Buffy I remembered.

It was long ago. I awoke from a heavy sleep, my eyes gasping open, my mouth stretched in a hideous howl of fear. There was satin overlay above my head, with tiny bows I felt with fingers which were knitting together after months of unravelling. My bones creaked, my insides heaved, as they were cruelly thrust into being, into life- pulsing with blood and grey matter. Everything tingled and stretched and hurt- hurt with the deep sting of a thousand paper cuts, of a thousand broken hearts, broken bones- and I screamed. Screamed with pink lungs new to the world, screamed into dead silence, as the air around me shivered and shook itself into waking.

I remembered then, I think. Just as I was beginning to move- to breathe, to *exist*, I remembered. My mind shuddered with the onslaught of images, of a rushing torrent that enveloped my brain and seized my throat. I pulled at the satin overhead, felt sleek, polished wood and broke it with my fists, the edges shattering the pale, translucent flesh of my knuckles. Chunks of rich earth fell over my nose and eyes, obscuring my vision which had already been blurry and slightly distorted. Coughing, I kept pulling and pulling, wondering what six feet of dirt and ants and beetles would feel like if it crushed my body, wondering what was happening, wondering, I suppose- where I was. Who I was.

Tearing my way up through the world, I breathed in brown air and slimy tendrils of grass, and the scent of rotten flowers, and I remembered. Even as my hand broke free, groped for purchase, I felt the pressure of hundreds of years, hundreds of nights, hundreds of dances, hundreds of dawns, hundreds of deaths- thousands of kisses that I could still taste on my lips. As I choked on the night sky, stood on shaking legs and stared at my own grave, I realized that my name was Buffy Summers.

I realized that I had been dead for a long time.

Stumbling, running, I fled from the trees, and the stone marker which bore my name. I sought to escape the burning stars, the waxing moon, and stepped into the realm of the damned. Fire, hot and sure, licked at the edges of the buildings, clung to heaps of silver metal, scorched it's way through leafy bushes, and poked enquiringly at my toes. Motorcycles roared past my quaking body, and I pressed my hands to my ears in reflex, as the sound reverberated like the crashing of a dozen planes. Demons, shot with silver, moved in groups, their hands inviting destruction, their touch poison, their mouths breeding despair. I watched, unable to do anything, my limbs useless appendages without any suggestion of movement beyond the basic.

But I'm the Slayer, I thought absently, wondering if this was some sort of test. Wondering if maybe this was my own personal Hell- if I was going to go through eternity watching demons destroy Sunnydale without the ability to protect it.

I remembered many things as I watched them kill my mirror image, watched as her pieces scattered over the ground like ashes…remembered the white seas surrounding us, the tang of the girl's cheek under my lips, the quick beat of her pulse as I gripped soft inner wrist and whispered the words I hoped she would take with her through life. Remembered bolts of blue shooting through my skin, sucking my Summers blood and sating itself on the veins which made me whole. Remembered peace, remembered feeling… Finished.

I accepted then, that even if I wasn't in Hell—I might as well have been.

I could see two different lives. One without the girl, one with the girl. We'd make another day like it tomorrow but the sound of wind chimes tolled in my ears and I remembered. Sweaty nights and foreign bazaars. White noise and hot, drugging kisses. The smell of burning flesh and the sharp, unforgiving point of a sword. Red dresses and coiled hair with roses and trailing vines. Hell and Heaven and fiery eyes seeing a tomorrow beyond my reach. Rolling hills and misty forests. The glittering leaves, the glittering gold. The weight of fire trucks and the sound of sirens- and someone.is.gone.

I accepted then, that there were things I had to carry with me, that no one would be able to understand- that in effect, everything was changed forever- especially me.

So I lost myself in the fires of Sunnydale, and hoped I would burn to ash.

+ + +

Dim lights shine from the windows of the apartments lining the street, their wavering glow like tiny eyes blinking in my direction each time I move. Staying close to the shadows, I breathe in deeply, smelling the faint scent of salt and yeast, the pastry chef at the boulangerie on the Rue de Montemarte obviously still baking in his vast kitchens. The air is cold, and fresh, only a slight cloud of smog floats over the city, and as I glance up, I see the red lights of a plane as it soars into the stars.

Every so often, a car purrs past me, turning down onto one of the winding streets which tangle through Paris with a never-ending ness that never ceases to amaze me. The pavement is rough beneath my booted feet and I curl my fingers into the black leather of my pants. It's been a slow night, and I'm itching for a fight that lasts past five minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch a couple emerging from a house-party, diamonds glittering from the woman's throat, the man by her side holding her waist possessively, his fingers gleaming in the wash of moonlight. I ignore the momentary surge of jealousy, simply enjoying their careless laughter as they step into the waiting taxi, her arms holding him up as he stumbles, her giggles like peals of silvery bells. If drunken people didn't irritate me as a general rule, I'd want to go over and join them. I wonder sometimes what it's like to be young and in love, without a care in the world. I don't think I'll ever know, and maybe that's not such a bad thing- after all, the only thing worse than not getting what you want, *is* getting it.

Suddenly a hand snakes around my leg, the fingers like claws. I kick back reflexively, and realize it's a drunk, lolling in the darkened alcove of a store front, his breath heavy and foul from years of abuse. The bottle of vodka in his smooth hand shimmers against the black like a watery lantern and I lean down, prying his palm from my calf muscle, muttering, “La vie suce, pas il? Mais, laissez moi allez, ok?”

“I don't think so… Slayer,” he hisses without preamble, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back.

With an undignified squawk, I struggle as he pushes me against the wall and my head slams against knotty brick. His nails rake over my arms, thick trails of blood appearing on the surface of my skin, which has been abnormally thin since Heaven. My teeth grind together as I wrestle backwards, not quite sure what angers me more- the fact that he tricked me, or the idea of blood stains on my new leather pants. Using my legs to propel me up the side of the wall, I flip over him, my fists to his face immediately as my knuckles drive up through of his nose, sending the bone splinters to his brain. Any human would have died instantly, but he howls in rage, his frantic, messy kicks to my sides making my breath come in hurried pants, as I punch him again, and again, our whirls over the street like an obscene dance in a ballroom from Hell.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he snarls as he rounds to the right and then backhands me across the face, his rings scraping my cheek.

“That's so last year,” I shoot back, knocking him flat with a fierce left hook to the jaw. “I'm going by Skank now.”

He looks up at me and shakes his head. “Be afraid Slayer. Be very afraid. The end is near.”

Reaching down into my boot for my stake, I slam it casually through his dead heart, making it even deader. “For you maybe. And by the way, you hit like a girl.”

Walking straight through the dust, I laugh wryly, as I realize my mood has been lifted by the fight.

“Nice one,” a voice says from behind me.

“Did you expect anything less?” I respond, turning slightly to gaze at him.

“Of course not,” Angel answers, his smile slight. “Good night for you? It's been slow for me. Only got two over on the Champs Elysee- three in the back ally behind Harrods.”

“It's the designer clothes,” I grin. “Attracts the females in droves.”

As he falls into step beside me, he arches a brow. “Is that a smile on your face? What happened to the bad mood from earlier?”

“I know,” I bemoan. “I'm sick and twisted. But maybe kicking ass is just comfort food. Like ice cream, but without the fat.”

Angel laughs low. “Maybe. Did you see those limos that passed by the Pantheon?”

“No, why? Any good celebrities in town?”

He shrugs lightly, his shoulders broad and strong beneath the black leather of his jacket. “I don't think so. There was just something off about them- the limos I mean. And the smell…”

“What smell?”

“Coppery,” he answers. “It hung over them like a cloud.” Passing a hand through his tousled hair, he glances down at me. “That's never good.”

“I'd say no,” I shake my flaxen head, my hair flowing down my back like waves of pale gold. A lock slides over his arm, as I lean close, the bite of the wintry air stinging my nose. “Want to check it out?”

“I think we should,” he says, reaching down and lacing his fingers through mine, our palms cleaving together with quiet desperation. “Your hands are sticky.”

“It's blood,” I respond casually. “Goddamn vampire scratched my arms with his girly nails. I guess they *do* still grow after you die.”

Angel's eyes meet mine and he nods dryly. “I think that's been scientifically proven.” Stopping in mid-stride, he pulls gently on the sleeves of my pea-coat, sliding them up so he can inspect the livid welts criss-crossing my inner elbows and wrists. Blood oozes from a deep one near my ring finger, and he presses his lips to the cut, kissing it softly. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, and I remain perfectly still, the slow, sinuous heat in my belly thrumming for release.

“What for?”

He shakes his head. “I should have been there to protect you.”

“I'm the Slayer,” I remind him in a voice I usually reserve for small children and especially stupid adults. “It's my job.”

“Not to get hurt,” he points out.

My smile is strained. “That's what being Buffy is all about.” Noticing the red on his mouth, I reach up and press my thumb to the stain, his lips cool and slightly chapped underneath my skin. “Besides, I barely felt it.”

His tongue flicks out, just barely, and licks away the drop of my blood. My breath hitches and as a car roars past us, I stare at the fading headlights, their yellow cast on the street sickly and pale. I feel dizzy and step back, his hand on my elbow too much to bear. Bending down, he brushes my forehead with his lips, his fingers tangling in my hair briefly. “Just look out for yourself, love,” he murmurs.

For one moment, I allow myself to sink into his embrace and press my face into the cool fabric of his sweater, which peeks through the opening of his long jacket. He smells of the water-coloured roses he bought me this morning, of the hot, buttery crepes we ate in the quiet hush of our apartment, of sweet sweat and of the bitter winter chill. My breath comes in hitching gasps as I look up into the burn of his stare, and his mouth slides over mine, slowly, tasting of copper pennies and mint. I groan softly, his fingers curling around the back of my neck, underneath the heavy weight of hair. His teeth rasp over my swollen bottom lip for a moment and then he draws away, not looking at me.

“We should probably go,” he says roughly and I nod.

“In agreement.”

We don't join hands this time. We walk separately, lost in our own thoughts, as we keep to the inky blackness of the buildings which are crammed together with a busy elegance in the heart of Paris. There have been dozens of moments like that one before, in the six years since we left Sunnydale and LA to make a new future together, and each time, its harder to pull away- harder not to let him yank me, naked and panting, into some dark ally and finish it. Finish everything.

“Are we working tomorrow?” I ask him, to fill in the blank silence.

His face glows under the streetlamps, casting the bones of his cheeks and jaw into sharp relief. “Yes,” he answers. “Harry told me something about a special meeting. Must be a new big bad in residence.”

“Hooray,” I clap without any enthusiasm. “It's always horrible when Harry labels a meeting 'special'. Usually means we'll be there for three hours while Hermione pulls out every book written on the subject and proceeds to give an essay on each.” I laugh. “But maybe she'll surprise me this time and keep that cute mouth shut.”

“I doubt it,” Angel says dryly. “Has she ever? I got the feeling it was pretty serious though. A task force is being assembled- but Harry wouldn't tell me what it was about. I assume they think Voldemort is finally getting ready to make a comeback.”

“Did a Death-Eater escape from Azkaban? Hermione told me that's usually when they start the extreme panicking.”

“Not that I know of,” he shakes his head. “But I heard that the Dark Mark was spotted somewhere over Germany. Harry'll tell us more, I'm sure. By the way, did you send their engagement present yet?”

“I don't know what to get them,” I wail, suddenly panicked as I remember their wedding is in two months. “I've always been horrible at choosing presents, you know that.”

“Relax,” he chuckles quietly. “I already picked out a painting for them—didn't I leave a note on the fridge asking you to get it wrapped and sent over?”

Slanting him a withering glance, I step over the curb as we cross to the other side of the road. “Didn't I tell you once that leaving me little notes accomplishes nothing? In fact, didn't we figure that out after the whole, 'Pick up the dry cleaning for that important dinner with the Minister of Magic' fiasco?”

His mouth curves into the familiar half smile, and one of his fingers curls around mine in a chaste gesture of affection. “I should have learned my lesson.”

“But you never do,” I squeeze his thumb, “And it never ceases to amaze me—“

My words trail off into a gasp of complete and utter horror as we turn a corner and come across carnage. Angel recoils and grabs me, pulling me back into a wall. Hundreds of vampires swarm over a group of famous politicians, who I know are in the city for an important summit on world peace and gun control. Blood glistens on silver fangs, and the sounds of snarls and shrieks, of mayhem, of *death* reach my ears.

“Oh god, what do we do?” I whisper desperately to Angel. “There are hundreds of them.”

“I don't know,” he scans the crowds, and then points to something in the distance. “They're taking most of them prisoner.”

“What?”

I look over and see what he's pointing at. Scores of limousines line the street alongside the hotel where the politicians were meeting, their open doors like dark mouths, as the vampires begin to herd up their prey. I notice their gold masks, which glitter with jewels- rubies, peridots, sapphires, and tourmalines. The lights move over them, pinpricks of colour sparking in my eyes as I wonder what about those masks is giving me a strange sense of déjà vu.

“The Ventrue,” Angel remarks grimly, figuring it out before me.

“Oh, fuck,” I add succinctly, thinking that sums it up well.

“My expletive exactly,” he agrees. “We have to do something now—figure out where they're taking them—what they're up to.”

“Maybe this has something to do with the meeting that Harry wants to have,” I comment, my insides curdling a little as I see the vampires jostling the groups of men and women into the sleek cars. I'm glad I can't see the fear on their faces, even though I know it's there. “Could the Ventrue be involved with Voldemort?”

Angel scratches his chin absently, nodding. “I wouldn't be surprised. There's no telling how far they'd go for their own gain. Cordy and I once had a run-in with them in LA. Nothing to write home about- but I remember- they scared the Hell out of me.”

“You?” I repeat, clamping down on the swift surge of jealousy the name 'Cordy' invokes.

“Me,” he confirms, touching my cheek. “I get scared too.”

“I thought only your *inner* demons scared you,” I joke weakly, and he shrugs, staring off into space.

“They scare me because I was a part of them briefly- back in the 1800s, when I was with Darla.” He pauses, and shifts against the wall, his body so tall and strong that I find it hard to imagine him being frightened of anything- even though I do know that it's entirely possible. “They're ruthless, Buffy. Back then they were bad—I can't even fathom the level of –“ his voice breaks off and he shakes his head. “We have to find out what's going on.”

“I'm sure Harry will have news for us tomorrow,” I soothe him. “You know we can't do anything for these people. We'd be outnumbered, and then who's going to save them?”

His muscles are so tense that I can literally feel him shaking against me with anger. “I hate this.”

“I know,” I whisper and I do. The same helplessness poisons my own blood when I have to stand by and watch something happen. But even I, reckless and impulsive as I sometimes am, can see that to do anything now would be suicide. We need a plan.

The limousines pull away from the curb, their engines almost noiseless in the night. Frozen stars glitter in the vast sky, and Angel's hands curl into fists as he stares after the vehicles, his eyes almost yellow with rage and fear. As they slide over the area one more time, they suddenly alight on something that makes him smile- but it's not one of amusement- it's more the one his face wears when he's enjoying a kill. It scares me. It reminds me of Angelus. Never would I tell him that, however. His horror would be so acute I don't think he'd be able to cope.

“Look,” he mutters. “They left someone to deal with the bodies.” I look to where he points, and see the vampire, obviously intent on his task of quickly moving the dead men and women into an ally beside the hotel. We move stealthily towards him, watching for any sign he knows he's being stalked. There's none.

As we come within a breath of grabbing him, he suddenly speaks, in a low, smooth voice. “You can't stop us, you know.”

“Who says we want to?” Angel counters, in equally soft tones. “I don't recall being asked for my opinion.”

“Neither do I,” I point out. “But if you *are* taking a poll, I think I'd check the 'no, thanks' box for Paris being destroyed by the Ventrue.”

“So you recognized us,” the vampire crows, obviously delighted. He's actually attractive, in a brash, almost Scottish fashion, his hair bright red and dishevelled, his eyes cornflower blue. It would be easy to forget he's evil, which I suppose, is probably his greatest weapon. “Most don't. And who said we're here to destroy Paris? It's a beautiful City. We don't want to destroy it…” he pauses silkily. “We want to cultivate it. Make it our own.”

“Destroy it,” I reaffirm and his eyes flash with something akin to annoyance.

“So you think you're above us, I take it?” he snaps. “And what clan are you with?”

“Clan?” Angel repeats, his hand on my arm. “What do you mean?”

“You're not with another clan?” the vampire asks, suddenly appearing faintly panicked. “Then who the hell are you?”

“The people who are about to kick your ass,” I inform him tightly. “Unless of course, you tell us everything you know about what just happened. Like where they took those people, what's going to happen to them- blah blah blah, in short, we want an explanation.”

“And why should I tell you anything?” he counters, his hands on his black clad hips.

“Didn't I do the whole 'we'll kick your ass' part of the speech?” I ask Angel.

“You did,” he affirms. “So I don't see where the confusion is.”

The redhead glares at us for a moment, obviously considering his options. Shifting slightly, he narrows his eyes and then extends a hand. “My name's Connel, by the way,” he greets us belatedly.

Angel stares at the proffered hand with askance, and shakes his head. “Info, not pleasantries.”

Connel sighs dramatically. “Look… I don't know a lot. I'm not exactly what you might call, 'high up' in the Camarilla. That's why I'm stuck with jobs like this one. The Ventrue rely on the loyalty of it's members. They'd more than kill me if they found out what I'm doing. Perdita would have my guts for garters, if you catch my drift.”

“And Perdita would be?” I pounce and he looks uncomfortable.

“She's the Princess. What you might call the Matriarch of the clan. Perdita controls everything that happens within her family, and all others connected to it. It was her idea to move from Prague to Paris. She wants… she wants something from this area, I believe. But I don't think she wants the City specifically.”

“So she doesn't plan to destroy it?” Angel asks, and Connel shrugs.

“I couldn't tell you. No one's really been told what's happening.”

“Why did she take those politicians, then?”

He shuffles his feet, and the scent of blood begins to rise from the ground, syrupy and thick. I cough slightly, wishing suddenly for the slide of honey and lemon down my throat, which was what my Mother always gave me whenever I caught a cold. Blankets and milky lullabies. Cornflakes and soap operas. Now there's nothing but death.

“She's keeping them prisoner. Not for food- she can take regular people for that.” I wince as he says this casually, but my interest is quickly engaged when he remarks, “It's something to do with a spell. I'm not sure what kind. Perdita dabbles in everything from the dark arts to witchcraft to the power of healing. She has her finger in every bit of the pie.”

Angel runs a careful hand through his spikes. “Does she have any particular wizard working with her?”

Connel looks perplexed. “None that I know of. I rather thought she was teaching herself, to be honest.” He grins, showing a full set of gleaming red teeth. My stomach lurches as a droplet of fading blood sticks to his upper lip. “She's a wise one, Perdita. I wouldn't… I wouldn't get mixed up in any plan to try and control her, if I were you. Bloody scary, she is. Her eyes—they're like fire.”

“We don't want to control her—“ Angel protests quietly, seriously. “We want to join her.”

“Oh?” Connel appears sceptical. “Well to do that, you have to apply to Summer. She's the Judge—you go through the tests, the blood bond, and you're set. If you fail—you're fair game. Some vampires don't get through, and that's it.” He demonstrates by crossing one long finger across his neck. “They're toast, if you know what I—“

“I think we do, Connel, thanks,” I cut him off, irritated as I realize that Angel has decided this will be an undercover job without discussing it with me first. “Where do they live? We want to go over and apply for our entrance.”

He smiles in my direction, evidently deciding he likes me more than Angel, and points past the hotel, through a skein of streets which lead to the Pantheon. “You know that large mansion which used to be owned by someone famous?”

“Despite the huge amounts of vague in that description, yes, I do know which one you mean,” I answer. “That's the one?”

He nods. “That's where we've set up for the next month. Then it's off somewhere else, I'm sure. Perdita hasn't settled in all the years I've known her. And she's not likely to anytime soon.”

“Thanks for the information,” I murmur, as Angel tugs on my arm. “I hope we see you on the inside.

“Me too,” Connel calls out, waving, and then he goes back to his job.

“Well, definitely not the brightest crayon in the box,” I mutter, glancing up at Angel. He looks tired. Sad, and familiar in the twilight and my annoyance vanishes. Oh, Angel. Sometimes I wish for a world in which I didn't belong to him but that's a world I can't understand. “Are you ok?”

He looks down at me, and then draws me close, into his embrace. With my cheek pressed against his heart, I breathe out dreamily. “Angel?”

He drops a kiss on my lips and then takes my hand. “Come on, let's go home. We'll sort it out with Harry tomorrow.”

+ + +

I awaken to Angel. His eyes are dark, fathomless, filled with tenderness and dread, longing and sweet, sharp desire. I shift on the dark blue sheets, sweat trickling down the hollows of my back. It's much too hot in here. Too much linen. My hair sticks to my forehead, and as I glance at the window, I notice the brilliant pinks and golds streaking a morning sky. Dawn is breaking and I remember. Sugary frost gathers on the black of the pane, its white edges creeping over our apartment building like tendrils of fog.

Angel lies on his side, clad in a thin T-shirt and drawstring pants. His eyelashes flicker as he watches me stretch, my tumble of hair obscuring my vision for a moment before he pushes it back from my forehead.

“What were you dreaming of?” he asks me softly.

“Xander,” I answer simply, the one word enough to convey years of bitterness and muted hatred.

Sometimes Willow does respond to the postcards I send her every week, her shaky scrawl on the back of the envelope enough to make the my throat sting with tears. She lives in Iowa now and sometimes I think she's soothed by the endless cornfields and farms, by the flat blue sky and blinding sun. Her house is small, ramshackle. Her life is simple. But her sculptures- all of the same figure ((curves, tilt of the head, full lips, gentle-gentle-gentle)), are famous all over the world. Sometimes her letters make me think of Riley- of the smell of his cologne ((like butter)) and of a smile that was just.never.enough but mostly, and sadly, they remind me of Xander.

We haven't spoken since the week after I left. I called him from a dusty rest stop north of LA, using my last quarter to try and explain something that I could barely fathom myself. I remember watching Dawn cling to Angel's hand as they sat on the hood of his car, swinging their legs against the bumper in perfect unison. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she snuggled in- and I knew- I was right to leave.

“How could you do this, Buffy?” his voice was so twisted and furious that I shrank from it, curling into the telephone booth as if it would offer some protection.

“I'm sorry,” I murmured uselessly. “This is something- I had to do it, Xand. I'm sorry you can't understand.”

“Did you even stop to *think* what Willow and I would feel, Buffy? Or did you only think of him?” he sneered the word, and I felt a familiar, old rage bubbling inside my belly. “It's still all about him, isn't it? God, when are you ever going to grow up? When are you ever going to see that he's no good for you- that there's no future?”

“This isn't about him,” I said softly. “This is about what I need to be able to live.”

“And you need him?” Xander spluttered over the line, his voice drenched in disgust. “What about us? Willow and I? We love you.”

Helplessly, I again glanced over at the car. Angel was squinting against the sun, the Gem of Amara on his finger glinting in the golden light. Quietly, but firmly I said, “I'm going to die if I can't be with him, Xander. That's the difference.”

There was nothing after the sharp end of those words. Only the steady beep of a dial tone.

We have never spoken since that day.

I still don't regret it.

“Want some coffee?” Angel asks me. “We have to get going soon.” His thumb traces a thin, winding scar on my shoulder, left over from a fight in Greece.

“No,” I answer sleepily. “Let's stay here a little while longer. You should get more sleep. You're so restless at night.”

“I can't sleep with you,” he reminds me gently, his finger moving up and down, down and around, over the knotty skin of the closed wound, his lips brushing my forehead briefly. “Sing for me?”

“What do you want to hear?” I inquire quietly, and he leans back, pulling me close, so my chin rests on his chest. He's cool and bright underneath my touch, and I can feel the slight vibrations of his dead lungs and windpipe as he speaks.

“My favourite.”

Draping my arms over his sides, I press my mouth to his ear, humming softly at first, and then slipping into a simple, tender rendition of “La Vie En Rose”, my throaty tones capturing the yearning of Edith Piaf's voice. Soon his unnecessary breaths grow slow and easy, his ribs rising and falling with the regularity of a child in sleep. I keep singing for long moments, the French lyrics slipping and sliding over my skin like caresses, as I pause to kiss the edge of his ear and sit up, the sheets falling around my hips in wisps of navy.

It was about five years ago now, I think. We were in Venice, staying in a tiny terraced apartment overlooking the canals. Each morning we would eat fruit and toast out on the balcony, the air filled with the scent of flowers, the water lapping green below. Our days were spent in the sun, walking, walking… as we re-discovered what it was like to be free. When we were far from shade, I would hold Angel's hand tightly, worrying the Gem of Amara with my fingers, turning it round and round to make sure it was still there, protecting him. Protecting me. Because I already knew then, that living without him was something I would never survive.

At night, after we patrolled, I would sing Dawnie to sleep. She was missing Mom more and more, and so I would tuck her in, smoothing her hair with my palms as I sang lullabies and fairy tales, love songs and sweet melodies. Soon, Angel was joining us on the bed, and we'd all fall asleep that way, weaving our way through the darkness with music.

Now Dawn's in New York, but Angel and I still sing each other to sleep each night.

Leaving him to rest for a little while, I go into the bathroom to shower, wondering what the day with Harry will bring.

+ + +

When Angel and I walk into their co-joining offices, it becomes clear that something's up. For one thing, they're as far away from each other as they can possibly be without climbing out the windows, Hermione's eyes are red and a little blotchy, and Harry looks as if he hasn't slept in about five years.

“Hi guys,” I greet them brightly.

Both look up apathetically.

“Hi,” Harry returns, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Hello,” Hermione says, tucking a shiny, truffle-coloured curl behind her ear. She arches a brow at me. “You're up early.”

“Didn't we have a meeting?” Angel asks, and Harry unwinds his long, lean body from the chair, nodding.

“We do, yes. She doesn't know about it.”

“She'd like to be informed occasionally about things,” Hermione snaps at him, and I swallow, trying to smile.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“It's nothing,” Harry mutters, completely ignoring his fiancé. “To get down to business- we're assembling a special task force—“

“For the Ventrue?” Angel breaks in. “We met them last night.”

“Killing and capturing the politicians at the gun control summit?” Hermione asks and I nod.

“Oh yeah, you should have been there. Major chaos. We thought it would be best to wait a bit and plan, before we did anything. Apparently they're taking them to that mansion beside the Pantheon.”

“We know,” Harry says grimly. “It's a known magical dwelling and a particular haunt for dark wizards. It's not protected under any sort of historical or cultural landmark, so they feel free to use it as they wish.”

“You think its Voldemort,” Angel states without inflection, his eyes black.

“We do think so, yes,” Hermione confirms, her mouth strained and slightly twisted. She looks so thin it's as if she's going to break. “The Dark Mark was spotted above the castle Neueshwanstein.”

“Isn't that the Cinderella castle?” I wonder aloud, and Harry smiles slightly, his upper teeth a little crooked. Pushing the fringe of dark hair off his forehead, he blinks at me.

“It's called that, yes, because of Disney World. But it was actually built by King Ludwig. Also known as the Dream King, and the Swan King. It's now a tourist trap, so we're attempting to put some sort of enchanting spell over it to protect the Muggles who flock there on a daily basis.”

“Is that even possible? Shouldn't they close it down for now?” Angel inquires, and Hermione lifts her slender shoulders in a gesture of resignation.

“That's what we'd like, but it's very well nigh impossible right now. The castle brings in so much money that the Ministry of Magic would have to come up with quite a good excuse to close it.”

“Great,” I sigh. “So what part do Angel and I play in this?”

“You're going undercover,” Harry informs us, picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “You and Angel will pose as Angelus and a turned Slayer. Accompanying you will be our Agent- Draco Malfoy, and another one of our agents, Ginny Weasley. We were also hoping—“ he trails off, and gives me a beseeching glance.

“What?”

Hermione appears worried. “Could you call Dawn? We need her on this.”

“Dawn?” I repeat, dismayed. Bring my little sister into this? After I've spent six years attempting to protect her from the monsters under her bed? Jesus. Angel's hand wraps around mine and he shakes his head.

“If you don't want to, we won't.”

“We could really—“ Harry stops for a moment as Angel shoots him a glare. “Only if you want to, Buffy. It's not imperative that she join the force, but we need at least two others, and she could fill one space. Usually vampires join the Ventrue, or attempt to join- in groups of at least six. All couples.”

“I—“ pausing, I try to imagine how Dawn would feel if I didn't include her. Pretty goddamn pissed. “I'll call her.”

“Great,” Hermione replies, obviously relieved. “So while you go do that, I'll get Draco and Ginny.”

“And Angel and I can go through the basics- clothing, weapons, plans and the like.”

They all disappear and I pick up the phone lying prone on Hermione's desk. Dialling Dawn's number in New York is second nature to me, and as I listen to it ring, I wonder just what in the hell I'm getting myself into. Posing as a vampire- as Angelus' childe? That is, if we even get past the Judge.

“Hello?”

“Hey Dawnie.”

“Buffy!” she exclaims, sounding anything but excited. “What – I mean, why are you calling me? It isn't Wednesday.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I've got a job for you- with Harry and Hermione. We have to go undercover. I can't really talk about- but will you come to Paris?”

She takes a deep breath and I can almost hear her shrug. “You know I'll come but Buffy—someone's here. Someone who I could bring.”

“Who?” I ask.

There's no warning, of course- when someone comes back into your life. No warning at all.

Dawn sounds like she's going to weep but also has a tinge of defiance in her voice that I haven't heard in many, many years.

“It's Spike.”

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