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". . . Buffy . . ."

What was that?  Buffy raised her head.  Her eyes searched the area around her.  She'd grown accustomed to the vague murmuring noises that were nearly always present, so much a part of the background that usually she wasn't consciously aware of them.  But something had emerged from the anonymous babble, something that caught her attention even though she couldn't identify it.  She waited to see if it would repeat itself.

". . . Slayer . . . hell for you . . ."

She turned in that direction, but saw only grass and wildflowers.  She frowned.  For a moment she thought she'd heard Willow's voice, something that had occurred several times lately, although it wasn't always Willow she imagined hearing.  Xander, Giles, her mom, Riley . . . she'd imagined all their voices at one time or another.

" . . . Angel going all evil . . ."

Strange; for a second she could swear the wind had even whispered Angel's name.  For some reason her mind turned to the dark period after Angel had lost his soul, when the vampire demon had regained possession of his body and was taunting her at every turn with the fact that it was her fault it had happened.  For an instant Angelus' cocky grin and cold, mocking eyes - so unlike the loving, albeit brooding, expression of her Angel - flashed before her eyes.

No!  Buffy thrust the memory away.  That nightmare belonged to the past.  It was over.  It had ended four years ago when she'd stopped Angelus from destroying the world by sending him to hell.

Except that it wasn't Angelus who'd been sucked into hell by the demon Acathla.  It had been her own Angel, his soul returning at precisely the wrong moment, when she'd had no choice but to proceed.  Using the blood of the body he occupied, Angelus had already awakened Acathla from his long dormancy and set into motion forces that could only be stopped with the same blood.  Angel's blood.  If she hadn't stabbed Angel the souls of every living person on earth would have been inhaled by the waking demon, as he drew in his first breath in centuries.  

Billions of innocent souls - or one soul, however dazed, bewildered and, oh yes, innocent it might be?

It wasn't a stumper.

And so she'd sent her lover straight to the demon dimension called hell.  For the rest of her life, however long or short that might be, she would always remember the shocked incomprehension on Angel's face as the sword sliced into his body . . . always hear his agonized voice faltering out her name . . . see his hand outstretched pleadingly to her as the vortex claimed him.  

Goodbye, Angel.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.  Instead, suffer the torments of hell for all eternity and, incidentally, remember that it was the girl you loved who sent you there - deliberately.

Buffy blinked back the moisture collecting in her eyes.  Angel had inexplicably returned to her only a few months later, after a mere hundred years or so in hell (rather than eternity), but nothing had been the same.  How could it be?  There were too many memories, too much potential for disaster in their love.  For love each other they did, regardless.  Even now, with a hundred-plus miles between them - at least, when she was in Sunnydale that was the case; God knew how much distance now separated them, assuming physical distance was even a factor here - and even with a new boyfriend she truly cared for, she knew she would never stop loving Angel.

Buffy shook her head wearily.  It didn't matter.  She and Angel couldn't be together and that was that.  Yearning after the unattainable didn't help anyone.  What in the world had started her on this train of thought anyway?  Oh, yes, the wind and the rustling of the leaves had reminded her of voices.

"Right," she said aloud.  "Stick Buffy in the loony bin; she's hearing voices."  She shrugged, yawning.  Or maybe she'd just dreamed it all; she was still sleeping a lot.  Most of the time, in fact.  Her eyelids drooped.

Out of nowhere images swam through her mind: first, a young man, tall, boyishly handsome, broad-shouldered, with light brown hair and frank, open eyes.  Riley, Buffy recognized without real interest.  His figure faded from sight, to be followed by that of another man, this one dark-haired with skin as pale as marble and dark-chocolate eyes whose haunted, brooding gaze went straight to her heart.  Her lips parted.

"Angel," she breathed in the instant before sleep claimed her again.

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"Angel Investigations.  We help the hopeless," Cordelia almost sang into the phone.  It had been a good week, with real money coming in from another bodyguard position Angel had accepted.  The fact that he had only taken the job because their desperate financial situation left him no choice didn't disturb her at all.  After all, the rent on their new office had to be paid - not to mention her salary.  Oh, and Wesley's and Gunn's too, of course.

Their firm, and Angel in particular, had been recommended by Rebecca, the actress who'd unwittingly released Angelus the year before when she gave Angel a drug "to relax him."  Still guilt-stricken over what she'd caused, Rebecca continued to try to make amends by sending some business their way.  An actress friend of hers was being stalked, just as she had been, although this time the stalker hadn't been hired by her agent.  Luckily Angel had been able to catch the man in the act of attempting to assault her, and he was currently cooling his heels in the city jail while waiting to go before a judge.  Since he had a long and violent record it seemed pretty sure that bail would be set high enough to keep him off the streets before his court date.

The actress friend had been effusive with her thanks, and exceedingly generous with payment, giving Angel, Wesley and Cordelia each a hundred dollar tip on top of what she owed.

"Is this Cordelia?" came a woman's voice over the phone.

"Yes, it is."  Cordelia discreetly modulated her voice, making it lower and softer, almost throaty.  You never knew, this could be a director wanting her for a part.  "Who is this?"

"Cordelia, it's Joyce Summers."  Cordelia blinked in surprise.  "Buffy's mother."

"Of course," said Cordelia in her normal voice.  "How are you, Mrs. Summers?"

"Actually, I've been better, thank you.  I don't mean to be rude, but is Angel there?"

Cordelia mentally groaned.  Uh-oh.  This couldn't be good news.  Buffy's mother calling was just as bad, Angel-wise, as Giles calling him.  Or Buffy.  For that matter, any time one of the Sunnydale gang phoned it always turned out bad for Angel, bringing back memories and stirring up emotions that most of the time lay buried beneath the minutiae of daily business.  And that meant hours of brooding or bag-punching, or both.

"Um . . . I'm not sure.  Let me check."  Putting Joyce on hold, Cordelia sat thinking.  After a moment, though, she sighed and started to get up.  Just then she heard footsteps so she sat back and waited.  Angel appeared in the lobby.  He must have heard the phone ring and come to investigate.

"Who's on the phone?" he asked, his eyes flying to the flashing Hold button.  He walked over to the desk.

Reluctantly Cordelia told him.  "It's Mrs. Summers."

Angel tensed.  "Buffy's mother?"  At her nod he snatched up the receiver so fast that Cordelia jumped.  "Joyce, it's Angel.  Is anything wrong?"

Cordelia watched his face grow bleak as he listened.  Finally he said, "I'll be there tonight," and hung up.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Buffy's in the hospital, in a coma.  She hit her head on a rock while on patrol."

Cordelia shrugged.  "So?  Her Mutant Ninja Slayer powers will kick into gear any moment now.  She'll be healed by tomorrow and she'll wake up.  There's no need to go rushing to her side.  Remember what happened last time you showed up unannounced."  Reminding him of how pissed Buffy had been a year and a half ago to learn he'd been in Sunnydale.  Of course, most of her anger had been because he hadn't let her know he was there. . . .

Angel met her accusatory glance.  "She was injured two weeks ago, Cordelia, and her condition is worsening.  The only word she's spoken during that time was my name."

"Oh."  Cordelia knew when she was licked.  She sighed and reached under the desk for her purse.  "Good thing I already deposited that check.  I'll go to the ATM to get you some cash.  How soon will you be leaving?"

Angel glanced out the window where the sun was shining brightly even through the L.A. smog.  It was a little after 3:30; three hours until it was safe for him to go outside.  He ground his teeth.  "I'll wait until sunset."

"Good thinking," she said, ignoring the frustration that edged his voice.  "You won't do Buffy any good if you get in an accident because you're speeding, and end up getting crispy-crittered by the sun."

"That's the only reason I'm waiting."  Angel turned and went back down the stairs, presumably to pack.  Cordelia watched his retreating figure.

"I know," she sighed.  Shaking her head, she slung the purse strap over her shoulder and left, hoping against hope that everything would turn out all right in this next exciting installment of the Buffy & Angel Show.


NINE O'CLOCK THAT NIGHT

Angel spotted the Sunnydale Hospital and breathed an uncharacteristic sigh of relief.  He worked his jaw around, trying to loosen muscles and tendons that had been clenched tight during the entire two-hour-plus drive from Los Angeles.  Normally the trip wouldn't have taken that long, but an accident on the freeway had backed traffic up for miles and left him ready to spit nails from frustration.

He'd known the taste of hell many times since the forcible return of his soul by the Kalderash had acquainted him with the 150 years of evil he, as a vampire, had wrought - not even counting the time two years ago when he'd actually gone to hell.  There had been the time, for instance, when he'd almost killed Buffy by draining her blood (even though she'd pretty much forced him into it since that was the only cure for the poison that was rapidly killing him); then the following night when he'd silently bidden her goodbye through the drifting smoke of the high school parking lot and walked away from the only love he'd ever known.   

The Day That Never Happened; the blessed, miraculous day when he'd been human and he and Buffy had been able to love, and make love, without fear; the day the Oracles took back at his request; the day only he now remembered.

That memory was a special kind of hell.

The most recent experience was last year, when she'd told him she was involved with someone else, someone she could trust.  That someone, of course, was Riley.  He'd known that her words were spoken out of hurt feelings due to his defense of Faith, and a desire to hit back at him, but the implication, that she couldn't trust him, had stricken him to the heart, especially since he couldn't in all honesty deny its validity.

Because of course that was the most agonizing part of all:  the knowledge that the most wonderful night of his life, the night he and Buffy first consummated their love, had begun a nightmarish reign of terror for her.  For that consummation, that moment of complete and perfect happiness, had revoked the gypsies' curse, thereby freeing once again the vampire demon inhabiting his body.  His soul, along with his conscience, had fled, and Angelus had returned, triumphant and eager for revenge.

Released from a century of impotence, the demon had reveled in his freedom, and for Angelus that meant doing what he was best at: killing and torturing.  He'd targeted Buffy in particular, delighting in cruelly tormenting her and those she cared for.  He'd killed Jenny Calendar, the computer science teacher at the high school who also happened to be Giles' romantic interest.  All of these deeds, and their consequences, Angel had been forced to deal with when his soul had once more been returned to his body.

But none of these examples compared to the fear that consumed Angel now.

"She'll be all right," he reassured himself for the thousandth time as he swung the convertible into the parking lot.  "She's the strongest Slayer in history.  She's not like the others; she'll pull through this."  

      She had to.  Anything else was unthinkable.

Angel found a parking space and killed the engine, pulling out the keys and opening his door in a single smooth motion.  Not bothering to lock it he started for the hospital entrance, each long, hurried step echoing in the silence of the night.  As he neared the door someone stepped forward from the shadows.

Giles.

Angel stopped.  "How is she?"  He braced himself for the answer.

"There's been no change since we talked.  She's still unconscious."

"She isn't any worse?"

"No, there's been no change at all," Giles replied.

Relief slumped Angel's shoulders.  "Take me to her."  Angel started forward but Giles put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Wait."  The vampire shot him an impatient glance.  Giles took a deep breath.  "Riley's still in with her."  When Angel stiffened he added hastily, "He shouldn't be there long.  We, er, gave him a sedative in his drink and it should have taken effect by now.  We wanted him, uh, out of the way before you went in."

They'd given Riley Finn a Mickey Finn?  Even in his perturbation Angel spared a mental grin at the thought while he studied Giles for a long moment.  "He doesn't know you called me, does he?  Or why."

"Er, well, no," Giles admitted.  "We didn't tell him any of it."

"Why not?"

Giles met his gaze.  "Because Riley loves Buffy.  We didn't see any reason to hurt him like that when . . . er, well. . . ."  He faltered, his eyes sliding away from Angel's.

"When the situation between Buffy and me hasn't changed, regardless of how we feel about each other," Angel finished steadily, realizing what he hesitated to say.  "I understand.  They've been happy together; why spoil it?"

Giles nodded, grateful for Angel's comprehension and selflessness.  His respect for the souled vampire, grudgingly given in the beginning but increasing with every infrequent report from Wesley, grew even greater.  Wesley had told him about the shanshu prophecy.  With all his heart he hoped that the day would come soon when Angel would be rewarded for his fight against evil (both in the world and within himself) by becoming human again.

Joyce appeared, opening the doors.  "They're coming."  The two men drew aside into the shadows, hidden from view when, a minute later, Xander walked outside with Riley, whom he was practically supporting.  Unobtrusively Xander scanned the area until he caught sight of them, giving Giles a slight nod of his head.

"I'm sorry," Riley was saying . . . mumbling, rather.  Xander's attention hastily returned to him as the taller man stumbled a little, almost missing the first step down.  "I dunno what hit me all'fasudden."

Xander cocked his head.  "Well, how about lack of sleep for starters?  Followed by worrying about Buffy and, of course, not eating enough.  Can you say ‘complete physical exhaustion'?"  He helped Riley down the steps.  "Okay, G.I. Joe, just a little way more and then we'll have you home before you know it.  You can sleep tonight and see Buffy in the morning, all bright and rested and ready to do battle for her."

Turning his head he shot Angel a sly, sidelong glance, then turned his attention back to his charge.  Giles, Joyce and Angel watched in silence while Xander maneuvered Riley into Joyce's car and drove off.  As the tail lights receded Joyce turned to them.  "Angel.  Thank you for coming."  Her voice, like her face, betrayed the strain of the past two weeks.

Angel gave a little shake of his head.  "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly.  "You know I'd do anything for her."

"I know."  She offered him a tremulous smile.  "But I still thank you."  She put her hand on his arm.  "Come on."  

"Wait."  It was Giles again.  Angel faced him.  "What is it this time?" he asked warily.

"We, er, that is, I haven't told you the entire situation."

Angel's eyes narrowed.  "You said Buffy hit her head on a rock and has been unconscious ever since.  That wasn't true?"

"No," Joyce put in hastily.  "I mean, yes, it's true.  She did hit her head and she is in a coma, but what Rupert apparently hasn't gotten around to telling you yet is that the fracture to her skull was very minor, only a hairline in fact.  And it's completely healed."

Angel frowned.  "Then why is she still in a coma?  She should have regained consciousness within a day or two."

"Exactly."  Giles pulled off his glasses and began absent-mindedly to polish them with his handkerchief.  "Her doctor thinks Buffy hasn't awakened because . . . well, because she doesn't want to.  He, er, gathered that she's been under a lot of stress lately and he believes her continued coma is an unconscious attempt - sorry, poor choice of words.  In short, he believes it's an escape mechanism."

Angel turned away abruptly.  Giles gave him a thoughtful look.  "You don't, er, seem surprised by this.  I confess that surprises me."  He replaced his glasses, adjusted them slightly.

There was a long moment of silence.  Joyce and Giles both waited.  Finally Angel turned and faced them again.  "I've been afraid something like this would happen.  That's the real reason I left, to give Buffy a better chance to survive.  I hoped that with me out of the picture she'd have at least a portion of her life that was normal."  His face was grim.

"I don't understand," Joyce said.  Angel hesitated, glancing at Giles.  "Joyce, are you aware of what the average life expectancy is for a Slayer?"  Giles suddenly looked uneasy.

Joyce blinked.  "Well, no, not exactly.  Buffy said something once about Slayers not having to worry about drawing Social Security, but - "  She stopped, braced herself.  "Tell me."

"Twenty-five."

"What?"  Joyce stared in shock, then slowly turned to Giles.  "Is that true?"

"Er, yes.  I'm afraid so," Giles confirmed, with obvious reluctance.

"Almost seventy percent of the Slayers die before their twenty-fifth birthday," Angel continued.  There was something relentless in his quiet voice.  "Isn't that right, Giles?"

Giles hesitated, then nodded even more reluctantly.  "Yes."

"Seventy percent?"  Joyce was still incredulous.

"The remaining thirty percent - " Angel paused.  "Well, let's just say that in the twelve hundred years since the Watcher's Council began keeping records, only one Slayer has lived to see thirty."

"One?" gasped Joyce.