"Happy - Hand of a Devil"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: U2 is responsible for the incredible song that could have been written about Angel.
Dedication: For Serena, who took time out of her ohhhhhhhh-so-very-busy schedule to beta it. *g* And while I'm at it, all the wonderful chicks (and one Token Male) on flowers.wild for keeping me entertained even though I don't say much. *g* Everyone at AB/AS, too, cause . . . well . . . they just rock my world. And what the hell -- for Kevin Smith 'cause he's the ONLY dude capable of getting my ass to the theater when I know I'll be forced to see really, REALLY Big Marc Blucas. < sigh > There's gotta be some kind of loophole in Dogmatic law for that... *eg*

I have climbed highest mountain
I have run through the fields
only to be with you
only to be with you

"Buffy, are you sure about this?"

"Hush, you. I said, 'next vision, I call shotgun' and I meant it."

They were walking around the Hyperion to Angel's car. It had been a week since he'd found her curled up on the floor with Mr. Gordo. In that time, he'd watched her make a series of baby steps to rejoining the world full time. Slowly but surely, she was regaining a sense of self. He'd lost his own sense of self so long ago, he couldn't remember exactly when. He only knew that he'd finally started to find it again, here in this city full of lost souls he was meant to help.

How he hoped those same souls might help save Buffy's.

Their new bed had been delivered, as promised, the very morning after they'd ordered it, and they'd spent their first day's sleep in it together. Buffy had insisted on purchasing new sheets, and it had taken them several minutes to decide on colors -- both had been against patterns -- and the first of many compromises were made as they finally settled on black satin, blood red flannel, pale cream silk, and lavender cotton.

Something Buffy had quickly discovered about being a vampire -- they loved textures. Temperatures and tastes weren't appealing because the frame of reference was all wrong -- nothing was the same as it had been when the body was alive. But textures . . . supernatural senses heightened the brush of silk, or the soothing quality of flannel. They'd actually found the sheets first, and Buffy thought it was kismet that they fit The World's Perfect Bed (Buffy's words).

It was an antique; 'Just like you,' Buffy had declared saucily when they'd first seen it. Four poster, larger than any bed he'd ever slept in, it evoked images of belonging and home, images Buffy herself conjured up inside him every time she smiled or frowned or did much of anything.

The urge to 'christen' it properly had weighed heavily on them both after they'd crawled beneath their brand new down comforter just after sunrise. They'd grown accustomed to touching each other, to practically living on top of each other, which was a relief to them both. Angel had always felt comfortable without clothes on, especially when it came time to sleep. It had something to do with the demon, he was sure. While he'd always had a taste for the finer things in life, something deeply basic and animal rebelled against civilized things like clothing in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Buffy apparently agreed. As a young woman, he'd always known her to wear large pajama tops with shorts, or soft little nightgowns to bed. Now, she seemed equally comfortable without a stitch on, and it made him happy -- though not =too= happy -- that she felt free enough with him to indulge like that. Although, if he had to watch her do another set of Yoga stretches completely nude like he had three days ago, without being able to ravish her silly afterward, his libido might explode.

Two days ago, resting comfortably in their new-but-already-worn-in bed, about to fall asleep when the rest of the world was waking up, Buffy had first brought up the idea of helping him with his 'mission.' She didn't feel 'chosen' anymore, but she had all this power, and she desperately wanted to use it to make the world a little safer.

"Besides, I don't like the idea of playing the little woman to your conquering soldier gone off to war," she'd groused from her position, stretched out full length on top of his body.

Without his consent, she'd decided to get a little more 'intensive' while they tested the bounds of the curse. Her theory was, if things did get out of hand, she was strong enough to tie him down until Willow re-cursed him, and vice versa. Thus far, Angel had been unable to argue with her logic. The fact that she'd been nibbling at the skin around his left nipple no doubt influenced his thinking at the time.

"I'm not insinuating you can't handle yourself," he'd assured her. And he wasn't. Honestly, nothing would have pleased him more than having Buffy fight by his side. It was the timing that was giving him pause. He didn't want her in an intense situation until he was sure it wouldn't do her more harm emotionally. His thoughts had been diverted then, and he'd held back a moan as Buffy's mouth had moved lower, as her tongue had dipped into his belly button. "Buffy," he'd warned her.

His warning had gone unnoticed, and he'd ended up having to physically pull her up his body until her pouting mouth was on the same level as his. Master of self-control or not, he had been unable to part with the feel of her cool skin covering his like a blanket, and he'd tucked her head beneath his chin; wrapped her securely in his embrace and they'd drifted to sleep, the matter of her helping him, as well as their mutual lust, temporarily put aside.

The vision had hit Cordelia during a cutthroat game of "Outburst" a few minutes ago. They'd divided into two teams -- Angel's and Buffy's -- and Angel's team had been ready to kill him for his lack of certain pop culture knowledge. That is, until he'd bailed their asses out with the category "Famous Russian Composers."

It had been a good night. Before the game, Buffy had pulled him aside while Willow and Cordelia made snacks. That was when he'd first noticed the brightness emerging behind her eyes, and he'd given her a smile for it. When she'd explained why she was regaining a sense of self, he'd been unable to muster as much concern for her well being as he had the last time she'd proposed her idea.

Buffy believed that by 'getting back into the action,' she might discover where her place in the world was supposed to be. A few minutes ago, he'd been able to put aside his concerns, not only because she seemed so sure, but also because he'd wanted her with him so badly. However, as they slid into his car, actually about to confront something big and bad, he wondered if her over-confidence combined with his selfishness wasn't about to hurt her even more.

Despite how worried he was that Buffy might be too raw to jump into battle, in the long run it didn't really matter what he thought. Buffy had made up her mind, and no one -- not even Angel -- was going to try to talk her out of it. At the very least, he knew he didn't have to worry about her physical ability. Buffy had been capable of handling herself in any situation before she was turned. As things stood now, he highly doubted there was any creature on the planet -- living or dead -- that had a prayer of defeating her.

"So what are we slaying?" she asked as she fiddled with his radio.

"Vampires."

"Just like old times," she murmured, settling back against the passenger seat as she found a beat that, to Angel's ears, was loud and pounding, like a migraine.

"Cordelia saw a cadre of them laying waste to a bar on Santa Monica," he added, switching the station on the radio when they came to a red light.

"Is there a specific victim, or are we supposed to protect all of Gotham, Batman?" She turned off the Blues station he'd found and put on something Techno.

"She said we were to prevent general badness, Robin." For the first time, he was glad he'd watched all that TV in the sixties. At least he'd always "gotten" the Batman references. He began shuffling the radio stations again when a chorus of voices screamed something that sounded suspiciously like "LIMP BISCUIT!"

Buffy screwed her face up in distaste. "I'm not the sidekick," she declared vehemently.

"Batgirl, then?" Ah, Miles Davis. Much better. Buffy was not in agreement, and her fingers were on the radio's knobs the second his left them.

"What about Catwoman?" What the hell? When did Cher start singing bad dance shit? Apparently Buffy didn't care for it either, because as soon as she realized what it was, she changed it again.

"Catwoman was a villain," Angel reminded her. She'd settled on Janis Joplin. He could do Janis Joplin.

"No, she was misunderstood," Buffy countered, bopping her head along with 'Me and My Bobby McGee.'

"She tried to kill Batman and Robin a dozen times," Angel insisted, slamming down on the breaks to avoid hitting a woman jaywalking with her little girl. Some people shouldn't have children, he thought darkly.

"Catwoman never even met Robin," Buffy mentioned, flipping the station yet again when a loud, falsely happy advertisement for suntan oil came on.

"What?" Angel asked, genuinely confused. Granted, it had been a few decades since he'd watched the show, but he HAD paid attention.

"Catwoman died before they introduced Robin in the third movie, which, by the way, blew, but nowhere near as much as the fourth." She sighed. "George Clooney was hot, though."

"George Clooney?" Angel asked helplessly.

Their conversation came to an end, because they'd arrived at their destination. At least, he thought it was at an end -- it had been awhile since he'd patrolled with Buffy.

"You know, hunky ER doctor turned caped crusader?" Buffy offered helpfully as they started toward the door. "Did Cordy say how many there were?"

"Eight or ten." Angel held the door open for her. "I think we've hit a generational barrier again, Buffy."

"Whatever. You should call me Catwoman because she and Batman always had a thing for each other."

"Only when she was Julie Newmar or Lee Meriweather," Angel argued. "Eartha Kitt never liked him much."

"But Michelle Pfeiffer was totally in love with him."

Angel stared at her for a moment. She stared right back.

"Generational barrier," they both agreed out loud.

No sooner did the words leave their mouths, than a woman screamed at the far end of the bar. Cordelia's cadre had just vamped out. Buffy and Angel moved to opposite sides of the room, fluidly leaping into action.

I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you
But I still
haven't found
what I'm looking for

"They're right in front of you. What are you waiting for?"

"It's no good if the clock's broken."

Philip Strickland rolled his eyes. Man, this chick was nuttier than the company fruitcake. If his superiors hadn't assured him she was the only way to achieve their objective -- neutralizing Angel -- he'd be as far away from this loony bat as he could get.

Damn McDonald, anyway. This should have been his gig. How dare he go all high and mighty, and blow off the company like this. He was probably just sitting in his office, staring out that goddamn window, reading those files he'd been buried under for days. Little shit. You survive one lousy massacre, and you think you're invulnerable. Well, the Senior Partners would show Lindsey McDonald a thing or two. Mealy mouthed redneck asshole.

Strickland heaved a sigh and leaned against the far corner of the bar. Drusilla seemed pretty adamant earlier that neither Buffy nor Angel would sense her presence in the shadows with the dozen or so other vampires on the premises. At least, that's what he hoped she had meant when she'd babbled something about the moon not having eyes.

Shit, he hated this contract work. After Lilah Morgan died so soon after Holland ate it, the upper brass at Wolfram and Hart had decided Lindsey needed a keeper. Not a moment too soon, as far as Strickland was concerned. McDonald had always been proactive -- sit around and wait for something to happen. Always observing, always watching things -- never got that 'things' didn't happen at the firm unless you =made= them happen.

Sure, Strickland had a family once -- his wife, Mara, had been a witch, a refugee from Haiti. It had been love at first sight, and she was the one who'd originally turned him onto the supernatural things in the world. Didn't see him letting that interfere with business though, did you?

He'd been working overtime at a sleazy little law firm on the low-rent end of Wilshire when he'd stumbled across a friend of hers. Some kind of demon, Lokdon, if he remembered the species correctly. Mara had been convinced there was some kind of 'very dark power' or some shit like that about to befall their family. They'd had a little boy, he remembered. His name had been Sam, and Strickland had been the first person to hold him after 27 hours of labor had left Mara unconscious.

Shaking off the unpleasant memories, Strickland focused on the task at hand.

"I don't know about your clock, sweetheart, but mine reads quarter to midnight. There's a full moon. You don't get this done before it's tomorrow and you don't get it done for another month. Got it?"

Damn, he was losing it. This loony bitch was bringing up his New Jersey roots. It had taken him two years of speech lessons to lose the accent, and three times that long to lose the mentality. He'd burned his Yankees baseball jacket, moved his parents to a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and cut off contact with every one of his childhood friends. The man he'd once been didn't exist anymore. He'd stripped his outer skin away, and all that remained now was the sleek lawyer who worked for Wolfram and Hart.

He hadn't called anyone 'sweetheart' this side of a decade. His accent was starting to reassert itself. What the HELL was this crazy bitch doing to him?

The two 'heroes' were dusting vampires like it was going out of style. Buffy had gone up the left side, nearest the bar, Angel the right. At some point, they'd met in the middle and switched without missing a beat. Hapless almost-victims had already fled. He was the only human being left in the place. Was he still human? He'd been working for Wolfram and Hart so long, he'd forgotten.

"You had a bouncing baby boy."

He flinched, looking at Drusilla. Her hands were starting to glow. That was good, right?

"Pardon?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound cultured. He was =cultured=, damn it.

"He had chubby cheeks. Until you put him in a circle with flames and dust." There was an amused smile on her face. "He still cries for you, Daddy."

Strickland turned from her, found a dark corner, and ejected the contents of his stomach onto the already filthy floor. This wasn't right, he thought as he looked for something to wipe his mouth with. He settled on his sleeve. He didn't feel guilt. He didn't feel happiness. He didn't feel =anything=. It was one of the great luxuries of working for Wolfram and Hart. Why was he suddenly remembering Mara, and Sam, and times when he'd been happy? Happy but poor and ultimately =nothing=. Happiness wasn't worth the price.

Five vamps left on the battlefield. And two of them were kicking the shit out of the other three.

"Tick tock, tick tock," Drusilla singsonged quietly.

But I still
Haven't Found
What I'm looking for

Soft light streamed unobtrusively about the room, bouncing off tile and appliances. Dozens of stout votive lilac scented candles covered every available surface in the kitchen. Lilac scented had been Tara's favorite. She'd always had candles and incense, bath gel and perfume, lotion she used to let Willow rub into her back . . .

Willow shook her unproductive thoughts off and tried to focus again. An hour ago she'd entered the Hyperion's kitchen, her mission clear: raise Tara's spirit from where it was trapped.

Drunken ramblings with Wesley aside, Willow honestly believed she could feel Tara's presence in this room. In the place she'd been killed. She'd died at the hospital, but her life had ended in this kitchen. The little witch shied away from those words. They were ugly and real and made her chest tighten, and she couldn't afford a tight chest right now. She had to think.

Something wasn't working right. That was obvious enough. Tara had once teased Willow about her power. Called her 'The Big Bad Wicca,' and Willow had laughed her off. At the time. Now, she was calling on every ounce of strength she had inside her mind, body, and spirit.

The séance, despite her best intentions, was proving fruitless. Inside the circle of candles she sat, chanting, praying, calling upon every Goddess she could remember, calling upon Tara's very essence . . . to no avail. Her lover was in pain, and all Willow's power meant nothing.

"Damn it, I need you!" she screamed into the empty room. Savagely, she grabbed one of the candles in the circle and hurled it against the wall. The force of her throw put the fire out before it shattered, but the circle was broken. Willow began to weep.

"Hush, Darling."

Jumping, Willow spun around, knocking more candles out and over until she stood face to face with a ghost.

"T. . . Tara?" she asked, unsure and hopeful, crystal tears cascading down her cheeks.

"I'm here."

"I knew you were," Willow said, moving closer. "I could feel that you had . . . you know, ties to the world, that you weren't at rest. It's because you can't let go of this plane, you can't let go of . . . of people here. 'Cause of your ties."

"I do have ties," Tara agreed. Her voice didn't sound strange or ghostly. The form she took was the same as it had been when she died -- except she was wearing that dark green skirt she'd always said was her favorite, with one of Willow's pink sweaters. It didn't match at all, but somehow, it fit.

"It's really you," Willow whispered to herself, moving close enough to touch. Tara's next words, however, stilled her arms at her sides.

"But it's not me that's unable to move on."

Deep, aching sadness ripped through Willow's heart, as she understood Tara's meaning instantly. "Oh God!"

"Willow," Tara tried to soothe softly.

"It's me! I'm doing this to you! I'm anchoring you to this realm for an eternity of sorrow because I can't let go of you! I didn't mean to anchor you to this realm for an eternity of sorrow!" Willow sobbed.

"Shh," Tara whispered, wrapping Willow in an embrace so cold, it sent chills up and down her spine. The temperature didn't bother Willow at all, and she clutched the somehow corporeal form of her dead lover tightly. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," Willow insisted. "You're right. I didn't want to let you go. I wanted you to be here. I didn't want you to leave me . . ."

"I never have," Tara vowed quietly. "I never will. Do you accept that?"

Willow sniffled loudly and pulled back enough to look Tara in the eye. "Yes," she answered with all the enthusiasm of a child, caught doing something they know is wrong.

"You have to mean it, or I'll never be at peace," Tara said gently. "I love you too much to leave you without your consent."

That thought made the empty, aching chasm in Willow's soul lighten almost imperceptibly. But it was there. She felt it. And it gave her hope.

"I want you to be free," Willow said clearly, meaning it with every fiber of her being. "I'm happy you'll be free now."

Tara smiled. "And I'm happy you'll be happy."

Confusion marred Willow's forehead. "I'm not happy. Not really. I don't know if I'll ever be truly happy again. I don't know if I remember how."

Shaking her head, Tara brushed her hand against Willow's cheek, then pressed their mouths together, soft as the swish of a butterfly's wings. "You'll see, my love," she vowed quietly against Willow's mouth.

"I miss you," Willow said around a sob, her eyes shutting tightly. "I miss you forever."

Again, Tara shook her head, her own heartbreak visible in her every movement. "Not forever, Darling," she promised. "In the grand scheme of things, it's only a minute until I'm holding you again."

Willow's eyes snapped open to an empty kitchen. All the candles she'd accidentally extinguished earlier once again burned bright -- almost blindingly bright -- save the one she'd hurled against the wall. Licking her lips, she could almost taste Tara there.

"Only a minute until I'm happy again," she whispered to the quiet.

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire

"Well, aren't you the heartiest of the bunch," Buffy declared as she and Angel circled the last remaining vampire.

"Very spry," Angel agreed. His knuckles were bloody from the sheer volume of vampires he'd hit tonight. That made him cranky.

"Look . . . dudes . . . maybe we can work something out," the vampire they'd cornered cajoled.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "God, what it is with me? Is there a 'stoner vamps welcome' sign on my back?"

Sensing he had a chance, the vampire moved suddenly, ramming straight into Buffy. The shock that coursed through her at such a blatantly stupid move paralyzed her long enough for him to get her down. However, she quickly shook off her paralysis. Her leg shot out with a vicious kick that knocked the vampire flat on his face. Then Angel was there, and Stoner Vamp was nothing but a pile of dust.

Angel held out a hand, a tiny, teasing smile on his face. Buffy reflected how good it was to see it there as she placed her hand in his, allowing him to haul her to her feet.

Energy crackled around them where their palms touched, and Buffy let her fingers twine with his. Once she was on her feet, she stepped closer to him, pressed the full length of her body against his, then slowly began to rub against him. God, she thought, he felt so good. Why hadn't she ever noticed how GOOD he felt? Of course she'd =noticed= but she hadn't done nearly enough about it. Why did a second exist in the day when she wasn't in his arms?

For his part, Angel seemed to be just as enthralled with her.

"Your hair," he murmured, burying his face in it. "It smells like sunshine. You haven't been in the sun in weeks. How can it still smell like sunshine?"

Buffy hummed against his throat in response. Her system was too busy trying to figure out what kind of soap he'd used today to pay whatever he was saying any attention. Ivory? No, this had more of a tang to it. Oh, God, maybe it wasn't the soap. Maybe that was Angel flavoring the soap. Buffy felt her mouth begin to water and she darted her tongue out to lick his skin. Tasted like Angel. Theory proved correct. New mission: discover whether the rest of him tasted the same . . .

Wait. What was that sound? Abruptly, Buffy pulled away from Angel, totally oblivious to the clueless, befuddled look on his face. It was as though he couldn't quite process that she was no longer in his arms. Shaking it off, he followed her.

A jukebox! Buffy hadn't played a jukebox in ages. Not one like this, at any rate, all fancy and vintage, looking like it came straight from the 50s. It wasn't playing 50s music, though, which was fine with Buffy, because she didn't really like 50s music. Unless it was at a sock hop or something. Sunnydale High had a sock hop during her senior year. Angel had taken her. It was before he decided to leave her. Buffy frowned. That wasn't a happy thought. It was also ludicrous. Angel would never leave her.

Glancing behind her sharply, Buffy sighed in contentment to find Angel at her back. Plastered against her back, to be more accurate. His face was buried in her hair again, and his hands were running up and down her hips, her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. Mmm, happy thoughts. Angel's hands all over her. Nothing could be better than that. Except maybe--

"Stevie Nicks! Angel, look, it's my favorite Stevie Nicks song!" Spinning in his embrace, Buffy looked up at Angel expectantly. "Do you have a quarter?"

He smiled at her. A beautiful, simple smile that warmed her dead heart. It was the smile he used to give her when he couldn't bring himself to say 'I love you.' Now that he could say it, the smile meant even more, because it was like an added bonus smile.

"In my pocket," he murmured.

Grinning, Buffy slid her hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. She took longer than was absolutely necessary to locate his spare change -- and there was lots of finger wiggling -- but she emerged victorious eventually. Sliding the quarter into the slot, she played the song, and sighed again as the music began to swell.

The place was deserted. As soon as the vampires had shown their true faces the human clientele -- the bartender and waitresses included -- had fled. It was like their own private dance floor. Just like their bedroom. Only they weren't naked here. Why couldn't they be naked here? It was always good to be naked with Angel.

Before she could pursue that thought further, the subject of her internal debates pulled her body against his tightly and began swaying to the beat. This was good. This was really good. He had a thigh pressed between both of hers, and his arm was securing her hips against his, holding them both up as they moved to the music. His other hand was cradling the back of her head.

Buffy wrapped both her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life, letting her fingers play with the hair at the base of his skull. Hungrily, she stretched up to his mouth. He tasted different here. Wet and cool, like the blood they'd drank this afternoon, and the breath mints they'd popped soon after. It masked the scent of blood from all the others, but not from each other. Their senses were too acute for that.

Her breasts were mashed up against his chest, and she had to rub against him, because it was the only thing that felt =right= in this whole world. Obviously, he felt the same, because the hand in her hair wandered down between her shoulder blades to pull her to him tighter.

Still kissing him intently, Buffy started sniffing around his face again. Willow and Xander had been eating chocolate ice cream. After they'd lost a round to Angel's team, Willow had flicked some off her spoon at Angel. It had hit him in the cheek, and the little redhead had looked genuinely frightened of his reaction for a moment. Then he'd laughed, and leaned over to Buffy, who'd licked the offending bit of chocolate off his face.

It hadn't tasted the way it was supposed to, but it was cold and faintly sweet. For some reason, it had been comforting. Buffy's mouth moved along his face until she reached that same spot on his cheek. If she tried, she could faintly still taste the flavor of it, once again, blending with Angel's distinctive taste. Was there no scent or taste on earth that wouldn't go good with Angel?

"I want ice cream," she pouted, leaning far enough away from his upper body to look into his eyes.

Angel shrugged agreeably. "Okay. Baskin Robbins?"

"Sounds good."

They abruptly broke away from each other and headed out the door.

I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still
Haven't found
What I'm looking for

By the time his beat up truck reached the bar on Santa Monica, Lindsey was convinced that he'd finally lost his mind.

He was just having another crisis. That's all this was. He'd talked to his sister the night before. She was starting college in the Fall. She was counting on him to pay her tuition. Otherwise she'd have to work in some greasy spoon diner just so she could have a good education. She'd have to put up with leering customers, asshole bosses, and a dozen other nasty elements his hometown was famous for.

Why hadn't she listened to him and tried to get into a school out here?

Their conversation replayed itself in his mind.

"Linny, I =like= it here. You used to, too. Until Dad lost the house."

"Lost the house with a goddamn smile on his face," he'd snapped.

Her sigh of disapproval had transmitted itself nicely over such a long distance. "You know how I wish you wouldn't swear."

"I'm sorry, Darlin'," he'd apologized, unconsciously slipping into the slight drawl he'd lost after a year in Los Angeles. "I'm just under a lot of pressure at work."

"That firm," she'd muttered darkly.

"Don't start again," he'd begged. Not only wasn't he in the mood to hear it, he was half-afraid in his current mental state, she might be able to convince him to quit.

He'd hung up soon after that. No one quit Wolfram and Hart. They all pretended like they had a choice, but once you were in, you were family. It was worse than the goddamn Mafia.

There were just as many stool pigeons within the organization, too.

Lindsey had gotten Strickland's secretary to sing like a patron at Caritas as to her boss' whereabouts tonight. And now Lindsey found himself parking outside a bar on the seedier end of Santa Monica Boulevard, in search of two good vampires, one crazy vampire, and a human lawyer who'd perpetrated more evil than all three of them combined. Strickland had been with the firm for nearly a decade. Angel and Drusilla might have four centuries between them, but they'd never had the far-reaching power an employee of Wolfram and Hart did.

"Quiet now. Listen. You can hear his screams."

Snapping his head around when he recognized Drusilla's voice, Lindsey cut across the parking lot to where he now saw Strickland and the insane vampire emerging from the bar.

"I didn't know," Strickland sobbed, "I swear, I didn't know he'd still be feeling anything."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Lindsey snapped at Drusilla.

She frowned. "His mind is weak."

"God, make it stop," Strickland cried. "I can still hear him . . ."

"Hear who?" Lindsey asked. "Angel?"

"He's gone," Strickland said. "Everybody's fucking gone. And her freaky voodoo is making me CARE."

"It's perfect," Drusilla pronounced.

"It's insane," Strickland insisted, looking around them wildly.

Lindsey was confused now. "I thought you were all for this hocus pocus bullshit?"

"They're off to have ice cream," Drusilla said happily.

"Baskin Robbins," Strickland added, cackling as he did.

Lindsey began to wonder if Drusilla's lunacy was communicable.

"Sticky sweetness now . . ." Drusilla grinned in mad, carefree abandon. "And sticky sweetness later. Daddy can't keep his hands off his sunshine anymore."

"What did she DO to them?" Lindsey hissed, getting way up in Strickland's face.

"It's the way it works," Strickland said reasonably. "The way the magic works. That's probably why I'm like this now. Oh, yeah. Jeez, I feel better now, you know? I was getting worried there. This isn't me. It's just the magic. I was right next to her while she was casting. This is great. I'm not really growing a soul. It's just the magic. It's just the magic."

"No effect for them now," Dru continued, "only cause."

Lindsey did the cliché movie thing and slapped an increasingly hysterical Strickland. "Damn it, Philip, =focus= with me here. What does the spell do?"

"It's a veil. A pretty white lace one that covers their eyes."

Ignoring Drusilla, Lindsey concentrated on Strickland; hoped an ounce of sanity would leak into the other man's brain.

"It leaves them loose and free. Uninhibited. It doesn't simulate bliss, like that drug in Angel's file. It's not temporary. It doesn't make them do anything." Strickland giggled, and the sound disturbed Lindsey in ways he couldn't name. "Don't you see? It's perfect! It's just what you said in your report. Angel will do it to himself. By doing HER because he doesn't have the sense not to."

"Wolfram and Hart found methods of making Angel lose his soul before," Lindsey reminded him. "It was deemed sloppy. They'll just re-curse him. You have to make him WANT to be dark."

"That's the beauty of it," Strickland insisted, still laughing a bit unstably. "We checked and double checked. This magic . . . it leaves a residue. Whatever curses or spells Angel's currently under can never affect him again after this. We've just given him immunity to the gypsy curse." His laughter increased.

Drusilla began looking at the giggling Strickland hungrily. Lindsey backed away from them. The last thing he saw before he turned and ran for his truck was Drusilla vamping out. Strickland's laughter stopped before Lindsey had the key turned in his ignition. He had to get back to the office. He had to clear out all his files, get all the research he'd found on the Soul Blessing, on the Watcher's Council and a half dozen other 'records' he'd kept. After this particular shit storm hit the fan, Lindsey was sure he'd need all the blackmail and bribery he could get to keep both the Senior Partners, and Buffy from killing him.

He wasn't stupid enough to stop whatever was going on between Buffy and Angel. Chances were, if this magic was half as potent as Strickland's bubbling insanity lead him to believe, one of the two 'carefree' vampires might rip his head off for trying to put a stop to their mating.

A quick trip to Strickland's office was in order. Lindsey would call his friend, the same one who'd done the Soul Blessing, and ask him to look over the spell Drusilla had cast tonight. He'd be armed with answers when he faced certain death at the hands of the only Slayer to ever be turned.

Absently, as he drove way over the speed limit, he prayed his baby sister could forgive what he'd become.

But I still
Haven't Found
What I'm looking for

"Hey. Have you seen Cordy?"

Wesley glanced up from the bed of roses out in the garden. The moon shone full and bright behind him, and he found planting at night, with all that energy, invigorating. Given that the hotel was populated by a group of people afflicted with insomnia to some degree or another, Wesley felt lucky that he enjoyed the night as much as he did.

"She and Gunn have gone on another of their outings," Wesley replied, wiping his hands on a nearby towel.

"They're calling them dates now," Xander mentioned.

"Will wonders never cease," Wesley murmured with a tiny smile.

"Great roses," Xander said after a lengthy pause.

"Angel usually cares for them at night, but what with all the extra responsibilities he's undertaken recently . . . "

"Keeping Buffy from going over the edge is a full time job," Xander agreed.

"Was there a specific reason you were looking for Cordelia?" Wesley asked at last, after another lengthy silence had fallen over them, and Xander showed no signs of leaving.

"Yeah." Xander sighed, and took a seat on the stone bench near Wesley. "I was talking to Will earlier."

"Ah."

"Ah?" Xander parroted in what Wesley thought was a snotty British accent.

"Ah," Wesley explained, "meaning 'I see.' You spoke to Willow about her encounter with Tara earlier this evening."

"How did you--"

"I also spoke with Willow," Wesley said simply. He dug into the ground a bit more forcefully than was absolutely necessary. He'd actually tracked Willow down earlier to speak with her about a personal matter of his own. There was something comforting about the little redhead. During his stay in Sunnydale, he'd been much too bogged down in superiority to notice the incredible light she gave off. Every inch of her shined from within, even in her time of crisis.

"So you know," Xander said, and something in the boy's tone sounded off to Wesley.

"I know that she's found a sense of closure," Wesley said. "I'm quite pleased she was able to come to terms with Tara's death."

"Me too. I'm happy for Will. Super happy," Xander insisted. "It's just . . .

Wesley stopped digging in the dirt for a moment and turned to regard Xander. Again, something in the boy's tone struck a chord with him. Sorrow more distinct than the lingering pain everyone in the hotel seemed to be feeling lately.

"Something on your mind, Xander?" Wesley asked politely.

"Anya," Xander confessed quietly. "Willow gets this great closure with Tara, and all I get is this stupid scarf!" Digging into his pocket, Xander pulled out the frilly bit of pink silk; let it sift through his fingers. "This is all I have left of her. There's all the stuff at her apartment in Sunnydale, but . . ." He glanced at Wesley out of the corner of his eye. "This still smells like her," he confessed. "She left it at my apartment after we celebrated my first solely independent Carpenter Guy job not given to me by a close friend or family member."

"What you're feeling is perfectly reasonable," Wesley assured him. "Your pain is just as real as Willow's."

"Yeah, but . . . Tara loved Willow so much that her . . . spirit, ghost, whatever, couldn't physically leave without Willow's permission. It just . . . it makes me wonder . . ."

"I only met Anya briefly while I was in Sunnydale," Wesley admitted, "but from what Willow has told me she loved you very much. Weren't you the first mortal she attempted contact with?"

Xander nodded his head. "I know she loved me. I mean, I'm not that stupid, whatever Cordy's told you. I'm just not sure if she loved me the way that I loved her. That's all. The way Tara loved Willow, so much that death couldn't keep her from saying goodbye. The way Buffy loved Angel, so much that when she was evil, she still wanted him."

Sighing, Wesley knelt until he could pull himself on the bench beside Xander. He hunched forward, folded his hands and let them dangle between his knees.

"I've learned many things I'd never considered before since I began working with Angel," Wesley began. "The single most important lesson, though, has been that everything -- every single seemingly insignificant moment -- happens for a reason. Angel's adopted a pet theory . . . he believes that there is no grand plan. And if there's no grand plan, that means that all the seemingly insignificant moments, events, coincidences become singularly important. They become everything."

"And that relates to me because . . . "

Wesley smiled kindly. "Even evil, Buffy loved Angel to the best of her ability. No matter what sorts of tortures they've inflicted on one another, they've both remained true to the simple notion that they love each other beyond reason.

"Tara's spirit remained in the earthly place of her death because she =knew= Willow would be unable to accept her death until she'd said goodbye. As Willow no doubt explained to you, when Oz left her, being unable to say goodbye is what crippled her so deeply. When he came back into her life briefly, she was given the chance for closure, and she was able to move on with Tara. And so, in turn, Tara gave her that very same thing.

"Buffy and Angel are vampires, able to understand and communicate with one another in ways I doubt you and I will ever understand. Tara and Willow were extremely intuitive people, with a great deal of power and magic in their souls. The very roots and tenets of witchcraft lived at the very heart of their connection, and Tara was able to use that to say goodbye.

"And you . . . you are a mortal -- albeit extraordinary -- young man who has somehow managed to obtain possession of a piece of silk that smells like the woman you've lost, even though you're currently residing in a city she'd never set foot in."

Xander stared down at the scarf in his hands for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet Wesley's. There were tears in his eyes.

"You know . . . you're a LOT cooler now than you used to be. Which, granted, not saying much, but--"

"Yes, it's quite all right to simply stop talking," Wesley assured him dryly.

Another silence fell over them, before Xander sighed and stood, walking toward the small rose bush Wesley was about to plant next to the rest.

"What's this called?"

Wesley glanced down at the bush Xander was referring to. "It's a rose called 'Love,'" the Watcher explained. "Angel tracked down a specimen through one of his contacts. He was planning to plant it tonight as a gift for Buffy, but after Cordelia's vision, he asked me if I'd do it for him."

Xander studied the blooms on the bush, the hybrid red, white and silver.

"It's going to be here forever," Xander said, staring down at it. "Angel and Buffy . . . they'll be around forever now, and if Batman was doing this as a gift for Buff . . . it'll be here forever."

"I'd imagine so," Wesley agreed.

Smiling softly, Xander knelt down and let Anya's scarf pool at the bottom of the hole Wesley had dug earlier, ready for implantation.

"Show me how?" Xander asked, indicating the rose bush.

Returning Xander's smile, Wesley got down on his knees and offered Xander a pair of gloves. Together, they planted 'Love' in Angel's garden.

I believe in the kingdom come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
Well yes I'm still running

"Mmm, ice cream."

Angel hooked his chin over her shoulder. Buffy grinned. He wanted a bite. Obligingly, she held the spoon to his lips.

"That's not cookie dough fudge mint chip," Angel declared after he swallowed.

Buffy stared down at the ice cream. "Oh. You're right. I think he gave us plain cookie dough instead."

When she turned to face her love, the mournful expression on his face broke her heart.

"But . . . I wanted cookie dough fudge mint chip," Angel said, and the tone of his voice was so pathetic Buffy felt the broken pieces of her heart shatter further.

Frowning, Buffy glared past his shoulder into the Baskin Robbins window. Bastard, she thought, staring at the pimply faced teenage kid spooning Rocky Road onto a cone. Someone should kill him . . .

"Where are you going?"

Blinking, Buffy focused on Angel. Apparently, she'd taken a few menacing steps toward the door.

"Nowhere," she chirped happily. Why was she thinking about killing some kid? Angel was right here in front of her, and she firmly believed the power lay within her to make him feel better about some stupid ice cream flavor they didn't have.

Grinning, she leapt into Angel's arms, her legs going around his waist. Her cup of ice cream fell to the ground unnoticed, and she unceremoniously shoved her tongue down his throat.

He didn't seem to mind. Kissing her back eagerly, his hands blazed a trail up and down her back, re-familiarized themselves with her rear, the backs of her thighs, and the tiny indent on her lower back that had always been ticklish. Buffy giggled against his mouth, and after a few more minutes of heavy petting, she let her body slide down his until she was standing again. Her arms were still loosely slung around his neck.

"I love you," she murmured happily.

"I love you," he replied easily.

As he bent his head to kiss her again, Buffy gave his chest a mighty shove, then slapped his arm soundly.

"Tag! You're it!" she yelled, before turning tail and running.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn't chasing her. Looking behind her, she saw him standing there, looking confused. She sighed. Damn. Not =another= generational barrier. Kids had been playing tag since the dawn of time, and he wasn't =that= old.

"You're supposed to try and catch me now!" she called back to him.

The light dawned, and faster than the human eye could perceive, he was after her. Luckily, Buffy was just as fast -- if not a wee bit faster -- than he was, and she took off, giggling again.

Though there weren't many people out on the street this late, the few that were present gave them odd looks. That is, they gave them odd looks when they slowed down enough to be perceived.

Finally, when Buffy made a last ditch attempt at getting away by hiding behind Angel's car, he caught up with her.

"Gotcha," he whispered as he caught her around the waist, his arms imprisoning her in a cage she never wanted to escape from.

Spinning in his embrace, Buffy stared up at him, feeling . . . what was she feeling? Dreamy. Like this was all a dream. A wonderful dream she never wanted to end. Everything was of the good here.

"I want to make love to you," she said boldly. The declaration neither surprised, nor embarrassed her. It was what she felt, and telling him everything that she felt was the most natural thing in the world.

"Me too," he replied quietly. They kissed softly, tenderly, and she felt him begin to lower her to the hood of his car.

A smile broke out across her face, and, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth, once, she released him, and shoved at his chest again.

"Race you back to the hotel! Last one there has to sleep in the wet spot!"

His growl turned into a carefree laugh, and she heard his feet pounding on the pavement as he gave chase after her.

You broke the bonds and you
Loosed the chains
Carried the cross
Of my shame
Of my shame
You know I believed it
But I still
Haven't found
What I'm looking for

The End

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