DISCLAIMER: The 1998 and 1999 scenes of this story are taken from Amends and I Will Remember You. Dialogue from those scenes is taken from the show, to ensure that what unfolds in the fanfic is rooted in the logic of the show as we have seen it so far. Some lines of dialogue from the 2000 scene and the italicized lines of the opening dream sequence from the 2005 scene originated with Carrie, whose "A Thin Line Between" inspired this fic, and are used by permission. As to the characters…if I owned them, half the eps this season would never have gotten off the drawing board, and while Buffy might have started dating Riley, they wouldn't have gone beyond holding hands. Parker who? I still stand behind Joss Whedon's statement that BtVS was meant to be the kind of show which inspired fanfic, and intend no infringement on the copyrights owned by Mr. Whedon, the WB, Fox, Mutant Enemy, Sand Dollar Productions much less any of the brilliant writers associated with BtVS and Ats.

RATING: Okay, you do know where you are, right? My femfanfic? Which is, by definition, entirely NC-17?

SPOILERS: Rumored ending for season four.

NOTE: I was relying on memory for the scenes with the Mohra demon from I Will Remember You, and misremembered one word. He actually says "powerful" not "invincible" but I am taking artistic license and using the incorrect word, for reasons which will be clear by the end of the story.

SUMMARY: B/A The Angst The Anger The Smut The Resolution See, Carrie's little catharsis fic, "A Thin Line Between" (which you should read before you read this) really, really got to me. So I had to write this as a sequel. Because I have to believe that the only way that Buffy and Angel would ever hurt each other is if some extremely Evil Power used arcane abilities, like malignant magic, mind control, or acid-tripping scriptwriters, to make them do it. And that in the end, it could all be put right. With a healthy dose of smut along the way. Before everything gets put right, because its more fun that way, at least I think so. You'll let me know if you agree.

CAVEAT: I've been under time constraints, and it's been a while since the site was updated. So I didn't ask to have this piece edited, and any typos, misspellings, grammatical or syntactical errors should be blamed squarely on yours truly. I tried to catch as many as possible, and I believe that nothing too egregious remains.

THANKS: To Carrie for inspiration, and for permission to play with her creation.

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by
Margot Le Faye

--Spike, Lover's Walk

The being who had taken the shape of Jenny Calendar looked at her. "Hmm. I'm impressed," It said. Still, It was confident that things were going to go as It desired.

"You won't get Angel," Buffy said flatly.

"Hmm. You think you can fight me? I'm not a demon, little girl. I am something that you can't even conceive. The First Evil. Beyond sin, beyond death. I am the thing the darkness fears. You'll never see me, but I am everywhere. Every being, every thought, every drop of hate."

"All right, I get it. You're evil. Do we have to chat about it all day?" The First looked at the impudent child before It. Did such a fragile, transient creature think she could defeat Its ancient, sublime and incomparable malevolence? The child would learn otherwise, and the lesson would be delicious.

"Angel will be dead by sunrise," It taunted her, now. "Your Christmas will be his wake."

"No."

"You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"Lemme guess," the child said. "Is it...evil?"

The first was no longer amused. The child was annoying. It dropped Its semblance of humanity and projected an image, one of Its many facets, though not all of Its true self. The child ran away.

"Dead by sunrise!" the First shrieked in triumph.

Prematurely.

The First was appalled by the snowfall. They had taken a hand in the game. More, the First itself had failed. It had not been able to seduce Angel into destroying Buffy. Quickly reviewing the strategy It had employed, the first realized Its mistake; It had been too obvious, trying to tempt the lover into destroying the beloved. Next time, a more delicate approach would be required.

Something so insidious, so subtle, not even They would realize It was behind matters. Contemplating the possibilities, the First sank deeper into the subterranean labyrinths of Sunnydale.

The Mohra demon was exultant. He had succeeded in eliminating one warrior, rendering Angel human and useless in the fight against evil. Now, he was about to destroy the Slayer herself and pave the way for the encroaching darkness.

"Together, you were invincible," he flung at them, jubilant at the approaching victory. "Apart, you are dead!"

But they weren't quite so far apart, yet. A moment later, Angel gave his beloved the clue she needed, and Buffy swung the morning star into the jewel that controlled the Mohra's life force. With a scream, he shattered like the jewel. And Buffy bent to croon over the man she loved above all else in the world.

"Shhh. You're all right. That's all that matters. You're all right." She bent to kiss the top of his head, so grateful that he had survived this. "It's over. And we're together."

"You knew he wasn't a match for those things!" Buffy found herself screaming at Angel. She couldn’t control herself, it was as if all the grief and hurt and anger were just rising up, demanding that she speak. God, she wanted to hurt him, hurt him the way he had hurt her…

Suddenly, as if a voice were whispering the exact words Buffy needed in her ear, she knew how to hurt him. "You murderous, blood-sucking fiend," she said, putting all her anger into her voice. Angel stared at her in disbelief, mouth open in shock.

"Buffy!" he groaned unable to accept that the woman he loved, the woman for whom he had sacrificed every drop of happiness he had ever known could stand there and say what she was saying.

"Did you ever love me at all?" she demanded, another thought from the helpful whispers prompted her to say. "Or was it just really neat for the Scourge of Europe to have a Slayer go all moony over him? Because if you loved me you could never have endangered someone I care about."

This couldn't be happening, Angel thought sickly. Buffy couldn't be saying these things, not after everything they had been through together, all they had survived.

Everything you sacrificed for her, a whisper inside his mind reminded him. Suddenly his grief left him, and he felt a welcome rush of anger.

"You aren't even going to give me five minutes to explain, are you?" he asked coldly, already knowing the answer.

He was being cold and calm and remote and it hurt her so badly she had to gasp for the next breath. "I don't have five minutes to waste," she hurled at him, furious and aching so badly she could die of it. Angel nodded, turning on his heel and leaving her. Grief and rage swamping her, Buffy screamed out, "And don't ever, ever let me see you again! I don't need your help!" He disappeared from view. Pain settled over her heart like ice over a shallow pond, freezing all the life within it. Buffy forced her attention back to Riley.

And deep within the subterranean labyrinths beneath the Hellmouth, something infinitely old and infinitely wicked smiled to Itself, content.

Gasping, Buffy came awake. For a moment, relief overwhelmed her; she had been having a nightmare. But a second later, the pain returned: not a nightmare, a memory, one relived almost nightly for the past three years. With a sigh, Buffy tossed off the covers and padded to the bathroom, knowing from experience that it was pointless to try to get any sleep right now. She would grab a quick shower, maybe do a minor workout, then catch up on a bit of demonology research before attempting to sleep again. An attempt she wouldn't make until a few hours had passed, when she would have put enough distance between herself and the re-enactment. With luck, she might even get the rest she needed to open her dojo on time, and not leave it as she so often had to, for her assistant to do.

Luck was not with her. The shower did not soothe her muscles, the workout did not focus her mind, the research did not distract her thoughts. Two years ago, maybe even one, she would have called her best friend, Willow, or perhaps even Xander, people who would understand, who cared for her, who would try to help ease her pain. But she had drifted away from them. She had gradually drifted away from everyone and every thing after that bitter night. Her body had healed. Her spirit never would.

And the hell of it was that she knew he had been justified.

She couldn't lie to herself, couldn't make Angel the bad guy, couldn't summon anger or rage or indignation to say that he hadn't understood, that he had hurt her so deeply that he had no right to be upset by the words she had spoken in unthinking anger. The truth was, that she had not been unthinking. She had wanted to hurt him. She had succeeded. And in the end, she had hurt herself even more.

Buffy went through the motions. At twenty-four, she had almost reached the maximum age any Slayer before her had ever attained. The thought that she was very likely to be dead within two years was one which would have terrified her, or angered her, not all that long ago. That anger would have translated into determination, and she would have fought not just to defeat evil, but to ensure that she survived to the ripe old age most people felt was their birthright. Now, she was so very, very weary, the idea of not having to fight any more, of not having to wake up every night to the same nightmare, could only be most welcome.

Sometimes, she wished that she had died in that horrific fight with the demons which had brought Angel to her hospital bed. She could at least have died believing he still loved her. But no, she didn't really deserve that kind of peace. She had to take responsibility for what had happened, for what she had done. If Angel hated her, it was because she made him hate her.

So, when her usual methods of distraction proved fruitless, she did the only thing left to her, heading for her medicine cabinet and the prescribed sleeping pills which, due to her Slayer's constitution, wouldn't keep her out for the whole night, but would at least help her get a few hours of mercifully dreamless rest.

At twenty-four, when so many women her age where on the brink of the most important years of their lives, were on the verge of beginning to realize life-long dreams, a barren dreamlessness was the only mercy Buffy Summers could hope for.

The irony did not escape him. He would have laughed if anything within him were still capable of something approaching joy.

"This is my reward?" he said politely, instead.

"Not the one envisioned for you," the female Oracle said. "The time has not ripened. But one which it is judged you have earned."

"So, my soul is anchored," Angel said. "No matter how happy I become, I won't turn into a soulless murdering monster again." The female Oracle beamed at him. He decided not to shatter her illusions. It simply wasn't worth it.

"Thank you," he said with as much sincerity at he could muster. He didn't fool her. She stopped beaming at him and narrowed her eyes instead.

"Have you forgotten what is not strained? I once said that you were not a lower being," she told him. "Don't prove me wrong." He wanted to ask her what she meant, but she flung a hand upward and he was outside again, under the old post office. Sighing, Angel picked himself up and began the walk back to his office.

Six years ago, he would have thanked the Oracles on bended knee and wept tears of joy for the reward he had been given. It would have meant the world to him, would have meant that he could have a chance to find happiness with the only woman he had loved in the nearly two hundred and fifty years of his existence. Now, the danger of him losing his soul to a moment's happiness, contentment or peace was laughably remote.

Despite the promises and threats each had made the other, Angel had in fact seen Buffy again. In the war they waged, it was simply inevitable. Once, Cordy had been taken hostage by a tribe of elder demons even Angel couldn't handle by himself. He was game to try, but Wesley had savagely asked if his hurt pride was worth Cordy's life. Stung, Angel had reluctantly allowed Wesley to make the call.

Seeing her had been harder than he expected. Anger he thought banked rushed to the surface, the darkness within him swelled, straining to be released. He fought it down, concentrating on the need to help Cordy. Calming himself, he looked back to the Slayer. He could tell that his parting words to her the last time they'd met had had the desired effect. Looking into her eyes he saw what he knew must be reflected in his own; not pain or anger or regret, but emptiness. She was now as dead inside as he was. Her green eyes were no longer luminous, her skin no longer glowed. She was not merely thin, but worn, almost gaunt.

He had once thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. She was still lovely, but her beauty seemed somehow brittle, breakable. He had one moment's savage satisfaction, one moment of anger so vivid he could feel himself quiver with it as his demon tested his control to the breaking point. The moment passed and Angel briskly told her what she needed to know. As briskly, she nodded to show she understood, and proposed a plan.

In the heat of battle, with others to consider and more at stake than their own despair, they worked together as smoothly as ever, intuitively and seamlessly, each understanding where and how the other would move, anticipating it, making it part of their plan. They decimated the demon clan, and got Cordy free.

But with Cordy removed to safety by Wesley, and the pressure off, when it was only the lesser minions they had to mop up and only themselves at risk, their synchronicity fell apart. Buffy took a sword cut to her thigh, Angel a stake that missed his heart by inches. They each managed to get to their feet unassisted and limp off the battlefield, triumphant.

And isolated. Though Wesley bound Buffy's injuries, she and Angel parted without another word.

A second encounter just a few months earlier had been unplanned. They had both gone after the same demon for different reasons, finding it in neutral territory halfway between their two cities. They had exchanged information, made the kill and parted, again without any words. Why had he looked back? What did it matter to him that her straight carriage was no longer quite so straight, that her shoulders seemed just a bit bowed by the burden she had borne for very nearly ten years. She was approaching the limit for a Slayer's lifetime. The past four years had been as joyless for her as they had been for him, and she might die in that joylessness. But then, even if he managed to survive another twenty decades, so would he. And that was why the reward from The Powers That Be struck him as pointless.

Angel couldn't even imagine ever being happy again.

Giles was excited.

"I don't think you quite understand what this means."

"I'm another year older?" Buffy said mildly. They were sitting on a small couch in the office of the bookstore Giles had opened several years before. Specializing in rare books allowed Giles to cultivate sources that sometimes led him to useful volumes of occult lore. Owning his own business gave him the flexibility to help Buffy with research when that was needed…less and less frequently as the years went by. Buffy was enjoying a mug of tea, watching in faint amusement as Giles gestured toward a pile of correspondence on his desk.

"You are the first Slayer in recorded history to live to be twenty-six," Giles said, as if that explained everything. He grinned rather foolishly at her, a very un-Gileslike act, and turned from the correspondence to a plate of scones. They were brushed with cinnamon and stuffed with currents and would have been delicious if not for one thing: Giles had baked them himself and they were of a dryness dust would envy. He only baked them for special occasions, and Buffy knew that he felt his news was special indeed. She didn't share that view.

"Lucky me," she said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She took another sip of tea.

"Buffy…" Giles looked at her helplessly. Buffy sighed. What had happened to her wasn't his fault, but, like any parent --and Giles was more a father to her than the late Hank Summers had ever been-- Giles suffered when she was in pain. The least she could do was spare him the worst of it.

"No, Giles," she said now, setting her mug down on a coaster and reaching a hand to his arm reassuringly. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know I should be happy about this. But truthfully…no big. Another day. I made it to twenty-six. I might make it to twenty-seven. But you know, you've always known," her voice gentled, as if to ease a blow, "that with Slayers, it doesn't really matter. Whenever I stop making it…another one will be called."

"There are still some of us to whom it matters very much indeed," he said quietly. She gave him a wistful smile, patted his arm a final time and went back to her tea.

"I know," she said. What she did not say was that it no longer mattered to her. Giles realized it, anyway. And felt that he had to try to make it matter. If not for herself, than for others.

"Buffy, as you may or may not realize, I did not cut all my ties with the Council. When you reached your twenty-fourth birthday, I began to hope…well, I began to do certain kinds of research. Officially the Council was unwilling to help me. Unofficially, one or two friends managed to find what I needed."

"Which was?" Buffy asked.

"No Slayer has ever lived to be twenty-six. But there have been prophecies about what should happen if one lived a bit longer. The Metzynsk Tablets, very ancient writings uncovered in Siberia and rumored to date to the Bronze age, have a few lines. The Compton Scrolls, which were found on Crete and are possibly even older than the Tablets, seem to have a bearing on it, as well."

"A bearing on what?" Buffy asked, trying to sound interested.

"On…on what might happen to a Slayer who reaches thirty."

FEMFIC         PART 2        FEEDBACK