this time of year. Burned their gods in effigy, an offering to ensure a bountiful harvest, the return of the warmth, the reappearance of Sun. We don`t do that, boy, he`d said. *He* died for us, and that`s enough, he`d said. And he`d pointed to the Crucifix on the Church wall. And Liam thought....burned, nailed, what does it matter? Dead is dead, and when you`re dead, you don`t come back, and you don`t save anyone else. Death is forever. Death is alone. He didn`t know how he knew that, he just...did. But he didn`t tell his Father what he knew. He was too smart for that.

Something was still burning. The straw man...the flames licking at his feet, and flapping higher..eating away at the brittle Autumn hay making up his stomach, higher now, lapping up his chest and neck, swallowing his head, bent slightly to one side from the weight and the oppressive heat....

And still it burned, the flames and the flax shooting into the night sky like so many stars, the smoke cloaking the moon...

Liam couldn`t see the Moon.

A scream and the scent of burning flesh.

//all your fault//

A shock of light, white heat and iridescence. Death. And he would have gone into it...because he was supposed to......because he was supposed to...because it would..

redeem him...

A punch to his jaw, and heavily accented English. ``The good fight, yea. I get dat now.``

Green eyes.

//all your fault//

``It should have been me....`` The words tumbled from his lips before he was fully awake, before he could call them back, if indeed he even would have....

He felt the stiffening in the lean body behind him...the scent of familiar anger and the feel of muscles trembling in a futile attempt to contain their instinctual need to lash out...

Heard the small whimper from the lips pressed close to his heart, and felt warm tears splashing on his cold chest.

Stupidstupidstupid....

Lips pressed to his own, finally, and teeth grazing the back of his neck. He twisted in the embrace, and pulled them both closer...closer...clinging and wrapping limbs upon limbs...the dream lifting, the dark comforting and familiar instead of lonely.....

Angel pulled it all closer, and closed his eyes, and inhaled the memory of the scent of rain.

Two blond heads on his chest rose and fell with his unneeded breaths. Spike didn`t breathe much, even in sleep. But Angel`s body clung to the habit, to the illusion. To the false hope. Long, straw-colored strands across the broad expanse of flesh, fingers on his taut belly, lightly muscled legs wound around his own.

So small in his arms. A mirage of helplessness, those diminutive hands, those tiny fingers. He wrapped his own fingers around the pink tipped ones resting lightly on his right side, and squeezed gently. Felt the fierce reply in kind. The black tipped fingers, not much larger than hers, rubbed a lazy pattern along his collarbone.

The infinitely gentle touch of those powerful fingers wrung it out of him, finally. The rarity of such a sweet caress from the smaller man, the reminders of the last time such had been offered.

The tears continued their relentless path down his cheeks even as he fell asleep.

***

Angel awoke an hour later to yellow eyes peering at him. He raised a brow in question, and the platinum head jerked slightly, in the direction of the kitchen. Disentangling himself from the limp, pliant form curled around him, he crawled out of the bed and wrapped himself in a robe.

``Ya still look like hell, you need to eat.`` Spike accused, warming another mug for him in the microwave.

The older vampire shrugged. Spike had not dragged him out of bed to tell him to feed. He had something else on his mind. And since he wasn`t very good at biding time, all Angel had to do was wait a beat, and --

``You know, Peaches, I`ve known you longer than anyone alive, and that was quite possibly the *stupidest* fucking thing you have ever said,`` the blond accused harshly, thrusting the warmed cup into his fist.

So that was it. What he had whispered upon awakening from the dream. His guilt over Doyle`s death.

Angel stared at him a moment before responding, but found himself unable to will back the fresh swell of anger. ``What do you know about it? When was the last time you even *had* a conscience? You went around as William the Bloody before I even turned you, what makes you think you`re in any position to judge my feelings?`` His voice rose harshly on the last, and he fought to keep human countenance.

Spike`s eyes narrowed, flashed a gold warning, but his tone was calm. ``No, Angelus, I leave all that high n` mighty judging crap to you.`` He turned his back to down his own cup, and Angel did not miss the slight tremor in the narrow shoulders.

Shit. Out of bed two minutes and already they were jostling for Alpha male.

He took two steps toward the blond, who whirled around before he could reach out his intended hand. ``Apologize to me and I`ll rip your goddamn voicebox out, `` he warned, tone still cool as the spring rain.

Angel sighed. ``What do you want from me then?`` He forced his hands into his robe pockets to keep from drawing them across those angry cheeks.

``I want you to realize that you`re not the only one suffering. You think this is easy on her? On m--..on...--`` he stopped, turned away again, and was silent. The posture stiff and daunting, the message entirely clear.

Fuck. He`d done it again. They leave, they come, and it`s all the same. He`s like some kind of goddamn accidental poison, and everything he touches ends up withering in pain.

Infected.

Without turning around Spike sighed. ``Knock off the guilt shit. You didn`t put this hex on me. Fucking Morghane did. Now I`m tied to a souled idiot and a thousand year old guardian of *light*, for Chrissakes. I`m not you, Angel. I`ll never be you and I don`t wanna be. I like being a demon, I like what I am. But now I have this....this ...*conscience* as you so thoughtfully put it, and let me tell you, quite frankly, it bloody well sucks.``

The larger vampire was silent. Such a thought had not occurred to him. There had been so many other pressing matters at hand, that the idea of a soulless demon, the idea of *Spike* wrestling with this bond had been last on the list. Now he felt the twinge of such an omission.

This had to be painful for the younger vampire. Confusing. Lonely.

Spike had come to LA to console *him*, didn`t he deserve something in kind?

``Will?`` Angel said quietly, and the smaller man finally turned around.

But what could Angel do then?

What comfort could he offer to the one who had been his only source of relief in the endless, brutal hours he had spent being tortured by Lissandra? What solace could he provide to the one he had in turn hated and loved longer than any other creature on this damned earth? And what did he possibly have to give this man, finally, when they all knew, too well, that Spike may be bound to him, but *he* was bound to Higher things, and to the Slayer who slept in the next room.

There was nothing then, except this.

He held out his arms, and the younger man stepped into the embrace, dropped his cheek against the broad, bare chest, and closed his eyes.

It was several long moments before the silence was broken.

``What Doyle did....dyin` like that...it couldn`t have been you, Sire. It can *never be* you.`` The words, spoken so softly against his naked skin, raising goosebumps on the light hairs. Angel swallowed a breath.

The prophecies. Spike was right. Angel gripped the smaller man tighter.

Again the strange tenderness, the curious mixture of longing and resentment, the echo of a hundred years twice over. Of being in the arms which had held him as he died, only after someone else had finished with them...of being a source of solace and comfort, but not the inception...never the inception...

``Are you two all right?`` a sleepy female voice, and Spike leapt backward, out of his Sire`s embrace as if scalded.

``Yea, pet. We`re fine.`` Still so calm, that tone.

Angel turned to look at her, standing in the hallway in his T-shirt, barefeet and mussed hair. He thought she looked about 12 years old then; certainly too young anyway for the ever present haunts of graveyards in her eyes, and the demons drinking blood in the kitchen.

``Everything is OK, Buffy. Go back to bed. I`ll be right there,`` the dark haired vampire told her with a smile. She smiled back, rubbed her eyes, and turned to go.

Spike`s voice halted her. ``I`ll go sleep on the --``

``Bed,`` she finished for him, without breaking stride. ``You`ll finish your mug-o`-blood and come back to bed.``

And damned if Angel didn`t grin at him then, in his typical annoying fashion, before following the Slayer back toward the bedroom.

Spike doubted the love bunnies would catch the biting sarcasm of the cold shower remark lingering on the tip of his tongue. He settled instead for muttering a string of expletives, cursing Morghane`s name and lineage for the millionth time and downing the rest of the mug in one gulp. Then he followed after them, and prayed silently that his newfound *conscience* would just shut the fuck up.

*****

Spike was awakened from the brink of sleep by muted, familiar sensations. The evocation of centuries past; smooth, hairless skin sliding against satin sheets, a gentle nudge to the back of the thighs with a small foot, rustling of the linens. Sighs and whispers. Bouquet of passion. Not enough room in the bed.

The blond turned away, wrapped himself in abandoned blankets, and bit his bottom lip neat in two. Bit back the tide of fury and frustration, let it flow onto the immaculate white pillowcases with the shed blood. Willed away the imagined visage behind eyelids squeezed shut, shook his head against the mantra which ricocheted inside his skull. `selfishselfishselfishbastard`..

No. This was not the Nineteenth Century; not his heartless Sire and his beloved Princess laying here. This was not about being abandoned thrice over, being the cuckold, playing the fool. No...This was... this was *now*, and Angel deserved this...he and the Slayer deserved this...it was their time...and it ....

Fuck all.

He made to climb out of the bed.

Stopped by a strong, masculine grip around his wrist, uncertain whether it was the authority or the desperation in that hold which made him still. Poised at the edge of the bed, one foot still over the side, unmoving. Unblinking. Eyes still pressed shut against the tide of memories and shameful, bitter tears.

And still noone spoke. It occured to him suddenly that there had been absolutely no talk at all in this bed. And that there would not be. That whatever was to happen would not be discussed; not now, and not ever after. That even Angel, with his incessant need to dissect and interpret, would not break this pact of silence.

Somehow, he knew this to be true. And so he climbed back into the bed, and rested his head once more on his Sire`s shoulder, and watched with hooded eyes as the spectacle unfolded before him.

***

She was dimly aware of the other presence in the bed. The sanctioned and silent witness to their display of desire. She could feel those cold cobalt eyes upon her, could hear a sudden hitch of breath which was not her lover`s, as her small, pink tongue traced the outline of Angel`s stubbled jaw.

She caressed the smooth, almost hairless chest, and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of night, and power and //wolf//. Her eyes flew open, but she saw only Angel, laying prone beneath her, beginning to pant with tightly reigned ardor. At his side, the other was still, silent and spell bound. His gaze remained fixed upon her, the blue and the gold swirling like a child`s watercolor into a strange, unnatural green.

She bent her head, spilling wheat colored curls onto flawless skin, and traced a warm trail down Angel`s chest with the tip of her tongue. Another hitch of breath; this time it was his. Gratified and emboldened, she stalked new tender spots, running in concentric circles over his flat abdomen, tickling his navel, laving wet paths along his sides. Her hands gripped his hips, and she could feel him tighten, struggle upward toward her mouth, but she prevented it.

***

An ancient play of power and control and it made Spike dizzy with need to behold it.

And Angel was taut; long, white fingers clutching the sheets, eyes clenched in what looked for all the world like pain. Christ he couldn`t let it go even now, could he? He had to ride that martyred wave to the very end...Even now when *she* was here, with her tight little mouth wrapped around his swollen cock, he strained against the pleasure of release. Why? What was he trying to prove? That he still didn`t deserve this, this grace so wholly unsought, but so freely given? Surely that was it. Because the other possibility ...that he merely wanted desperately for this moment of peace to go on and on, because the pleasures in his life were so damn few and far between...that was just too wretched to contemplate.

Spike watched him hovering there on the edge, the visage so tortured and... familiar... It made his own cock ache.

Countless nights spent watching...always watching...Angelus bound and on his back, Darla forcing that sweet, brutal, lingering moment to exist in agonizing eternity...And afterward, his Sire spent, and bloody and raw, William finally allowed to go to him, after she was finished...only after she was finished...and lick all the spilled blood off his pale, cool skin.

The privilege almost made up for the numberless nights Angelus took his own pleasure by torturing William in kind.

Comfort given and taken in the blood, the fierce display of possession and ownership that came with the demon. The only kind it would acknowledge or accept. And Spike wanted nothing more at this moment, than to flip Angel onto his stomach and pound him into his goddamn spotless mattress, until thoughts about worthiness and loneliness were as far away as the stars. He wanted to make him bleed, to cut him open and force the offending emotions to run in a scarlet river across the untainted bed.

And so he did.

***

She heard the strange cry emanate from Angel`s chest, and recognized it as a sound of pain...just as his body jerked upward, effortlessly breaking her powerful hold on his hips, and his cock nudged the back of her throat.

She swallowed the cool, salty draughts of his passion and struggled to breathe, hazily aware of the echoing of the sound across form her.

***

His flesh tore with an animal snarl, and the blood flooded Spike`s mouth; rich and smooth as silk...the faint taste of tears and longing....a brief flash of anger and surprise...and beneath it all, the everlasting taste of Angel..Sire...it was past and future and lust and fire and...altars...Angel always tasted of altars...the strange mix of ancient incense and sage, wheat and wine...

Spike didn`t believe in anything he couldn`t see, or touch or *fight*...he didn`t believe in the damnable Powers Angel was always going on about, he didn`t believe in heaven or god, and he only reluctantly believed in Hell. But he believed in the taste of Angel, in the covenant of the blood and the taste of the altars.

And it made him want to bury himself inside the man again, to just rip it all out of him, and pour it onto himself, to at once sever and strengthen this accursed bond that stole his sleep and his sanity. He was weary of vicarious pleasures, of conduits and bloody fucking wolves...He wanted to claim *Angel*, to own him...to...

Ah Christ, he just wanted to *fuck* him.

But he settled for tugging at the sable curls on his head, tearing the sweet flesh away from the hollow of his throat, and drinking the elixir which pulsed angrily from the exposed vein. And when the figure beneath him called out, and writhed under his teeth and claws, he could smell his Sire`s release as it flooded the Slayer`s mouth //blood of the heart//. He could do nothing else then but drink desperately and furiously, grind his cock into the sharp bones of Angel`s side and come, purring with a savage delight too long denied.

***

Angel was vaguely aware of struggling, of fighting off the impending orgasm, wanting this moment to last....longer...longer...

But her mouth was so small, and so tight, so warm and so alive...and she knew already, instinctively, how to pleasure him...though they had been together only a handful of times. Her tongue was working around the purple tip of his flesh, creating circles in rhythm to her strong hand pumping the base of his cock. It made him claw at the bedsheets and strangle a moan.

And Will - - Spike - - was watching, always watching....he could feel that dark gaze burning him through...and oh...it had to last longer...because when would the next time be? Just a moment longer...just one more sweet moment....

Then the shocking pain of needle-like teeth in his neck and he arched off the mattress, and there was no way at all anymore to fight this....

Not when they were both drinking from him, and the pleasure and the pain could not be separated...they were the same realm, and they flowed into one, like his city`s skyline on a particularly starry night.

And he was bleeding and he was coming, and he was....tethered.

***

She lay back upon the pillows, closing her eyes and licking her lips, her breathing coming in rapid pants....turned her head and watched....

Nineteen years a Slayer, if one believed in being to such a role born, five years on a Hellmouth, four years of loving a vampire with a soul. And still, she was... a girl...inexperienced and often bewildered...And what did it matter, because there was no protocol, no primer, no `handbook` to prepare her for this.

The sight of her lover, and their former nemesis biting and clawing at one another not in hate but in passion, in...love..Their long, elegant limbs tangled in an ancient play of domination. No guise of being forced here, no catalyst for her passion, no evil Successor Guardians demanding a performance in exchange for lives and souls. Just this...dance, this exchange of guttural cries and feral snarls, claws and fangs and hands and mouths, and brutal kisses that drew blood and spilled more seed.

And still she could not tear her eyes away, the sight so harsh and erotic it made her womb twitch. How beautiful they were, wrestling and embracing like this; living statues, timeless and immutable and terrible. They could exist anywhere, in any time, centuries would never wither those exquisite faces, pain and fear would never stoop those broad shoulders, and this act of animal virility could be repeated until time stopped...She would die, she would be rotten ash in an otherwise empty grave, but they would remain. They would wake up in the evening, and walk and talk, and laugh and *fuck*.

She should be grateful for this, for the man who would be certain to remember her, who would carry the Essence of her within him until he met his final death. And for the other man who would ensure he would not be alone as he carried on, to the one who would keep him...sane...keep him....bound, to this plane, to his calling, to *himself*. Across time and place, their old hatreds would not matter, because they were compelled toward one another...they were tethered.

And she should be grateful. But there was no handbook for this, nothing to prepare her for the bitter taste in her throat which was as real as her arousal, as real as the honey dripping between her thighs at the stirring display of masculine and bestial lust unfolding before her.

And when they were at last spent once more, nothing could prepare her either for what she was poised to do.

***

They had no biological need to breathe, but both held their breath nonetheless. Yellow eyes stared at her in wonder and //fear// confusion. And despite the full demonic visage, one pair of those inhuman eyes still bore the unmistakable stamp of shame. The other merely watched her over the prone body of her already healing lover, with an arched brow and a stare that did not for an instant waver.

And when her dainty hand reached out...slow and torturous as //death// the sway of a poisonous snake, he did not flinch. He stared at her, his fangs digging into his full and broken bottom lip, his shoulders squared, a small smear of her lover`s blood already coagulating on the corner of his mouth.

Inches from his face now, that hand, //Slayer//, traitorous in size and //Killer of our kind// possessing such awesome power...

And still he did not flinch, did not move, did not drop his eyes.

Palm cupping his chin, tilting his face to one side, and he let her, let her because //what fucking choice do I have// why the hell not...

And the tip of one finger traced the corner of his //trembling// lips, and she brushed it, gently, so gently, pulled back and away, crimson droplets covering her pastel nail polish, and then they both watched, both, hypnotized by the sight...and she drew her finger into her mouth, and licked it clean of her lover`s spilled blood.

***

Angel watched now, his face shifting to its angled, human planes, his eyes glittering, cinnamon and honey and see-through tears. He wanted to watch this, wanted to see them as he had led them..//wolf//...and what sort of man did that make him? What sort of decent lover would want this?

//When was the last time you were a decent man, Liam?//

And of the things he did not want to share...*would* not share...the sight of her belly quivering, its taut muscles contracting with her orgasm, the name on her lips at that moment, his own...only his own.

Selfish or human, worthy or damned...did it matter?

Did any of it matter anymore? Now? After all that had come before and all that was yet to be?After all the nightmares they had stared down, all the upheaval they had survived didn`t they deserve *something* for their troubles?

Who would judge them here, in this bed, in this sacred circle they had created, who would dare?

So he watched. Watched as his Favourite Childe leaned forward, with the slow predatory motion of a skilled hunter unwilling to startle its next meal away, and touched his nose to hers....Watched as she did not move, did not flinch, did not blink or breathe, as the tip of his tongue darted out....In one swift, graceful movement, Spike had licked the last remaining shimmering drop of pearly white off the corner of her mouth. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away.

She closed her eyes.

***

It was an hour before dawn when she opened them again, grateful that he had at last been able to sleep without dreaming. She found herself still cradled against him, the other fair head pillowed on his left arm.

Angel was awake, watching her intently, as if in sleep she would betray some carefully hidden feeling of disgust at the evening`s turn.

She smiled up at him and dropped a kiss on his mouth, letting her soft lips linger over his just long enough to draw a throaty growl from him. Then she pulled back, and smiled again. He breathed a sigh he had been unaware he was holding, and climbed out from under the comfort of the quilts, and the smaller man beside him.

``Come on``, he said quietly, ``there`s something I want you to see.``

***

``It`s beautiful,`` she whispered softly, staring over the kingdom of lights and shadows. God and man made sparkle cut a brilliant swath across sky and earth, making it impossible to separate the realms.

``Yes,`` he answered; and she looked up at him, realized he was staring at her, and promptly blushed. That she could still blush was no less of an amazement to him than that she was standing here, overlooking his city, on his roof, in his arms. After everything. Here. Still here.

He smoothed her fair hair out of her eyes, and bent his head to kiss her. Her lips parted under his and her small tongue sought access into his mouth. A muffled sigh escaped her throat, and she hardly noticed when he pressed her down onto her knees, and then drew her gently into his lap. She wound her slender arms about his neck, tilted back her head and let herself become lost inside his insistent kiss. So long. Why did they always have to wait so long?

``I`m so glad you came,`` he told her fervently, his words falling against honey colored locks and the seashell curve of her ear.

She giggled, and murmured, ``Well technically, *I* didn---`` she stopped suddenly, her color glowing. ``Oh god, that`s not what you meant at all, is it?``

He was laughing, holding her against him so she felt each rumble in his chest. She burrowed her face against him and shook her head.

``I`m glad I`m here too, `` she said finally, looking up at him, and the sky melting into earth behind him. The sun would be up soon. She could smell the coming dawn.

Angel took a breath and relaxed, sliding down a bit down the nearby wall, and pulling her along with him.

``I miss him.`` Angel said softly, and Buffy did not need to ask...

``I know,`` she answered, simply, because it was all she could say. She reached out her fingertips and traced the sharp line of his cheek.

``But he was right. Spike was right, I mean,`` he added at her look of confusion.

``You`re admitting Spike was right? Mark that down on my- wait, right about what exactly?``

``It couldn`t have been me.`` He replied, looking away, looking at the lights, at the fading night and the danger of the coming sun, at anything but her.

She grasped his chin in her small hand and forced his gaze. ``No. It couldn`t have been you,`` she repeated, staring at him, waiting for the guilt and shame in his chocolate eyes to give way. ``Face it, `` she smiled at him when his gaze was once again sure and steady, ``you`re stuck here.``

``Doomed,`` he groaned, concealing his own grin.

She gave a mock squeal of protest, and swatted at him. His lips curved in a half smile for a moment, then he looked up at the sky again. His face changed; that mask descending. Colder than the demon visage, it was the one which told all the world to stay away, but only made her want to try harder to push inside. She supposed Spike felt the same.

``What is it?`` she whispered.

``Promise me I`m going to do something to make all this worth it. Tell me there`s a reason. `` His voice was small, child-like; it made her wrap her arms about herself in chill.

``There`s a reason,`` she insisted. ``There`s a point, there`s a purpose. Doyle didn`t die for nothing. We`re not fighting for nothing.``

``What`s the purpose? What *is* the reason?`` A child`s question. One with no answer, and he knew it, knew it but still had to ask.

``I have no idea. But I know if I don`t believe in something, I`ll go insane.``

That *was* the answer then, wasn`t it? Something to believe in, something to keep them going...something to keep them sane. And did it matter what label it wore, The Powers That be, The Chosen One, The Dark Avenger, the Slayer and her Consort....it was all the same....just a chant in the dark. A ritual to ease the loneliness and the fear. A totem to tether like to like.

But when they left him tomorrow, when they returned home and left him here in his, with half of his adopted family dead, and his self-imposed exile resumed, what would keep him bound then? What would keep him ...sane?

He watched the sky as the first purple fingers of dawn reached out their deadly hand to touch him. And then he saw it, the faint outline of the full moon, stubbornly pushing its way through the impending dawn. She would be there tomorrow, strange and proud in the blue sky. And it didn`t matter that he knew now as a man what he never did as a little boy. That the moon is a cold, dead and distant planet, that She can`t watch over him, can`t protect him, can`t tether him to anything.

But the memory of the childhood creed was something.

It was something.

*****

Later on in his room, Angel would draw the drapes against the blossoming light, and fall asleep wound in arms and legs and memories.

*****

~Finis