~ helygen ~

Sunnydale
Friday 8 am

         There had been a change in plans. Anya had been reluctant to leave the Magic Box closed on one of its busiest days, and then Xander’s supervisor called early to ask him to cancel his day off because several of their building team had been injured the day before in an accident on site. Unhappily, Xander gave in to both of them. On his way to work, he had collected Wesley from Giles’ apartment and dropped him off at Revello Drive.
         Dawn came out to meet them as the car pulled up, almost bouncing with excitement until she saw Xander’s disappointed face.
         “Wish you could come,” she said softly.
         “Me too, Dawnie,” he said with a sigh. “Responsibility sucks.”
          She smiled at his use of her own phrase, and he wiggled his eyebrows to re-affirm their shared Zeppo status. That was one of the things Dawn loved about Xander – he could make ordinary boring stuff like responsibility seem special, even when it sucked.
          “Give her a great big Xander hug from me,” he said, “so she’ll know what’s waiting for her when you all get back here.”
          “I will,” the teenager promised, and kissed him lightly on the cheek before he drove off.
         Back in the house, Cordelia and Wesley were squabbling over who was going to drive Gunn’s jeep. Cordelia had the only sound argument: Wesley’s injuries would hinder his reactions and she didn’t think he was well enough to drive; Wesley was just simply afraid of Cordelia’s driving.
         “I got us here, didn’t I?” she reminded him indignantly.
         Exasperated, and knowing he was already on very thin ice, Wesley capitulated.
         “Fine,” he sighed. “You drive. But within the speed limit, if you don’t mind.”
         Cordelia rolled her eyes, then took the keys from him before heading for the door. Wesley grimaced apologetically at Fred and Dawn, as if to explain that he’d done his best to save them.
         “I saw that,” Cordy shot over her shoulder.
         She’d barely crossed the threshold when she let out an agonizing cry and fell to her knees. Wesley, Fred and Dawn ran to her side, helping her to sit comfortably on the step and supporting her back as she clutched her head.
         “Buffy!” she gasped, as she gave a commentary on the images that flashed painfully into her brain. “Her arm. Owwwwww! Demon. Huge. Purple grass…something. Jeez!” She took in a deep ragged breath. “Angel. Oh god…”
          Cordelia slumped back against Wesley, who had crouched behind her to keep her from falling onto the deck. He grimaced, but held her steady until she could compose herself and sit upright again.
         “God!” Cordelia sighed, holding her head in both hands.
         “What did you see?” Dawn asked, horrified. “What did you see?”
         “Dawn,” Wesley said calmly, “can you fetch some painkillers, please? And a glass of water?”
         Dawn looked from him to Cordelia, then ran into the kitchen. Straining to hear if the adults were discussing Cordy’s vision, she fumbled in a cupboard and knocked over several boxes and tins as she searched for the painkillers. Grabbing the container, she quickly filled a glass with water, spraying herself and the counter in her haste, then hurried back out to the step. She knelt in front of Cordelia and offered them up to her, ashamed that she was more interested in the vision than in the young woman’s welfare.
         Cordelia took three tablets and swallowed half the water, then sighed again and turned to Wesley.
         “I’m not sure what I saw,” she said. “The demon looked like that Hrahek guy but smaller, not sure if he’s the same kind. And … purple grassy stuff – don’t know what that is, or where.”
         “You mentioned Buffy’s arm,” Wesley prompted her.
          “Something growing on her arm,” Cordelia nodded, wincing as she did so. “Or in it – couldn’t tell. I just saw a blotchy … something … on her arm.”
          “And Angel?” Fred asked quietly.
         Cordelia swallowed.
          “I saw him getting killed again,” she said. “A dagger. I hate this job.”
          “Try to remember details,” Wesley suggested, not without sympathy. “I’ll phone LA.”
         Half an hour later, having talked with Giles about Cordelia’s vision, they set off for the city. Cordelia was pale, and wore dark sunglasses to shield her eyes as the bright sunshine aggravated her headache, but the others were relieved to find that it made her drive more attentively and they settled back for a quiet ride.

Los Angeles
Friday 10 am

          When Angel stepped out of the portal and into the hotel lobby, he was concerned to see that Buffy was still unconscious: he had expected her to be still looking at him, smiling in that soft hopeful way he’d always loved.
         “Angel?” Giles questioned, as the vampire hesitated. The others crowded around him, echoing their concern for the Slayer but relieved that they’d both returned.
          “I … I don’t know,” he admitted, his eyes hooded with unease. “I thought she was okay – I got through to her. Maybe I should go back …”
         “She’s not so cold,” Willow commented, having taken the Slayer’s limp hand in her own. “And this rash on her arm isn’t so itchy looking.”
          Giles touched the backs of his fingers gently to Buffy’s face and nodded.
         “What should I do?” Angel asked desperately, surprising Gunn with the depth of his uncertainty. “Should I take her back?”
         The Watcher had taken Buffy’s wrist between his thumb and fingers, and did not answer immediately. The others watched him anxiously.
         “She’s definitely improving,” he announced, “her pulse is almost back to normal. Perhaps we should just wait a little while?”
         Obviously torn by indecision, Angel nodded in acquiescence to the Englishman’s common sense – he knew Giles would not put Buffy’s life at risk. While Willow and Tara set about closing the portal, and Gunn and Lorne started to re-furnish the area behind the counter, vampire and watcher headed upstairs.
         “Never seen Angel so freaked,” Gunn commented quietly, as he and Lorne shuffled a large filing cabinet out of the inner office.
         “He has a lot to lose,” Lorne responded, grimacing at the weight of the loaded cabinet. “Is Cordelia keeping her accessories in here? I can’t believe that case-files weigh this much.”
         “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Gunn muttered.
          “They’ll be here soon,” Tara said quietly, ticking her gaze at the clock on the wall. “Dawn’s gonna be disappointed.”
         “Let’s get back to trying to find out what’s given Buffy that rash,” Willow suggested. “We might be able to speed things up a bit, if we find what’s causing it.”
         Tara nodded, and they went into the inner office to open up the books they’d been researching the day before. Gunn watched them for a few moments, then found himself under Lorne’s gaze and shrugged.
          “Witches,” he said quietly. “That’s a whole new ball game – glad they on our side.”
         Lorne nodded.
         “You better believe it,” he said thoughtfully, eyes on the two girls. “Don’t want one of them playing for the other team.”
         

          Joyce Summers smiled fondly at her elder daughter. She placed the palm of her hand on Buffy’s cheek, and raised her eyebrows.
         “You have a fever, honey,” she said with mild concern. “Are you feeling okay?”
         Buffy stared at her mother, hungrily drinking in the much loved and missed features, and nuzzled her face into that caring hand, breathing in the familiar scent.
          “I’m fine, Mom,” she replied, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ll be okay.”
         Joyce nodded, confident and proud of her daughter’s strength.
         “I know,” she affirmed. “Everything will be okay.”
         The mist around them rippled, and Buffy threw herself into her mother’s arms, hugging her tightly. She closed her eyes to hold back her tears.
         “I have to go, Mom,” she said, wishing it wasn’t so.
         “I know,” Joyce said, giving her daughter a final squeeze. “I love you, Buffy. And Dawn. Tell her.”
         “I will,” the Slayer said, looking into her mother’s face as she stepped away. “We love you too, Mom.”
         Joyce smiled, nodding, and dissolved into the colourless void.

8 pm

         “Mom,” Buffy whispered.
         Lying on top of the bed covers beside her, Angel lifted his head instantly, and peered at Buffy. A single tear slid down her cheek to the pillow, and her eyes fluttered open. Angel shifted himself onto one elbow and waited. She had opened her eyes briefly on several occasions, lost in delirium since their return from the portal, but this was the first time she’d spoken.
         Buffy blinked a few times, then turned to look at him.
         “Hey,” he said softly, not daring to get his hopes up.
         Buffy smiled, but it was a sad smile, unshed tears magnifying her eyes.
          “Hey,” she returned, her voice catching slightly. Her eyes searched his face, and he leaned over to kiss her gently on the forehead.
         “You’re awake,” he told her.
         Buffy looked away as her mind tried to hold on to the last fragments of her recent dreams. She felt empty, bereft, as if her most precious dreams had been stolen from her.
         Angel took her hand in his, and brought it to his lips.
         “Stay with me,” he said, not wanting her to drift off again.
         ‘Forever,’ she thought, remembering another dream, long ago. ‘I’ll never leave, not even if …’
         “Buffy?” Angel squeezed her hand, trying to keep her focused.
          She turned back to look at him, and the tears slipped down her cheeks. He gently let go of her hand, then tenderly brushed her tears away with his thumb.
          “Everything will be okay,” he promised her, and pulled her into his arms as she began to sob uncontrollably.
          He looked across the room at Giles, who had fallen asleep in the armchair only to be woken by his Slayer’s weeping. Vampire and Watcher had talked for a long time before both had drifted off into much-needed sleep, and both were agreed on future plans.
          “Everything will be okay,” Angel repeated into Buffy’s hair, and Giles nodded.

Sunnydale
9 pm

          Xander hefted his axe, ready to attack if necessary, and pushed open the door of the crypt. He descended the three stone steps into the gloom, and Anya followed close behind, looking apprehensively over his shoulder. She carried a crossbow, holding it tightly in both hands as if it might jump from her grasp.
         “Don’t you people knock?” Spike scolded, not bothering to get up out of his armchair. “And shut the door – there’s a bloody draft.”
         “Sorry to interrupt,” Xander said insincerely, “but …”
          “Oooh,” Anya breathed, running to stand behind Spike’s chair, “you’re watching ‘Passions’! Is the blonde girl dead yet?”
         “No,” Spike answered, recognising a fellow fan. “But she’s …”
         “Excuse me?” Xander interrupted, amazed that he was still taken aback by their capriciousness. “Patrol? Hellmouth? Ringing any bells?”
         “It’s nearly finished,” Spike grumbled, eyes still on the screen.
          “We want to see the blonde girl die,” Anya nodded enthusiastically, smiling at her fiancé.
          “Well actually,” Spike countered, looking at her in surprise, “I’m hoping they can save her.”
         They both turned to the television, and Xander sank down to sit on a dusty step to wait, axe spread across his knees as he stared at the backs of their heads.

Los Angeles
10 pm

          Angel put down the phone and looked up as Dawn skipped lightly down the stairs into the hotel lobby. She smiled at him, and he reflexively sighed with relief.
         “She’s sleeping,” Dawn reported, before Angel could form his question. “She’s fine.”
          “We saved you some pizza,” Willow called from behind the counter, holding up a limp slice as evidence.
          Tara looked up as she bit into her own slice, and tried to smile around it. The teenager grinned, and joined them at the table, helping herself to the largest slice in the cardboard container.
          “What did Wesley say?” Willow asked Angel, stopping the vampire as he began to move around the counter.
         “He just got another call from David Nabbitt,” Angel answered, looking restlessly towards the stairs. “His technicians have come up with a compound that they think will be an antidote. Wes is on his way over there now – he should be here in less than an hour.”
          “Should he be driving?” Tara wondered aloud, to no-one in particular.
          “He seemed okay,” Willow answered. “A bit stiff, maybe. I think he was just not wanting Cordy to drive him any more!” They grinned at each other, then Willow addressed the vampire again. “Did you say that Nabbitt guy is a wizard?”
         “No,” he answered, “he’s kind of into role play – Wizards and Warlocks? But he has some very useful contacts.”
         He made to move towards the stairs again.
         “Angel,” Dawn said, starting on another slice of pizza, “she’s sleeping – she’ll be okay for a few minutes on her own. You should get something to … erm … eat.”
         “She’s right,” Giles stated, emerging from the direction of the kitchen with a sandwich and a cup of tea. “You’d be foolish to neglect yourself again.”
          Suitably chastised, Angel headed for the kitchen.
         “That was harsh,” Dawn said with a frown. She didn’t like to think that her father- and brother-figures were at loggerheads with each other.
         “He isn’t thinking straight,” Giles replied. “His concern for Buffy is clouding his judgement – you saw what he was like in Sunnydale.”
         “You have to be cruel to be kind,” Tara said softly, admiring Giles’ intentions.
         “Any news from Wesley?” the Watcher asked, and listened as the girls repeated what Angel had told them. “Excellent, that’s promising news. Let’s hope it works.”
         “What if it doesn’t?” Dawn asked, her fear of losing Buffy never far from the surface.
         They had discussed trying conventional medicine, and had agreed to leave that as a last resort, since the questions it would engender from most hospitals would be extremely difficult to answer. Lorne knew several demons with healing skills, and had gone to Caritas in an effort to contact them. Angel also had several contacts he could call if Nabbitt’s technicians had failed to concoct an antidote from the purple vegetation that Gunn had collected from Kravlar. Cordelia’s vision had included ‘purple grass,’ and when he and Angel had agreed it could be the strange spongy stuff that covered the ground in the demon dimension, he’d volunteered to go back through the portal to get some. Wesley had suggested contacting David Nabbitt, since the industrial millionaire had several state-of-the-art laboratories at his disposal, and Nabbitt had been only too eager to help.
          “Then we’ll try something else,” the Watcher said, hoping his tone would reassure the girl. “Something will work. Buffy has survived much worse than this,” he added with a small tinge of guilt.
          He himself had effectively poisoned her once, as required for the Cruciamentum when she turned eighteen. He still loathed himself for it, even though he’d refused to carry out the procedure fully and had lost his job because of it. ‘You have a father’s love for the girl,’ Quentin Travers had accused him with distaste. ‘Bloody right I do,’ Giles thought to himself. ‘And a damned proud father, at that.’
         Something metallic clattered to the floor somewhere within the hotel, and the four of them jumped.
         “What was that?” Tara asked, easily the most nervous amongst them.
         “Probably Angel,” Dawn shrugged. “He’s been real klutzy tonight.”
         They nodded, recalling the vampire’s hurriedly recovered stumble on the stairs when he’d come down to give Dawn some time with her sister, and then when taking Wesley’s call he’d dropped the receiver in his haste to answer it.
         “You done, Dawnie?” Willow asked, ticking her head at the last slice of pizza.
         Dawn nodded, patting her flat stomach appreciatively.
         “Stuffed,” she reported with satisfaction.
         “K, then, I think it’s bed-time,” the red head ventured, expecting an argument or at least a frown, and surprised to receive neither.
         “Yeah,” the teenager agreed, stretching her long frame into a deep yawn. “I’m beat.”
         She hugged the two witches goodnight, then hesitated in front of Giles. He smiled at her, and she quickly hugged him before going upstairs.
         “I’ll check on Buffy,” she said before turning onto the landing. “Tell Angel I said g’night.”
         The three nodded, and sat in silence for a few moments.
          “Angel’s a long time,” Willow mused, tearing the last pizza slice in two and handing half to Tara.
         They made the same connection at the same time, and looked at each other in dismay. Giles was ahead of them: he’d put down his cup and plate and was already at the weapons armoury and pulling out an ancient but lethal broadsword. They silently joined him, grabbing a crossbow each, and followed him along the corridor that led to the kitchen.
         The Watcher carefully peeped through the round window in one of the doors, but he could see nothing, and no noise emanated from the vast kitchen beyond. Signalling the girls to stay back, he pushed open one of the doors and stepped inside, letting it close noiselessly on its sprung hinges. Glancing in all directions, then bending to check below the tables and worktops within his immediate vicinity, Giles frowned: the place seemed deserted.
         Broadsword at the ready, he quietly moved nearer the centre of the kitchen, and looked around him as he went. Near the refrigerator, he could see a large stainless steel ladle on the floor, next to an unopened blood bag. And a booted foot.
         He waved at the two witches to join him as he hurried around the central counter, and found Angel face down on the tiled floor. Kneeling, he carefully turned the vampire over onto his back, just as Willow and Tara reached them.
         “Oh God!” Willow cried, spying the hilt of a dagger protruding from the vampire’s chest. “Cordelia’s vision!”
         To Giles’ trained eye, it seemed that someone – or something – had taken Angel unawares, a major feat in its own right, and hit him over the head with the ladle hard enough to stun him, then stabbed him in the heart. The force of his fall had pushed the dagger deep into his chest. Oddly, the perpetrator had not waited long enough to realise that their aim was off: Angel had not been dusted, although it was very close.
         He reached for the dagger, but Willow stayed his hand.
         “If you remove it, will it dust him?” she asked.
         “No,” Giles answered, fairly certain he was right, but leaning over to check all the same. “It hasn’t pierced his heart. If it had, he wouldn’t be here.”
         Gripping the hilt firmly, he pulled the dagger from Angel’s chest and passed it to Willow.
         “Careful,” he warned, “don’t touch the blade, it may be poisoned.”
         Willow nodded. She had thought the same herself, once she’d realised that Angel’s assailant hadn’t bothered about dusting him. She placed it carefully on the counter and knelt down to look more closely at the unconscious vampire. The wound was long, but already closing.
         “The Sanctorium spell,” Tara said quietly. “It’s still in place.”
         “So a human did this,” Willow nodded. “How’d they sneak up on him? His hearing …”
         “Possibly too distracted,” Giles offered.
         “And how’d they know he was in here?” the red head pressed.
         Giles shook his head – too many questions, too few answers.
          “That’s not important at the moment,” he decided. “We need to get him to safety, and to test that blade for any toxins.”
         Between them, Giles pulling the vampire by one forearm, and the two witches struggling with the other, they dragged Angel out of the kitchen towards the lobby. As they approached, they heard voices and stopped to listen, wary in case Angel’s attackers were still in the building.
         “Wesley!” Giles called, recognising one speaker’s accent. “In here!”
         Wesley was not yet strong enough to help, but he took their sword and crossbows, to free their hands properly. David Nabbitt lifted both Angel’s legs so that only the vampire’s torso dragged along the floor as they pulled him into the lobby. They dragged him behind the counter, where Wesley made hurried introductions before taking Nabbitt to check the kitchen exit and retrieve the dagger Giles had told him about.
          Giles lightly slapped Angel’s face in an attempt to revive him, having deduced from a quick examination of the vampire’s head and the ladle that it had not been a particularly heavy blow. In less than a minute, Angel opened his eyes, gasping unnecessarily in shock and pain. He pressed his hand to his chest and winced.
         Giles laid a hand on the vampire’s shoulder to keep him still.
          “Did you see …?”
         “No,” Angel answered groggily. “Nothing. What happened?” Giles told him. “Doesn’t make sense,” Angel frowned. “I’d have heard someone… something.”
         “Nothing,” Wesley reported, returning from the kitchen with Nabbitt in tow. The diminutive millionaire waved brightly at Angel, as if everything was perfectly normal. “Are you alright, Angel?”
         Raising his upper body carefully by leaning back onto his elbows, Angel grimaced. He nodded, but not very convincingly. Wesley smiled briefly, confident that Angel would quickly recover.
         “Puzzling,” he said thoughtfully, examining the dagger closely. He wandered into the inner office, where most of the older books were still stacked on the desks and chairs.
         “Check for poison,” Giles called after him, helping Angel to his feet, and heard Wesley’s cautious “Ah” from the other room.
         Angel sat heavily on one of the wooden seats near the desk, and rubbed the back of his head.
         “Is Buffy okay?” he asked.
         “Dawn was gonna look in on her,” Willow assured him, “on her way to bed.”
         “She said to say g’night,” Tara added.
         “No,” Angel said, getting unsteadily to his feet, “I mean – did anyone check in case the intruder got upstairs?”
         “No-one came this way, Angel,” Willow pointed out.
         “If I didn’t see or hear him …” Angel left the rest unspoken: their faces told him they’d caught on.
         Grabbing the weapons, and instructing Nabbitt to stay with Wesley, Giles and the two witches ran for the stairs. Angel staggered behind them, shaking his head to try and clear the dizziness. Giles was first to reach Buffy’s room, the nearest to the top of the stairs, and he signalled Willow and Tara to go check on Dawn.
         Moments later they met on the landing, assuring each other that the Summers sisters were unharmed. They turned to go back downstairs just as Angel reached the top. He looked awful, and knew it.
         “Gonna lie down a while,” he said thickly, once he’d established that the hotel seemed safe.
         “Willow, Tara,” Giles said, taking control, “get that antidote from Wesley, and see to Buffy. And tell Wesley what’s going on here.”
         He handed Willow the broadsword, and leaned under Angel’s shoulder, taking the vampire’s weight as best he could. Realising they were unlikely to make it all the way to Angel’s room, and perhaps it would be better to have the two invalids close together, he took the vampire to the room next to Buffy’s and helped him lie down on top of the bed covers. Angel was unconscious before his head touched the pillow.
         “What’s with all this poison?” he heard Willow say angrily as he descended the stairs. “What happened to good old guns and stakes? Stuff you can see, and avoid.”
          The girls passed him at the foot of the stairs, Willow holding a glass phial containing a viscous purple liquid. Tara read aloud a short note of instructions so that they both understood how to administer the antidote to Buffy. Knowing he could trust them implicitly, Giles headed for the inner office.
         “Any luck?” he asked, smiling wanly at Nabbitt who had grinned at him.
          Holding the dagger carefully, Wesley was examining the hilt with a large magnifying glass. He shook his head, but did not look up.
         “The blade is clean,” he said, frowning through the glass. “And there are no fingerprints, or even smudges, on the hilt.”
          “Clean?” Giles repeated.
         Wesley put the dagger down on the desk, and looked up at his fellow Watcher.
         “Clean,” he nodded. “As if it had just been made. Nothing on it at all. No cloth from Angel’s shirt, no skin shavings, no blood, no poison. It looks like it’s never been used.”
         “That’s impossible,” Giles retorted.
         “Unless …”
         “Unless the intruder took the time to come back and clean it,” Giles nodded, catching his drift, “while we were getting Angel out of there. Damn!”
         “This intruder,” Nabbitt said, speaking for the first time since his arrival. He grinned sheepishly as the two men looked at him. “He’s gone – right?”
         “Good question,” the two answered in unison.

Midnight

          “On the house,” Lorne smiled, handing the Brachnarl demon a large colourfully decorated margarita. The demon raised its single eyebrow and grunted. “You’re welcome,” the Host returned.
         Brad, as the demon liked to be called, sucked the fruit and the paper umbrella from the rim of the glass as he drained the alcohol, and licked his thick lips. Then he bit into the glass and devoured it, crunching methodically before swallowing. Lorne grimaced briefly, then set about making another one.
          “So,” he said, keeping his tone cheerful and friendly as he slid another glass across the bar, “these friends of yours …”
         “Not friends, exactly,” Brad said in a surprisingly falsetto voice that was at odds with his bulky frame. “We just … you know … have some things in common.”
         “Indeed,” Lorne nodded, having witnessed the gore-fest that Brad’s circle called lunch. He pushed the image from his mind. “Are they from around here?” he asked.
         “Nah,” Brad shook his head, causing the fleshy tendrils that grew in a line from ear to ear around the back of his head to undulate. Lorne tried not to stare. “They’re from Reno, I think. They haven’t been in town long. I think they got in some kind of scrape back there.”
          That wasn’t what Lorne wanted to know: he was fishing for the otherworldly origin of Brad’s acquaintances. He had licence to probe because he’d read Brad’s aura after a tear-jerkingly beautiful rendition of “Seasons in the Sun” and had advised the demon that his new-found friends were trouble. Brad had suspected as much, and was keen to talk. Lorne had omitted to say that the ‘friends’ were not trouble for Brad.
          “Do they have a name?” Lorne pressed, making another margarita as Brad crunched on his second. Maybe identifying the species would be a start.
         “Tad, Bill, Joe …”
          Lorne sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Saturday 1 am

          Buffy opened her eyes, and gave herself several seconds to adjust to the gloom. She moved her hands over the covers and in front of her face, trying to establish whether or not she was really here. Noticing the distant hum of traffic, and the barely audible drone of an aeroplane, she sighed and accepted that she was not dreaming.
          Sitting up in bed, she licked her lips and pulled a face at the strange taste in her mouth. She reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, and startled Willow who had been dozing in the chair next to the bed.
          “Hey,” Willow grinned, delighted to see her friend was alright. She gave her a careful hug. “How’re you feeling?”
         “Weird,” Buffy admitted, reaching for the glass of water next to the lamp. “Tired, but not sleepy. I feel kind of heavy. And I have a really horrible …” She gulped the contents of the glass. “Horrible taste in my mouth,” she finished, screwing up her face.
         “Probably the antidote,” Willow nodded. She reached over and gently grabbed Buffy’s arm. The rash had disappeared. “It seems to have worked.”
         “Antidote?” Buffy repeated. “Someone poisoned me?”
         Willow brought her friend up to date, filling in with their theories when actual details were missing.
          “We don’t know if it was deliberate or accidental,” she said of the poison. “You had that rash …”
          “I remember,” Buffy shuddered, recalling the demon’s dying spittle.
         She told Willow about the fight, and the strange way that her opponent had died, and they agreed that it’s body fluids must be poisonous to humans. Sharing a quiet ‘eeeew’, they moved on.
         “Is everyone else okay?” Buffy asked. “Dawn?”
         “Dawn’s here – she came with Cordelia and Wesley and Fred. She’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
         Buffy smiled, relieved that her sister was safe, and looked forward to seeing her again. Then she saw Willow’s averted eyes, and knew her friend was holding back.
         “Willow?” she prompted.
         Reluctantly, and forcing her friend to stay where she was, Willow told her as much as they knew about what had happened to Angel earlier that evening.
          “Wes and Giles are researching,” she finished, “and David Nabbitt’s got his people working on the poison – they did a good job with yours, so they shouldn’t have a problem.”
         “Researching what?” Buffy asked, confused. “I thought you said no-one saw or heard anything, and the knife was cleaned?”
         “We know it couldn’t have been demon or human,” Willow reminded her. “The Sanctorium spell is still in place, and hey – humans – pretty easy to spot. So they’re looking for … non-corporeal beings.”
         Buffy shook her head. Word association was never her strong point, and she knew Willow wasn’t talking about the army.
          “The invisible man?” she ventured.
          “Kinda,” Willow nodded.
          “With a grudge against Angel,” Buffy added quietly, already imagining how difficult a foe that was going to be. She shook her head again, knowing that she’d need a lot more information before settling that particular score. “Where is he?” she asked.
          Willow ticked her head at the adjoining door.
         “In there,” she said. “Tara’s babysitting. We figured we’d take our turns together so we can … you know, sleep …” She faltered, not sure if Buffy wanted to hear about their sleeping pattern. “Gunn and Fred are gonna take over in an hour or so.”
         Buffy took her hand in hers.
          “Thanks, Will,” she said with affection. Ignoring her friend’s protests, the Slayer climbed out of bed. “I’m okay,” she insisted, pulling the red head by the hand towards the connecting door. “You two get some sleep – I’ll sit with Angel til the others arrive.”
          Tara heard the door opening, and tiptoed across the room to meet them, smiling at Buffy as she slipped her hand into Willow’s.
         “All quiet,” she reported, concern evident in her eyes.
         Buffy nodded, and thanked her quietly. Then she hugged them both and sent them on their way. Closing the door noiselessly, she moved quickly to the bedside and looked down at Angel’s sleeping form. Feeling suddenly weary, and a little cold, she carefully climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him, pulling the bedspread up from the edge to cover her body.

9 am

          Cordelia arrived for work feeling tired and a little grumpy. She was glad to be home, but hadn’t slept well even though she’d had most of yesterday to catch up. After their arrival from Sunnydale yesterday morning, she and the others had spent some time together to catch up, but once she’d established that Angel and Buffy were okay, she’d given in to her boss’s advice to take the day off.
         She’d enjoyed a long soothing bath, and painted her nails, and spent the afternoon dozing between magazine articles before heading for bed early. But she’d dreamt vivid and disturbing dreams and had awoken feeling unrefreshed. Recognising them to be derived from her own thoughts and feelings, she grouched about them to Dennis while she got ready, but brushed them aside once she entered the Hyperion lobby and pasted on a bright smile. She was back in her own domain, with her own team, and the last week could finally be put behind them. She halted on the top step.
         “What are you still doing here?” she asked before she could stop herself.
         Giles looked up from the counter, where he’d been pouring over the a newspaper.
         “Good morning,” he returned sarcastically, raising his tea cup.
          “Sorry, Giles,” the young woman sighed, heading down the steps into the lobby. “Wasn’t expecting you – I thought you’d be on your way back home by now.” She looked around, but couldn’t see anyone else. “Did they leave you behind?”
         “We’re all still here,” Giles told her. “Everyone’s asleep.”
          Cordelia hung up her bag and jacket, and joined him at the counter.
          “I guess this week’s been hard on everyone,” she acknowledged, knowing how rough she felt, and seeing the fatigue in the Watcher’s face. She nodded up at the first floor. “How are they doing?”
          “Ah,” Giles said, remembering that Cordelia was out of the loop since she’d been sent home early yesterday. As soon as he’d finished bringing her up to date about Buffy’s recovery and the attack on Angel, Cordelia thumped him in the arm.
         “Why didn’t anyone call me?” she complained.
         “We thought you needed the rest,” Giles said, rubbing his aching muscle. “There was nothing you could do, anyway.”
          “Not the point,” Cordelia huffed, her mood darkened again. “What did the research turn up?”
         “Nothing,” Giles admitted. “Wesley and I are of the opinion that it isn’t poison, it’s something to do with the metal of the blade, perhaps a silver derivative. It could be a simple allergic reaction. That Nabbitt chap has taken it …”
          “Silver?” Cordelia echoed, paling. “That can kill vampires, can’t it?”
          “Sanctified silver, yes,” the Watcher nodded, “but ordinary silver is quite harmless. As far as we know.”
         Cordelia gave a little smile of relief, then continued with her train of thought, which had been going over what Giles had told her.
          “So we have a psycho ghost on our hands,” Cordelia said, remembering her run-ins with Dennis’s mother. “Did you perform an exorcism?”
         Giles stared at her. She stared back. Finally he backed down with a sigh.
         “It hadn’t occurred to us,” he confessed.
          “Wes has the whole thing here somewhere,” Cordelia shrugged. “Shouldn’t take long to set up, it seemed quite straightforward last time. I’m surprised he didn’t think of it himself.”
          Giles mumbled something about the dagger, and poison, and research, and other excuses for not seeing the obvious. Cordelia raised her eyebrows, and he fell quiet.
          “I need a coffee,” the brunette announced, heading for the machine. “I have a feeling this day is not going to be short. I knew I should have gone shopping.”

          Lorne shifted uncomfortably in his sleep. Vaguely aware that the pillow had solidified overnight, he carefully opened one eye and looked straight into a dozen undulating tendrils of pink hairy flesh. With a startled shout he jerked up and realised he’d fallen asleep at one of the tables around the stage in Caritas. Brad slumbered on in the chair next to him, oblivious, his face resting heavily on the tabletop, whistling softly through his nose as he breathed.
          Clutching his head, Lorne shuffled to the telephone at the end of the bar, and dialled the Hyperion’s number. He quickly passed on his information to Cordelia, then went in search of the Alka Seltzer.

10am

          Dawn sat between Fred and Gunn, halfway up the stairs, and watched the screaming spirit as it writhed and howled above the lobby. Cordelia, who sat on the other side of Fred, completed the audience. It was quite a show – flashing lights like little bolts of lightning illuminated horrible face-shaped clouds that swirled just below the chandelier – but the teenager wasn’t afraid. Below the struggling spirit, Willow, Tara, Giles and Wesley stood inside a pentagram and chanted an exorcism spell.
          Lorne had learned that the spirit responsible for attacking Angel had been conjured by Brad’s uncouth associates, who themselves had been hired by an unnamed human who had apparently ‘looked and smelt like a lawyer’. It had taken most of the night, and his entire supply of margarita glasses, to establish the spirit’s nature and origin, and the key to its demise. Blessed with a memory for detail, he’d been able to shake off his hangover long enough to give Cordelia sufficient information to exorcise the spirit. They would have to deal with the contract on Angel some other time.
          From within the pentagram, the two witches and two watchers raised there voices and shouted something in Latin. Dawn recognised the word but couldn’t remember what it meant. With a final ear-shattering shriek, the spirit disappeared.
          Dawn resisted the urge to applaud. Buffy would disapprove of her witnessing such things, so she’d be better off not drawing attention to herself.
         “Man, I’m starving,” Gunn announced, stretching up from the step he’d been sitting on. “Who’s for doughnuts?”
         Everyone agreed, and called out their favourite fillings. Cordelia quietly headed for the office, to make fresh coffee. Wesley leaned over the counter and watched her, while the others argued over the jelly to cream ratio.
         “They’ll be gone soon enough,” he said quietly, knowing she shared his longing for peace and quiet. “Everything will be back to normal by tonight.”
         Cordelia turned to face him, her face sad but not self-pitying.
         “No,” she said with a resigned half-smile. “I don’t think things will ever be the same again.”

         Buffy stretched her arms over her head, then turned onto her side and mewled softly. Her left arm dropped gently across Angel’s chest, and he smiled, his head turned to one side to watch her as she slowly woke up beside him. As her eyes focused on his face, she returned the smile.
         “Hey,” she whispered.
         “Hey,” he answered, bringing his hand up to cover hers.
         They lay there for several minutes, neither wanting to move or speak, just looking at each other. Finally, Buffy sighed.
         “We should get up,” she said reluctantly. “If you’re feeling okay?”
         “I feel okay,” Angel replied. “How about you?”
         “Okay too,” the Slayer nodded.
         Neither of them moved. They shared a conspirational smile, and moved closer together, Angel wrapping his arms protectively around her.
         “Mmmm,” Buffy sighed, “this is …”
         “Nice,” Angel supplied, as she whispered ‘heaven’.
         They looked at each other, and Angel could see the hope and uncertainty in her eyes. He smiled reassuringly, but she pulled away from him slightly and frowned.
          “Sorry,” she said, her voice heavy with regret. “I know we can’t …I know we’re not … it’s just …”
         Angel pulled her back into his embrace, and stroked her hair.
         “We’ll work something out,” he promised her. “I’m not letting you go again.”
         “I think it was me that did the letting go,” she said in a small voice, remembering the chaos of Graduation Day. She’d watched him turn and walk away into the smoke and out of her life.
          “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “We’re in this together now.”
         Heart pounding, Buffy clung to him. Then she looked up again and searched his face, her eyes wide with realisation at what he’d said.
         “So … so I’m still your girl?” she asked, her voice quiet but strong.
         “Always,” he told her with a tender smile. “Always.”