Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angel’s bare feet padded down the hall into the kitchen of his San Francisco apartment. He pressed his palms to his eye sockets, a feeble attempt to look more than half awake.

It was mid-afternoon, but it felt unspeakably early for a vampire with nowhere else to be. He wasn't even sure why he'd dragged himself out of bed. Probably habit, more than anything else.  

Maybe it was just less painful to be awake. The nightmares had been a constant, these past three months.

Sometimes, his brain re-enacted the final showdown. It was like Groundhog Day met Nightmare on Elm Street.

He stood in the pouring rain and watched Gunn die over and over, never able to save him. He screamed in horror as Illyria, with all her superhuman speed and strength, was momentarily confused and then unable to break free from the magical noose that appeared around her neck. 

Yet somehow those vivid replays paled in horrific comparison to the nights when he closed his eyes and dreamed of Buffy coming to save them.

Sometimes she arrived on her own, grinning excitedly at the idea of fighting alongside him. Sometimes she brought other slayers as reinforcements. Sometimes, when the battle was over and the team was victorious he took her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. 

Every time he woke up, the grief and anguish would hit him all over again. The false memories were nothing but a searingly painful reminder that Buffy had not come. Had not saved any of them.

Angel shivered involuntarily as he moved further into the apartment. There was a weird tingling in his spine that he couldn't shake. Maybe something else had pulled him from his slumber.

A scratching noise. Faint, metallic. Like a nail tapping against wood. He’d heard it as he stirred, half-submerged in a dream. It could’ve been part of the nightmare. Or not.

Angel shook his head. These days it was getting harder to tell which sounds were real and which ones were just echoes from that alley.

"Oh Sleeping Beauty is here." Spike announced loudly. "Your wake windows are getting so short, soon you'll be lucky to guest star in your own bloody life." 

Angel sighed and rolled his eyes but a witty retort evaporated on his lips. Spike was intolerable, but also remained his only steadfast companion. 

Angel snatched a white mug, faintly stained red from constant use, off the drying rack near the sink and filled it with lukewarm black coffee from the pot. Wordlessly, he crossed the room and slouched into a chair at the table. 

The furniture was cheaply made and the Formica table was chipping at the corners, but large enough to suit their meagre needs.

They'd been lucky to find a fully furnished apartment at short notice after the 'earthquake' in downtown Los Angeles and Angel supposed that any table was better than none.

The apartment was on the first floor, with the front door leading directly out onto the street. It comprised of a small kitchen, a shared living and dining space, a leaky little bathroom and two bedrooms barely large enough for a full-sized bed each. But it was a place to call home, at least temporarily, until they could figure out their next moves. 

With Angel seated, three of the four chairs pulled up to the table were now occupied. He was glad of the company, but also not really in the mood to make idle conversation. 

To his left, Spike was using a spoon to stir cinnamon toast crunch in a bowl full of blood. Angel shuddered at the sight of it and immediately turned away.

To his right, Connor was casually leafing through the newspaper. Nowadays the kid walked into the apartment like he owned the place, which was new. Good new, but new.

"Hi Connor, it's nice to see you." Angel greeted his son with genuine warmth. 

After a few moments Connor dropped the black and white broadsheet onto the table and glanced over at Angel. 

"You look tired. Did you finally go out patrolling last night?" he asked, almost hopefully. 

"No. Just more nightmares. They're still constant." Angel shrugged, sipping absently at the disgusting black coffee in front of him. "Every time I sleep I'm back in that alley watching my friends die."

Connor didn’t press. He was better about that lately. There’d been a time when he’d have lit the fuse just to see what would happen.

"Well I didn't die." Spike announced cheerfully around a mouthful of food. 

Angel eyed his roommate disdainfully. "Exactly." 

Connor and Spike exchanged knowing looks before they both turned simultaneously towards Angel. For some reason, the pair seemed to somewhat enjoy each other's company - a fact which Angel could never truly comprehend.

Of course Connor didn't have to actually live with Spike. His son continued to reside on campus at Stanford and merely visited periodically. Angel assumed it was much easier to tolerate a menace like Spike on a part-time basis. 

"You need to come to terms with what happened." Connor said. "You need to carry on with your life. Or, your unlife. You know what I mean." 

Angel sighed heavily again. "But how do I do that, Connor? In so many ways I'm responsible for the death of my friends, the deaths of civilians, the destruction of several blocks in the downtown." 

"Including the Hollywood Bowl and the Walk of Fame." Spike mumbled, his mouth still full of cereal. 

"You made the decision you believed to be right." Connor said, ignoring Spike's input. "Your friends chose to fight alongside you. We all did. This isn't on you alone. We all wanted to beat Wolfram and Hart."

"Not everyone..." Angel muttered angrily. 

Both Connor and Spike knew exactly what Angel was inferring. It had been a long few months of rehashing the whys and the why-nots of that particular situation. 

"No, not everyone. Take me, for example." Spike said. "I just wanted to slay that dragon." 

"Spike." Connor hissed lowly. "You're not helping." 

"Oh have a go." Spike replied. "I've just about had it up to my bloody eyeballs with Captain Misery over there. He just lies about the place moping like some kind of dreary abstract art exhibit." 

"This is an understandable reaction to a serious tragedy, Spike." Angel fumed. "I'm allowed to feel any way I want."

"So am I." Spike said. "And I choose to feel annoyed at you for being such a brooding old bastard when we could be out fighting the big bads of the world." 

Angel slammed his coffee mug down with such force the brown liquid splattered across the table. 

"I don't understand how you can just move on so casually, Spike." Angel snapped angrily. "She meant something to you, too. She let you down, too." 

"You've currently filled the position of 'depressed souled vampire obsessing over the slayer' so I have no choice but to make peace with the situation." Spike snorted. 

"It's not a joke." Angel shouted. "Are you trying to say you've forgiven her?" 

"Maybe if you'd actually spoken to she-who-shall-not-be-named when she reached out after the battle, you wouldn't be acting like such a dull pillock right now." Spike shouted back. 

"Enough!" Connor thundered, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. 

Angel immediately looked shocked at his son's outburst, whilst Spike shrugged off the tension and flopped back into his seat. 

"Why don't you two go out and do something cheerful tonight?" Connor suggested, clearly trying to de-escalate another quarrel. "Find some demons to pummel or some vampires to de-fang."

It had been weeks since they'd last managed to get Angel to agree to patrol and even longer since he'd last claimed any type of underworld kill. San Francisco wasn't exactly a hot bed of demonic activity. The catastrophic destruction in Los Angeles and the closing of the Sunnydale hellmouth had sent most undesirables scampering out of California as fast as their evil little legs could carry them. 

"Will you join us, Con?" Spike asked, suddenly much more upbeat. 

"Not tonight, sadly." Connor replied. "I've actually got to head back to campus to finish off a paper due tomorrow. Then I'm taking Erin to Lake Tahoe for the weekend to celebrate our one month anniversary." 

Spike snorted and rolled his eyes. "One month anniversary? I'll never understand the hopelessly romantic youth of today." 

"Should I tell Connor what you were like in your youth, William?" Angel asked, naturally coming to the defence of his offspring. 

"What's that?" Spike spluttered. "A one month anniversary? Sounds lovely. Send a postcard." 

Connor smirked at Spike then rose from the table, folded the newspaper neatly and dropped his coffee mug into the kitchen sink. 

"Bye guys." he said. "I'll drive up to see you early next week. Try to behave until then."

Connor affectionately clapped Angel on the back by way of farewell (they were on much better terms, but not yet at the point where Connor was openly calling him dad) then headed for the door. 

"Bye Connor, be safe." Angel called after him. 

"Bye Connor." Spike added. “If anyone gives you grief, tell ’em your undead nephew says hi. And also - sod off.”

The sound of Connor's laughter was the last thing they heard as the front door shut behind him and the apartment was plunged back into the safety of darkness. 

For a few moments, Spike and Angel sat in tense silence. Eventually, Spike chuckled and shook his head. 

"He's a fun kid. I like him." Spike said. "He's way more fun than you." 

Angel begrudgingly mused that, if anything, Spike knowing exactly how to get on his nerves signified a special type of platonic intimacy between them.  

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" he scoffed. 

"If you think that's insulting, wait until you hear everything else I have to say about you." Spike grinned mischievously. 

Angel rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just please stop referring to Connor as your uncle." 

"He's your son. I'm your grandchilde." Spike argued indignantly. "That makes him an uncle to me."

"He's. Not. Your. Uncle." Angel repeated slowly and emphatically. 

Suddenly, the front door swung open again and Connor’s figure was silhouetted against the bright California sun.

“Look, here he is again,” Spike said. “My dear old Uncle Con.”

“Connor, did you forget something?” Angel asked, shooting a murderous glare at Spike.

“No,” Connor replied, wandering in as he turned a thick cream envelope over in his hands. “There was a letter nailed to the front door. Like, actually hammered in. With an old brass tack. It’s weird.”

“The U.S. Postal Service really does go above and beyond these days,” Spike quipped.

He reached out enthusiastically, but Connor deftly dodged him and passed the envelope to his father instead.

Angel felt that strange tingling at the base of his spine again. Sharper this time. He slipped a thumb beneath the ornate red wax seal and cracked it open. The parchment inside was thick and stiff, humming with faint magical energy as he unfolded it.

“So what is it?” Spike asked, suddenly curious and maybe a little too eager. “An invitation to Cinderella’s ball?”

Angel’s expression remained unreadable as his eyes skimmed the contents. He said nothing for a long moment.

“Well?” Connor prompted, a bit more anxious now.

“It is an invitation,” Angel said at last, his voice flat.

“When the bloody hell did you meet Cinderella?” Spike asked, brows raised.

“No, not from Cinderella.” Angel scowled and dropped the letter onto the table. “It’s an invitation to the Centennial Battle in the Badlands Thunderdome.”

Connor perked up. “That actually sounds kind of cool. Should I cancel my weekend with Erin?”

“Absolutely not,” Angel snapped. “The Badlands Thunderdome is a complete waste of time. Be grateful it only happens once every hundred years."

"What even is the Badlands Thunderdome?" Connor asked.

"Just a bunch of demons hacking each other apart in some off-brand dimension for the chance to win a prize." Angel scoffed. "Fighting for a cursed jewel or enchanted dagger or some other shiny piece of garbage. It has nothing to do with us.”

"Well." Spike said conspiratorially. "I mean...I like enchanted daggers?" 

"No, Spike." Angel said resolutely. "We're not going. End of story." 

Spike stood motionless, staring Angel down like a puppy waiting for a treat. His mouth twisted into a sly grin, but there was a hint of genuine disappointment in his eyes. He took a step forward, as if he might push the matter a little further.

“No,” Angel said again, even more firmly this time, his voice sharp and final.

Spike’s grin faltered, but he didn’t back down.  “What’s the worst that could happen? Cursed jewels, demon fights. It could really brighten your mood.”

"No."

With a grunt of frustration, Angel turned sharply and retreated down the hall. He slammed his bedroom door with a resounding thud, the echo reverberating through the small apartment.

"Can I just -" Spike started again. 

Angel’s furious shout echoed from the other room. “No.”

Spike paused, staring at the door, brow furrowed as though considering one last attempt. His jaw clenched, but he ultimately huffed and turned away. “Well, that’s that then. What a bloody waste.”

Connor, who’d been lingering by the kitchen counter, sighed wistfully “I’ll head out again now.”

"Go on then, don't let me keep you." Spike gave him a lazy salute. “Need to make sure at least one of us gets some action this weekend."

Connor shook his head, amused, and made his way to the door. As it clicked shut behind him, Spike flopped onto the couch, stretching out lazily.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy in a way that only being around Angel could make it feel.

He turned his attention to the table, where the invitation lay half-crumpled, the envelope torn open with that unique Angel flair.

“Bloody Poof.” Spike muttered, shaking his head. He grabbed the paper, smoothing it out between thumb and forefinger, eyes skimming past the ridiculous flaming skulls and overly designed blood fonts until they hit the block text near the bottom.

LIVE PRIZE. SLAYER. 

Spike’s eyes froze.

“No,” he whispered.

Meanwhile, Angel sat in the shadows of his room, unmoving.

That stupid invitation. He’d read it earlier. He hadn't wanted to, but he had. He’d stared down that word like it might set him on fire. Slayer. 

And then he’d done what he always did. Shut the door. Folded the feeling. Buried it deep.

Spike’s movements in the other room were not subtle. He could hear footsteps, drawers flung open, the sharp metallic clink of weapons.

Angel stayed where he was, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders curled inward like the walls were pressing in.

Every time he heard “slayer,” it was her. Even now. Especially now. He told himself it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be. Buffy would never get caught. She wasn't just a slayer, she was the slayer. She would never let herself be paraded in a cage.

But that image was still there. The flicker of it in his mind's eye. Her face bloodied, her wrists chained, her eyes meeting his across a crowd that cheered her name like a joke.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t want to go.

Because if it was her, and he was too late...

Spike didn't knock. He shoved the door open and marched in like the place owed him something.

“Did you actually read this, or did you just assume it was another mid-tier apocalypse with a drink voucher?”

Angel didn’t flinch. “I read it.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going.” Angel muttered, the words coming out flat, detached.

Angel didn’t even look up from where he sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, his hands clenched into fists as if the weight of the world rested there.

Spike blinked, as if trying to process this absurdity. “Not going? There’s a Slayer in a cage and you’re just going to do what? Pretend it doesn’t matter?”

“It’s a fight night invitation. I’m not interested.”

“No, it’s not just a fight night.” Spike shoved the invite toward him. “The Badlands Thunderdome’s offering a live prize for the first time ever.”

Angel finally looked at him, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Just the cold, relentless mask he wore whenever something hit too close to home. “It’s not her.”

Spike stepped closer, not backing down. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Angel replied, voice sharp, his jaw tight. “If she were taken, I’d know.”

Spike’s gaze hardened. “Is that right? Because your soul’s still tuned to Buffy-FM is it?”

At this accusation, Angel said nothing.

Spike stepped in front of him. “You’re still nursing wounds like they’re pets. You want the whole world to suffer a little so it matches your pain.”

Angel’s expression shifted. Spike could see rage rising, then dying just as fast. Something else surfacing underneath.

“It’s not her,” Angel said, like the words were some kind of armor.

But Spike could hear it. The hesitation in his voice, the crack in his resolve. He wasn’t sure he believed it, and he didn’t think Angel did either.

“You think if it’s not Buffy, it doesn’t matter." Spike said, feeling the peculiarity at finally saying her name out loud. "Like it’s just another fight in another arena. But you’re wrong.”

Angel clenched his fists again, standing slowly, his muscles tense. “I don’t need to fix everything that’s broken.”

Spike tilted his head, keeping his voice level but steady. “You keep telling yourself that, but we both know it’s not true.”

Angel’s face flickered with something—frustration, maybe guilt—but he shoved it down, turning away. “I’m not going.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. He could feel the old wounds beneath Angel’s layers, the way the past still lived in him, eating away at the parts of him that used to believe in saving the world. But Spike wasn’t letting it slide anymore.

“You’re still pissed she didn’t come for you. You’re pissed none of them did.” Spike’s voice grew more intense, but there was something more underneath it. An edge of understanding, of recognition. He’d seen that bitterness before. “You think you’re the only one who got left in that alley?"

Angel spun around, his voice rising in anger, but the pain beneath it was clear. “It’s not the same. You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Spike shot back. “You think because Buffy didn’t save you, it means no one gets saved.”

“That’s not what I said.” Angel’s words were clipped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone.”

“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that,” Spike said. “Because what makes you a hero is somehow shutting everyone out until the only thing left to save is your own damn pride?”

Angel flinched, like the words stung more than anything Spike had said in years. But he quickly masked it, pulling his shoulders back and straightening. “I said it’s not her. And I’m not going.”

"The last portal jump out of this dimension leaves in thirty minutes. We're rapidly running out of time to debate this."

Spike didn’t move. His gaze was steady, unflinching. His tactic was working because Angel's resolve was crumbling before his eyes.

“At least call the Slayer Academy. Confirm it first.” Angel suggested meekly.

“I did." Spike answered instantly. "No answer. Not even an answering machine. You know what that means?"

"They're already gone." Angel said lowly. "Or they're in trouble."

Silence.

Spike’s voice softened, a hint of something close to concern in it. “I packed your bag. Clothes. Weapons. And I threw in your favorite trench coat. The one that makes you look all broody and mysterious."

For a long moment, Angel didn’t respond. He just stood there, arms crossed, his mind racing.

“Listen, I’m not asking you to feel anything about it,” Spike said, his tone dropping, but firm. “But I need you to do something. I need you to come with me. We need to go. We are not the men who sit around and let innocent victims die. We never will be.”

Angel exhaled a long breath, the tension in his body easing just a little. There was no grand gesture. No epiphany, no declaration. He simply crossed to the foot of the bed, picked up the bag, and threw it over his shoulder.

Spike’s eyes flicked to the packed bag, a slight smirk curling on his lips. “About time. Took you long enough.”

Without another word, Angel turned toward the door, and they left the apartment together.

Two old soldiers once again heading into battle, each carrying more than their share of ghosts.

The Thunderdome loomed before them. 

It was an arena of gargantuan proportions, with a fully enclosed roof. Structurally, it reminded Angel of a medieval version of the superdome, except nobody was here to play football. 

The air was thick with the scent of anticipation, a tangible buzz that was only intensified by the sounds of the crowd that congregated outside the stadium. Thankfully the sun wasn't a death sentence in the dimension of Vhentarros and the vampires could linger outside. 

Vhentarros was not a well known dimension. In fact it was a sealed, pocket dimension carved out of the chaos between realms. It was originally forged as a penal colony for demon warlords exiled from other hell dimensions. Over the centuries, it had evolved to become a brutal entertainment empire where bloodsports were currency and power was won through survival.

This place, the Thunderdome, had its claws deep in the realm of suffering. Angel’s mind flashed back to the last time he had stepped foot inside. He'd only ever visited as a spectator and never as Angel, only as Angelus. 

He’d once wandered through these halls with Darla, a witness to the brutal games. Back then he had relished in the violence and the blood shed. That was a long time ago, but the memories were still vivid. 

Spike’s voice cut through his thoughts, a little too chipper for Angel’s liking. 

"Well, this looks like a party,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t imagine a better way to spend my weekend.”

"Stick close." Angel replied lowly. "This is not the sort of place you want to get lost." 

Spike nodded obediently and closed the already narrow space between their bodies, reaching out to take Angel's hand. 

Angel rolled his eyes at Spike's immature sense of humor and lightly shoved his travel companion away. "Not that close."

Spike sniggered and tipped his head toward Angel, his voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “You know, for someone who used to bathe in the blood of convent girls, you’re a little jumpy about some platonic hand holding.”

Angel didn’t look at him. “That was centuries ago.”

“Yeah.” Spike agreed, stepping closer to the entrance of the stadium. “Back when you had better hair.”

"Right." Angel said, slinging his backpack higher on his shoulder and indicating they should make their way towards the entrance. "Shall we?" 

They pushed through the last stone arch and stepped into the Thunderdome proper. Spike immediately stopped walking to stare in unbridled awe. 

“Oh. Oh, this is brilliant,” he said, staring at the chaos ahead.

Angel had tried to explain the Thunderdome to Spike on the journey to Vhentarros, but nothing could quite explain the enormous reality. It was a sunken pit of churned red dirt and jagged rocks, surrounded by tiers upon tiers of stone seating that stretched high above them in a brutal amphitheater. 

The center, the arena itself, was called The Maw. The seating above was known as the Circles of Dominion. Beneath the arena lay a vast labyrinthine undercroft, where holding cells, barracks and training chambers held secrets unknown. The blood that seeped into the dirt floor of the arena, absorbed by the Maw itself, fed the magic that kept the games going. 

Whilst many bloodsports took place inside the arena, the Centennial Badlands Thunderdome was the premier event in the dimension. There was a reason it only took place once every hundred years and demon teams would train for decades just to earn their place in the contest. Why he'd received an invite, he just wasn't sure. 

Angel stopped and turned to beckon Spike onward. 

"We need to keep moving." Angel said. "We need to find this slayer before it's too late."

"And how are we going to do that, exactly?" Spike asked, furrowing his brow. "This is less like a stadium and more like a violent little town. It'll be like finding a slayer in a haystack."

Before Angel could open his mouth to reply, a familiar and furious voice echoed through the chamber.

"No, you listen to me. She's a slayer, not a trophy. If this is your idea of a prize, your entire dimension needs therapy." 

Buffy. 

She was alive.

And she wasn't the one locked away.

That knowledge hit him like a sucker punch to the undead heart. It was relief, both thick and immediate, mixed with guilt he hadn’t planned on feeling and anger he hadn’t meant to carry.

Angel followed the sound of her voice and spotted her almost immediately. 

Buffy stood on a makeshift platform a few levels above the main ring, flanked by Xander and Faith. She was mid-rant at a tall blue demon in a gold-threaded robe. Her hands carved shapes in the air as she argued, her voice sharp enough to cut through the cacophony of the arena.

"So let me get this straight." she shouted. "You kidnapped a teenage girl to raffle as a prize and now you want us to applaud your sense of tradition? Bold move. Let me know how that goes.”

Angel watched her intently as she argued like her life depended on it. No, not her life. The life of one of her slayers. 

Her back was straight, her posture commanding, but Angel could see the edge in her eyes. She was holding it together, but just barely. There was a heaviness to her that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her.

God, she looked good. Strong. Livid. But good.

Her boots were scuffed, her knuckles raw. She was dressed for battle in dark pants and a skintight black shirt, a silver cross glistened around her neck. Her hair was tied back in a rough, hastily done twist that hadn’t stopped strands from falling into her face.

She moved like someone who hadn't let herself stop moving for days. He knew that rhythm. He’d lived it. She was running on guilt, on rage, on purpose.

“Are we going in, or just having a little lurk-and-long?” Spike asked dryly from behind Angel, arms folded.

Angel scowled at Spike and simply gestured his head to the left, to indicate which way they should move. 

They kept to the shadows, skirting the chaotic perimeter of the arena’s central floor. Spike followed silently, for once not pushing the moment with commentary.

They climbed a spiral staircase carved out of sandstone, slipping between stacked crates and iron torch brackets, half-hidden behind a spiked column as they moved nearer. 

From this new vantage point they could make out more of the situation. They could also see more members of Buffy's entourage. Dawn and Willow were also there, standing a few feet away and closer to the wall. They were alert, speaking in hushed tones to five teenage girls behind them - all buzzing with nervous energy. 

Baby slayers, Angel decided. Or what did the Scoobies call them? Slayerettes. 

Three demon organizers, the rulers of this dimension, stood across from Buffy. Angel recognized them by reputation alone. The demon conversing with Buffy was Tzarael, the smooth-talking negotiator of the ruling demon family. He was a wheeler and a dealer, always manipulating situations in favor of the Thunderdome leadership. 

Behind Tzarael stood Glornax, the Thunderdome Warden. Standing eight foot tall, he was a hulking, monstrous demon with thick, marbled skin covered in swirling red and gold tattoos that seem to shift and glow in the heat of the arena.

To the left of Glornax, in all his glittering glory, was Vorthazaar. The head of the Thunderdome. Obsidian black skin, silver eyes and and sharp, angular features. He rarely floated down from his Ivory Tower to engage in dialogue with the masses, so the fact he was observing this argument was very bad news. 

The demon delegation looked passive and unmoved as Buffy fought passionately. These overlords were not to be trifled with. Buffy clearly had no idea who she was dealing with. 

Tzarael smirked as he shook his head. “I've told you, little girl. The Thunderdome is a team event and entry is by invitation only. You don’t have one. And we don’t take kindly to outsiders trying to disrupt our events.”

“And I’ve told you, we’re not leaving until we get my slayer.” Buffy’s voice increased in urgency and anger. 

The situation was growing more tense by the second, and Angel could feel his head beginning to pound with anxiety. 

"No invitation, no entry." Tzarael said, his voice smooth and calm. 

"How about my fist? Is that a good invitation?" Faith fumed, starting to step forward even as Buffy raised her arm to hold her back.

"No invitation." Tzarael repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. "No entry."

Faith gently removed Buffy's hand from where it rested against her mid-section and that subtle movement alone was enough for Glornax to take a bold step forward. 

Angel recognized the Scoobies were now in imminent danger and decided this spectacle had gone on long enough. He stood to his full height and stepped confidently from the shadows. 

“We have an invitation,” he said coldly, his voice cutting through the noise.

The air went crisp and still as thirteen pairs of eyes turned to gawk at Angel. 

He pulled the crumpled piece of parchment from his jacket pocket and held it out to the demons.

Buffy froze mid-breath. She blinked slowly, like the image in front of her might vanish if she stared too hard.

Angel.

In the flesh.

Towering. Brooding. Stupidly handsome in that way that made her want to scream and cry and throw something all at once.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Wow,” Xander muttered under his breath. “Just when you think the day couldn’t get any weirder.”

Spike chose this moment to fall into step behind Angel, brushing dust from the lapel of his coat with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Hope we’re not late,” he added. “Would’ve hated to miss the bureaucratic foreplay.”

"Whoop there it is." Xander announced. "Even weirder." 

This time, all the original Scoobies were jolted into action. 

Dawn, oblivious or willfully ignoring the emotional minefield, darted forward.

“Spike!” she beamed, throwing her arms around him. “You’re actually here! I thought you were ghosting again. But, you know, literally this time.”

Spike caught her in a tight hug, lifting her off her feet before setting her down gently. “Hey there, Bit! You’re taller. That’s unsettling.”

Angel’s jaw clenched. Once upon a time Dawn had been obsessed with him. Now he hadn’t even gotten a look. It was a fairly confronting reality. 

Similarly, Faith’s lips curled into a grin as she looked to Spike. “Look what the hellmouth dragged in. You look less crispy than last time.”

Willow also stepped forward, brushing her hands on her jeans before hugging him. “Wow. Spike. You look...not dead.”

“I get that a lot lately.” Spike murmured, clearly enjoying the attention. 

Xander crossed his arms but didn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess the roach problem’s back.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Guess the cyclops jokes are still going.”

Tense laugher rippled through the group as everyone tried to guess how Buffy would react in the presence of her exes.

She was walking toward the vampires now, more slowly, like every step was heavier than it should’ve been. She'd been focused only on Angel but her eyes moved to Spike and she smiled, tentative but clearly genuine.  

He opened his arms. “You gonna hit me or hug me?”

She didn’t answer. She just pulled him in, held him tight. When they separated, her eyes slid past his shoulder and landed firmly on Angel once again.

Angel held her gaze; couldn't look anywhere else.

Not even as Tzarael raised a hand and stepped down from the platform with a sharp-toothed grin, snatching up the proffered invitation in his hand.

“Well now,” Vorthazaar purred. “It seems protocol has been satisfied after all.”

Tzarael's eyes scanned the paper before him and he nodded in satisfaction. 

"Oh yes. That’s the Founder’s Circle sigil.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his robes. “We would be honored to accept your team’s participation.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Wait, wait — his team?”

“Don’t take it personally. I came for the slayer.” Angel said. Buffy's eyebrows were already climbing. “Not that one. The other one.” Another pause. Faith smirked. "No. The other, other one.”

"Strong opening, Peaches. Really warmed up the room." Spike said, nudging Angel playfully in the ribcage before turning to the others. "Should we hold up scorecards or just let him keep digging?"

Before the conversation could devolve further, a very annoyed Tzarael interrupted. 

“You think the game begins here? No. This is only the foyer.”

He flicked a wrist, and a circular portal snapped open on the floor—thick, glowing, and pulsing with deep red light. The air that rushed out smelled of stone, blood, and magic.

“The registration chamber awaits,” he said with a smirk. “Your invitation grants you access to the lower tunnels. Seek out the Game Master if you want to fight. Or leave now, if the rules frighten you.”

"Are the rules printed on the flyer?" Xander asked. "If so, can we ask for a photocopy?"

Without waiting for permission or clarification, Glornax shoved a lever on the obsidian wall. The ground beneath the group shifted with a mechanical groan as the portal stretched wider, forming a spiraling staircase that descended into shadow.

Buffy was the first to react, her voice determined yet clipped. “Let's get going.”

She beckoned for the slayerettes to follow and immediately disappeared down the stairs. Xander and Willow were hot on her heels. Angel fell into step with Faith and Dawn, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow.

Spike ambled in last, taking in his surroundings as he went. “Nothing like a pleasant stroll into the literal bowels of hell.”

They stumbled downward into the darkness and immediately felt the shift in humidity. The tunnels were ancient, cold and damp.

The walls pulsed with low magic, veins of glowing ore snaking along the ceiling. Strange glyphs flickered as they passed, casting warped shadows over their faces. There was no sound save their footfalls and the occasional hiss of steam escaping from unseen pipes.

They reached a vaulted chamber guarded by two massive creatures with skeletal wings and skin like charred bark. One stepped aside and gestured toward a domed structure of carved stone and bone: a registration hub, overseen by a pale, slender demon with a monocle and a ledger the size of a coffin.

“Name your team,” it said without looking up.

Buffy blinked. “Uh…we haven’t really got one.”

“How about Team Slaywatch?" Xander suggested. "Red swimsuits and slow motion running optional.”

“No,” said everyone in unison.

Buffy hesitated, still distracted by the weight of Angel’s presence. She couldn’t shake the tension in the air.

Willow, sensing Buffy’s struggle, quickly chimed in with a smile. “How about ‘The Slay Team’? Simple, no-nonsense, with a hint of badassery.”

Xander jumped in, grinning. “I’m in. And if we get matching jackets, even better. "

“Or we could go for something more dramatic." Faith piped up. "I'm thinking ‘Team Give-Back-Our-Slayer'"

Buffy blinked, looking anywhere but at Angel, who was still standing off to the side, brooding silently. She felt the weight of his stare, but it was like a thousand miles away. The air around him practically hummed with unresolved tension.

“Um, no.” Buffy said quietly, her voice strained. “We’ll go with ‘The Slay Team’ I think.” It was the easiest option, and right now, she didn’t have the mental space for anything else.

Willow nodded, trying to keep the mood light. “'The Slay Team' it is. Catchy and to the point.”

The demon with the monocle, looking utterly indifferent, scribbled something in the ledger and snapped it shut. “The Slay Team. You are now officially registered. Report to the holding cells and await your briefing.”

As they turned to leave, Angel stayed behind, his posture stiff, his eyes lingering on Buffy longer than he meant to. The brooding still simmered beneath the surface, but it was tangled with an internal battle.

He couldn’t ignore the pull to her, the way his chest tightened every time she was near, but that was coupled with the bitter sting of abandonment from L.A and he wasn't quite sure how to reconcile it. 

They left the registration chamber in silence, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the stone and steel of the fortress halls. The air grew colder as they descended. Ahead, the demon with rust-red skin and bone spurs led the way, his clawed hands clasped behind his back like some twisted concierge.

He stopped before a thick metal door and punched in a code. With a groan, it hissed open, revealing their holding cell.

It was bigger than expected. The space was split into two rooms. One part barracks, one part gym, separated by a wall. The barracks contained nothing more than a row of beds. In the second room they found a small training mat, reinforced dummies and a door that led to a communal bathroom.

A tall demon with emerald green skin, two massive horns curling from its temples, and a disturbingly bright smile stood waiting for them. It raised a hand as they approached, signaling them to stop.

“Welcome to your holding cells,” the demon said, its voice smooth and melodic. “I trust your journey here was enjoyable?”

Buffy barely glanced at the demon. “Yeah, the tour was charming. Can we skip the pleasantries and get to the part where we rescue the slayer?”

The demon smirked, clearly enjoying her impatience. “Of course. But first, you need to know the rules. No one gets to fight until they’ve signed off on the terms.”

“Terms?” Faith’s voice was thick with suspicion.

“Indeed,” the demon continued, holding up a large, ornate scroll, which it unfurled slowly. 

The group exchanged a wary look, all of them feeling the tension tighten.

“Term one." the demon announced. "Any being killed in the arena is not killed in real life."

"Well that's a relief." Xander said chipperly. 

"Instead, you will be removed from the arena by way of magic and placed in the Thunderdome dungeons. If your team loses the tournament, you will be sent to the badlands for fifty cycles of forced labor. No rest, no reprieve."

"That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?” Spike muttered.

“The badlands are designed to break those who fail,” the demon said, its tone matter-of-fact. “Only the strongest survive.”

"And if we win?" Buffy asked, clenching her jaw. 

"Your entire team will be returned in full health and you will be granted the prized slayer." the demon explained. 

Dawn shifted nervously, her eyes darting between the demon and her friends. "Good thing this isn't going to be high stakes or anything."

“Term two: this is your staging area,” the demon announced, waving its hands to indicate the space around them. “You may rest here until combat begins. By the end of the day I will need a complete list of requests for The Slay Team. That means food, medical supplies, potions. No weapons. None will be allowed in the ring.”

Buffy frowned. “No weapons?”

The demon offered a jagged grin. “Only what you carry in your bodies and blood.”

Before she could reply, he unrolled the scroll again and tapped it with a claw. “Term three: you must now declare your six competitors. Only six. No substitutions. No changes. And no humans.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me?” Willow stepped forward. “I want to be part of this team. What do you mean no humans?”

“Humans are disqualified from participation,” the demon said, with all the tone of someone reading a parking notice. “They are considered lesser beings. Too fragile, too whiney. Slayers are derived from demon origins, so they pass. All other humans are out."

Buffy stepped in front of Willow protectively. “She’s not just human. She’s the witch who closed the Hellmouth. The one who activated every slayer on Earth.”

“She is not eligible,” the demon said. “Her power is formidable but her form is insufficient."

Willow’s face fell. “But I wanted to go into battle."

"Not anymore," the demon cut in. “Select your team. Now.”

There was a long beat of stunned silence and then Buffy crossed her arms and turned her back to the demon so she could address the team.

“Okay. We’ll go with me, Spike, and Angel for starters.” she said, glancing briefly at the vampires as she mentioned their names.

"Agreed." Angel said quietly. 

"Obviously,” Spike muttered.

Faith stepped forward. “And me.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than Buffy intended and elicited a gasp from Dawn.

"I beg your freakin' pardon?" Faith spluttered.

"Faith, I need you on the outside." Buffy explained in a rush. "If I don't come back from this, I need you at the school. You'll need to lead the girls." 

Faith raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s the only reason?”

Buffy met her eyes resolutely. “Yes.”

Tension flickered, familiar but quieter now. Not war. Not rivalry. Strategy.

Willow stepped in gently. “I can reach Kennedy. She’s deep-cover in the Congo right now, trying to extract potentials, but if anyone can sub in to lead the academy, it’s her.”

"Good idea. Try to make contact as soon as possible, Will." Buffy exhaled with relief. “Faith, you’re in.”

Faith shrugged. “Not gonna lie, being someone’s backup plan is weirdly touching.”

Buffy shot her a look. “Shut up.”

“We also need to settle on our last two,” Dawn prompted. “We don’t have time to second-guess. Who among the Slayerettes has the best mix of training, skill, and temperament?”

“Reese,” Faith said without hesitation. “She’s calm under pressure. Tough. Quietly psychotic.”

Reese, a broad-shouldered, dark-skinned girl with pink hair and a no-nonsense stance, nodded once from the corner.

“And Mira,” Buffy added. “She’s not the most powerful, but she’s fast, and she improvises like crazy.”

Mira, a petite Latina with streaks of green in her dark hair and a wiry build, offered a two-finger salute. “I’m flattered and also terrified. Let’s go.”

“Then that’s our six,” Willow said. “Angel, Spike, Buffy, Faith, Reese, Mira.”

The demon nodded once, then held out the scroll for Angel (apparently the official team leader) to formally sign. Angel swallowed thickly as his finger moved across the paper, leaving behind a glittering magical signature. 

The demon then tapped a rune on his scroll with a mangled claw. “Finalized.”

"Super!" Xander said, over-enthusiastically. 

The demon gave a single, impassive nod. “You will remain here until the arena opens at 0900 tomorrow. At that time, your team will be granted one hour to walk the field and strategize.”

Angel folded his arms, staying near the entrance. “And after that?”

“The combat will commence. ” the demon replied matter-of-factly. “You will fight until sun down, then rest inside the arena until sun up the following morning. This cycle will continue as long as necessary for one team to reach victory."

"And victory means getting our girl back?" Faith asked warily. 

"Victory gains you prestige, favor, and your precious prize." the demon affirmed. "Defeat means exile to the badlands for fifty cycles.”

“Fifty years." Xander corrected him. 

“Fifty cycles,” the demon repeated with relish. “Time flows differently there. Do not lose.”

The demon then turned and exited, leaving the group in a heavy silence.

Dawn, ever the student and now also a watcher-in-training, pulled a notebook from her bag. She beckoned over Willow and the teen slayers, and they moved together to the side room that held the cot beds. 

Dawn sat cross-legged on a cot, her pen held at the ready “Okay. So we get one hour in the arena tomorrow to assess terrain. No weapons allowed, but we can ask for other supplies.” 

"We can start working on a supplies list." one of the Slayerettes offered. 

“Good." Dawn nodded. "We’ll need a coverage grid. Flanks, terrain elevation, blind spots. And we’ll need to know what kind of demonic species we’re up against. Size, speed, feeding schedule…” 

Willow gave her a proud nod. “Look at you. Mini-Giles vibes.”

Buffy stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as she watched them in the adjoining room. “Keep planning. I need a minute.”

Buffy took a breath and approached the vampires.

“I just wanted to say thanks. For, you know, coming.”

Spike arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t exactly RSVP. We sort of crashed the party.”

Buffy half-smiled. “Still. You’re here.”

Her eyes were pointedly locked on Angel as she gave her thanks. 

Angel gave a stiff nod but followed it up with a stare so icy it made Buffy shiver.

"This wasn't on my bucket list of places to visit." he said lowly. 

Buffy bit her lip nervously, trying to read the emotion on his face. 

This time he didn’t meet her eyes before she moved to join the rest of the slayers in their strategy meeting.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Not really. He told himself it was about duty, about the bigger mission. About saving a slayer. But the second he saw her, he felt the tug all over again. The ache of something broken and unfinished. And now that he was here, he couldn’t tell if he was helping or just reopening old wounds.

The demon arrived some time later to bring trays of what Xander described as prison food, and to take the supplies list from Willow's sweaty hands. 

Soon, the lights dimmed even further and the group was thrown into veritable darkness. Xander and the Slayerettes nervously retreated to their cot beds. 

Dawn and Willow were still murmuring strategy in the corner, their heads bent together over a hand-drawn arena sketch.

Buffy moved to lay on a cot, rigid with anxiety, pretending sleep might come if she kept her eyes closed long enough. But her mind buzzed with the same morbid thought over and over - this is all my fault, this is all my fault. 

She let out shaky sigh and turned her face into the pillow.

Across the room, Faith lingered near the torchlit entrance, watching Buffy with something unreadable in her expression. Then she turned and slipped out into the adjoining training area. 

She found both vampires where she expected: Angel sitting on a bench beneath a red tapestry, staring into nothing, and Spike pacing like a caged animal.

Faith leaned against the wall, arms folded.

“I figured I’d find you two brooding in tandem.”

Angel didn’t respond. Spike raised an eyebrow. “You here to give us the bedtime pep talk?”

Faith shrugged. “Sort of. But not for you. For her.”

She nodded toward the other room, where Buffy’s silhouette could just be seen through the barred archway.

Angel finally looked over. “Is she okay?”

“Define okay.” Faith muttered. “She’s holding it together because that’s what she does. But underneath? She’s twisted up. This whole Sadie thing? It’s eating her alive.”

"Sadie?" Spike stopped pacing. “Sadie is the name of the slayer they took?"

Faith nodded. “Sixteen. Irish. So you can imagine how quickly Buffy made an emotional connection."

Angel frowned, not too sure how to take the news that Sadie being Irish meant anything to Buffy. 

"Sadie was tough as hell." Faith continued. "One of the best of the new crop. Buffy saw something in her, took her under her wing. Got close.”

Angel frowned. “So how did Sadie end up a prize in this twisted gladiator game?”

Faith hesitated, checked over her shoulder to make sure Buffy wasn't listening, then lowered her voice. “Sadie fell for someone. Demon kid, but looked human. Sweet. Way too Romeo and Juliet. Way too...Buffy and Angel."

"Uh oh." Spike said, half jokingly.

"Turns out, his family is tied to the overlords running this arena. Slayer Council freaked. Tried to split them up.” 

Spike muttered, “Classic move.”

“Yeah. Except Buffy didn’t toe the line." Faith continued. "She covered for them. Let the kid think she had a shot. Next thing we know, Sadie was gone and the boyfriend turned up dead in the academy's wood shed.”

Angel's face darkened and his throat tightened.

"What happened?" Spike asked, his voice dripping with concern. 

“Looks like the kid set our girl up for capture." Faith replied. "Sadie killed him trying to save herself, but it wasn't enough."

Spike muttered a curse under his breath. “And Buffy thinks it’s her fault.”

Angel barely heard him.

He felt a memory bloom in his chest like something old and rotted cracking open. Buffy’s face, streaked with tears. The weight of her sword in his gut. The swirl of Acathla’s portal behind him. Her whisper: Close your eyes.

He had always told himself she’d made the only choice. That he had given her no other option. That it had been tragic, but necessary.

But this situation with Sadie, this wasn’t clean. It was morbid and messy and now there were so many more lives at stake.

Angel's chest tightened, something painful and bitter winding up through him. Not quite guilt. Not quite anger. Something messier. He wasn’t even sure if it was about Buffy or himself or the past they’d never escaped.

“She told Sadie to trust her heart,” Faith said. “Told her she’d understand. Because of you,” she added, flicking her eyes to Angel. “And because of what everyone told her not to do back then, and how she always wished someone had backed her up.”

Angel’s voice was low. “This isn't Buffy's fault.”

Faith gave a faint smile. “Try telling her that.”

There was silence for a moment. The kind only three people with shared scars could sit in.

Faith turned to go, but paused in the doorway. “This fight’s bigger than saving Sadie. Buffy’s trying to fix something she couldn’t back then. If she loses this one, I don’t think it’s just Sadie who breaks.”

She left without waiting for a response, boots echoing softly as she disappeared into the other room and lay on the cot next to Buffy. 

Back in the training room, Angel and Spike said nothing.

The silence was heavier than before.

The dream started like it always did. With fire, ash and screams.

Angel stood in the alley, fists bloodied, dust clinging to the wounds on his face like guilt. Gunn was slumped nearby, gasping his last breaths. Illyria was crouched low, hands slick with something dark and wet, cradling Spike’s limp body. 

He turned, sword in hand, facing the dragon. It reared back, teeth like swords, and just as he leapt -

Angel jolted awake with a gasp and the cot beneath him creaked with the sudden motion.

A dim, greenish light flickered from the magical sconces above. Stone walls. Cage bars. No rain. No battle. Just the chill of the holding cell and the soft, even breathing of the others.

Buffy was curled up on her cot across the cell, barely visible in the dark, hair tangled over her face. He watched her chest rise and fall a few times, just for lame reassurance.

Faith snored gently nearby, arm thrown over her eyes. Willow and Dawn were tucked under scratchy grey blankets. Xander's mouth hung open in his sleep. Next to him, Spike slumbered with one boot on and one boot off. 

And across the room, five teenage slayers were whispering. Loudly. 

Mira, the boldest of the group, seemed to be leading the discussion. “Okay, but seriously. That’s them, right?”

Reese nodded. “Yup. Just like Kennedy said. One is tall, dark and brooding and the other is a Billy Idol clone."

“That second one is kind of hot,” said Naima, the tallest of the five, her long limbs folded neatly on her cot. “But I thought the other one was the soulmate?”

Lulu, with her glitter-covered nails and bubblegum pink hoodie, snorted. “That one? With the permanent scowl? No thanks.”

The last of them, Ashwin, a tiny girl with sharp eyes and a habit of quoting Watcher texts, squinted at the two vampires. “According to Mr Giles, Buffy and Angel had some epic ‘forbidden romance’ play out when she was our age."

"Mr Giles told you that?" Mira gasped in a hushed whisper.

"Well, not exactly." Ashwin smirked. "I may have borrowed his Watcher Diaries."

Angel sighed audibly and sat up, blanket falling into his lap. The girls noticed immediately and fumbled to look like they hadn't just been gossiping about him. 

Buffy also sat up, ran a hand through her hair, and muttered something under her breath. Without looking at anyone, she got to her feet and padded toward the adjoining training room.

Angel hesitated, watching her disappear through the doorway. Then he followed.

Inside, the room was empty and Buffy was already working a combination on the punching bag. Her movements were hard, sharp and fast. Like every strike was aimed at a problem she couldn’t solve. He could tell just by her lack of acknowledgement that she didn't want him nearby. But this was possibly his only opportunity to make her understand Sadie and her boyfriend were not Buffy and Angel 2.0.

“You’re avoiding me,” Angel said quietly, approaching from behind.

Buffy didn’t slow her movement or seem surprised he was there.

“Maybe.” she finally replied. 

Angel sighed. “I didn’t plan to be here, Buffy.”

“That’s fine." she said sharply. "I didn’t invite you.”

That made him blink, but she kept striking the leather of the bag without hesitation. 

“You think I wanted to walk into this mess?” he pressed. “To stand here knowing exactly where this is heading? You can't turn back time, Buffy. We don't get a do-over of our past. Not now, not ever."

She stopped then, breathing hard, and glared at him. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Sadie.”

“You think dragging all these people into a hopeless fight is saving someone? It’s not. It’s just adding more names to the list of casualties you pretend not to count.” 

Her eyes flashed. “At least I’m fighting for something. Not hiding away in San Francisco.”

His voice dropped, cutting in a way it rarely was with her. “You want to talk about hiding? Where were you when L.A. was burning? When my people were dying? I waited for backup that never came.”

Her jaw tightened. “I -”

“Save it.” he snapped. “I guess the apocalypse is only worth showing up for if it’s yours.”

The air between them crackled—her breathing fast, his eyes dark and flat.

She opened her mouth, but she didn't speak. Instead, she brushed past him toward the door.

He followed her back into the bedroom area, tension following them like a storm front.

Everyone was awake now, except Faith. Spike perched on the edge of his cot, Xander leaning against the wall, Willow blinking blearily from under a blanket.

Buffy whirled on him so quickly they almost ran into one another. “So that's it? You're holding a grudge because I didn't fight with you in L.A?"

"You let me down, Buffy." he replied, his voice becoming louder by the second.

A murmur of excited whispers broke out amongst the gaggle of teen girls. 

"Well Faith didn’t come to save you either." Buffy spat. "Why aren’t you so angry at her?”

"Because I don't love her!" Angel barked.

That split the room wide open.

Dawn openly gasped, Mira clapped a hand over her mouth and Lulu reached out to dramatically grab Reese's shoulder for support. 

Faith cracked one eye open. “And thank God for that.” She rolled over and went back to feigning sleep.

For a moment Buffy looked like someone had sucker punched her in the gut, then her angry mask fell back in place. 

“You love me?” Her voice was incredulous. “Yet you act like you hate me and want to punish me.”

“I’m not punishing you,” Angel shouted hotly. “I’m trying to stop you from making another mistake that gets people killed.”

Buffy’s laugh was sharp and joyless. “Wow. That’s what love looks like now? Fear and accusations?”

“It’s what reality looks like.”

Her arms crossed like armor. “If loving me just means resenting me, then maybe we really are better off in separate worlds.”

Something flickered in his eyes — hurt, but buried fast. “I thought that's what we've already been doing." 

"You pranced into Sunnydale before it fell and told me you'd wait for me forever." Buffy spat. 

"Now I'm saying the opposite." Angel said resolutely. "When this battle is over, we go our separate ways. Permanently."

The air in the room tightened all at once.

Spike gave a low whistle. “Well, that’s one way to start the day. Not quite as fun as breakfast in bed, but I’ll take it.”

Xander raised a hand apprehensively, like he was in class. “Do we rate the emotional explosions before or after the death match?”

“Before,” Spike replied. “Keeps the audience engaged.”

Willow coughed then clapped her hands, breaking the tension.

“Well, that was, uh, enlightening." she announced. "But since it’s almost 9 o'clock, we all get to take this delightful energy to our arena walk‑through. Yay team.”

The group began gathering themselves, changing into clean clothes and fixing their hair. 

Buffy didn’t look at Angel again, but Dawn shot metaphorical daggers at him as she made her way over to her sister and linked elbows with her in a show of solidarity. 

Spike hovered close to Angel, offering a hushed "nicely done, pal." as his only input. 

It wasn't long before the guards arrived, unlocking the door. The group filed out of the training room in silence. It took several minutes to wind their way up through the tunnel system towards the Thunderdome arena. 

Buffy and Angel stuck to opposite sides of the path. 

The Slayerettes brought up the rear of the group, still buzzing from the earlier drama.

Naima elbowed Mira. “Bet you ten bucks they don’t make eye contact the entire battle.”

Reese smirked. “Only if Spike gets to run the betting pool.”

Ahead of them, Spike caught just enough to grin over his shoulder. “Already taking wagers, love. Odds are three‑to‑one on a shouting match before sundown, four-to-one they snog before lunch.”

Up front, Buffy’s eyes flicked toward Angel for half a second before snapping back to arena ahead. Angel didn’t look at her, but his scowl deepened.

As they finally snaked out of the dark tunnel and into the artificial light of the arena, they were assaulted with the noise of an ever-growing crowd. The three demon overlords they'd met the day before were holding court in the royal viewing box at the center of the stadium. 

Vorthazaar’s liquid voice boomed from above them. “The Slay Team, step forward. You will now enter the Maw for your strategic orientation.”

The guards gestured them toward a shimmering force field at the arena’s edge. It wasn’t tall, just a translucent wall of rippling air, but the hairs on the back of Buffy’s neck stood up. The air felt somehow wrong, like a storm about to break.

"Can we all go in?" Willow asked. "Just for the hour?"

Buffy shrugged and looked to a guard, who nodded. She then pulled Willow and Dawn into the arena behind her.

Spike strolled forward next, hands in his coat pockets. “Well, let’s get it over with.”

The moment his foot crossed the barrier, he froze. A sharp, startled gasp tore out of him. His hands shot to his chest like he’d been impossibly winded, fingers splaying over his sternum as though something vital had just been ripped away.

“What...” He looked around wildly. “What did it just do to me?”

Angel stepped in right behind him.

Buffy turned, as if in slow-motion, looking up at Angel's face. 

She only had half a second to register the change. It wasn’t in his stance or the set of his shoulders. It was in his eyes.

That warm, quiet grief that always lived there, even in his worst moods, was simply gone. Replaced by something flat. Cold. She didn’t need him to speak or vamp out; she felt it hit her like a physical blow.

Her breath caught. 

He had no soul. 

“Angel,” she said sharply, already moving.

His head tilted at her voice, and that was all the confirmation she needed. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth wasn’t a smile.

She didn’t think. She shoved him — hard — both hands to his chest. He stumbled backward through the barrier and landed in the sand outside with a grunt.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he lifted his head, and it was him again. His soul was back. He didn’t speak, but the quick, wordless nod he gave her told her he understood exactly what had just happened.

The others were already crowding forward.

“Uh, what the hell was that?” Xander asked, eyes darting between them.

Spike was still patting his chest like he might find something missing in there.

Buffy turned back toward the group, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “The Maw just stripped the vampires of their souls.”

That got their attention.

Naima fidgeted nervously. “Shouldn't we be pushing Spike out of the arena too?”

"No it's okay." Dawn said. “Spike without a soul is still Spike, just more likely to cheat at cards. Angel without a soul is Angelus, the Scourge of Europe.”

Lulu blinked. “Like...murder‑all‑the‑things?”

Buffy nodded once. 

Reese swore under her breath.

Ashwin, who had been scribbling in her notebook, looked up. “So you need to take Angelus into the fight with you now?"

Buffy mulled the Slayerette's words over in his brain and turned her glare toward the royal box in the stands.

“Tzarael!" She hollered. "Care to explain what is going on here?”

The demon smiled and leaned languidly against the railing, all polite malice.

“Oh, it’s quite simple." he said. "The invitations were sent to the vampires without their souls. That is who we invited. That is who fights.”

“I didn't sign off on that." Buffy fumed.

The demon overlord gave her a pitying smile. “You didn’t sign anything, Slayer. He did.” His gaze slid to Angel.

Angel’s jaw flexed.

Buffy’s voice was firm. “Then we substitute someone else for him.”

Vorthazaar’s deep, resonant voice boomed over them. “No substitutions. The contract was clear.”

Tzarael’s tone was syrup‑sweet. “Five fighters it is, then. Unless, of course, you’d like to forfeit entirely.”

The team fell into stunned silence. Even Spike had nothing.

Ashwin eventually tapped her pen against her notebook, voice tight. “It’s deliberate. Removing him changes your formation. Less front‑line pressure, weaker flank defense, and the slayer rotation won’t hold if one team member goes down.”

“Translation,” Spike said flatly, “they’re stacking the deck. Want us spread thin, running scared.”

Buffy nodded grimly. “They want us to fail.”

Angel stood just outside the shimmering wall, staring at the ground like he might crush it underfoot.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “So I'm supposed to what? Sit and watch like a spectator? Knowing we're now short a player? Knowing I could make the difference?"

“You could also kill half the team,” Spike said bluntly.

Angel’s glare snapped to him, but Buffy stepped between them. “He’s right."

Naima shifted uncomfortably. “This will be five against, what? Dozens?”

Tzarael’s voice drifted down to the arena floor, smooth as oil. “More than dozens. But fewer than hundreds. You’ll see.”

The team didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. Every face said the same thing: this fight had been hard enough already. Now it might be impossible.

As the others drifted further into the fighting field, starting to talk tactics, Buffy lingered by the edge of the barrier.

“You okay?” she asked Angel quietly. 

Angel shook his head. “No. I hate this. I should be in there.”

She stepped closer, her voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. “If you go in there, it won’t be you. It’ll be him.”

His eyes locked on hers, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "He's a ruthless combatant, Buffy. Maybe he could help you." 

Buffy smiled sadly and shook her head. "Maybe he might sabotage the whole team just for shits and giggles."

Angel sighed, completely resigned to his fate. "You're right. I need to stay here."

"You can be my strategic ops guy." Buffy said, trying to lighten the mood. "It'll be okay."

For a moment, neither moved. Then she stepped away to join the others, leaving him standing alone on the outside, fists clenched, watching as the team prepared to walk through the Maw without him.

The Maw was vast up close. A bowl of sun‑baked sand ringed by jagged stone walls, each marked with archways that led to who‑knew‑where. They moved together across the open ground, eyes darting to the trapdoors, tunnels, and uneven ridges they’d mapped in their heads during the briefing.

It was almost too quiet, the crowd above held back for the hour. Just the faint hum of the wards and the occasional clank of a distant gate.

There were other teams of fighters also using their walk-through hour. For the most part, the group avoided them all as they went about their recon.

One Adonis-like demon, however, noticed the girls immediately. He had copper‑bronze skin that shimmered faintly in the sun, like metal just shy of molten. His eyes were a striking gold, slit‑pupiled, but warm, and his smile revealed perfectly even teeth. His dark hair fell in waves to his jaw, and he was dressed in fitted leather armor that looked more like a fashion statement than battlefield gear.

Naima’s eyes went wide. “Well he’s kind of gorgeous.”

Mira smirked. “Calling dibs.”

“You can’t just dibs a demon,” Ashwin whispered. “Well. Not usually.”

The stranger approached at an easy, confident pace, hands visible at his sides.

“We are honored to fight alongside slayers in this arena. Which of you lovely warriors is your head slayer?” His voice was smooth and cultured. The kind of tone that could make even a threat sound like a compliment.

Faith folded her arms, immediately suspicious. “We don’t have a head slayer. We’re a team.”

Lulu rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly, yes we do. It’s Buffy.”

The tiny blonde slayer indicated over her shoulder to where Buffy stood a few feet away. 

Faith shot the Slayerette a look sharp enough to cut steel. “We don’t tell strangers our chain of command, rookie.”

Unbothered, the demon’s golden gaze tracked past them. “Buffy,” he repeated, like he was testing the taste of the name.

Buffy looked over at them. He lifted one long‑fingered hand toward her in a courteous offer to shake. “I’m Caedric. It’s an honor.”

Buffy hesitated, then took a step towards him. 

“Buffy!” Willow’s voice rang out from the far side of the sand. Dawn waved both arms. “We need you!”

Buffy glanced back at the demon, then at the others. “Later,” she said shortly, and jogged to where Willow and Dawn were waiting, the moment broken.

Caedric’s smile lingered as he watched her go, but his eyes cooled. Without another word, he turned and strolled back toward a knot of warriors in matching crimson‑and‑black armour.

They were tall, each wearing a mask shaped like an elongated animal skull and their movements were perfectly in sync, almost eerie. Even as Caedric rejoined them, their heads lifted toward Buffy in unison, tracking her until she disappeared from sight.

Faith watched him go, jaw tight. “Creep."

She shepherded the Slayerettes back to the rest of the group, where some serious strategic discussion was taking place. 

"Note the choke points along the east wall. Excellent for trapping an opponent." Dawn said, firmly wearing her Watcher-in-Training hat. "But beware of the quicksand pit just beyond."

The team fanned out, eyes scanning the terrain.

“This feels like a murder maze,” Lulu muttered. 

Ashwin followed closely behind Dawn, scribbling notes without looking up.

“Four major line‑of‑sight breaks, high probability of aerial threats.” Dawn announced.

Reese pointed toward the center. “That’s open kill zone. We don’t want to be caught there.”

“Good instincts,” Buffy said, moving to stand where Reese had pointed. “We’ll keep to the edges when we can, move in only when we’ve got a distraction in play.”

Spike eyed the quicksand pit. “Or we could just toss ‘em in there and let nature do the work.”

Xander snorted. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘great strategy’ like letting the sand monster have all the fun.”

Willow knelt to run her fingers over the sand. “It’s spelled. There’s a containment charm woven into the arena itself. We might be able to flip it to our advantage. I'll do some research.”

Buffy straightened. “Then that’s the plan. We learn the terrain, we use what we can, and we keep each other alive. Five of us against however many they throw in.”

The Slayerettes exchanged glances, and for once, none of them had a snarky comment.

Soon, another demon guard appeared and motioned for the team to follow. It took them down a short stone ramp, the sound of the crowd growing louder rather than fading away.

At first Buffy thought they were being led straight to the commencement of the battle, but instead they emerged into a recessed chamber cut into the western wall. It was a sunken alcove that opened directly onto the sand.

Above it, tiered seating loomed. Dozens of demons leaned over the railing, peering down at them with open curiosity, as if they were sizing up new livestock.

The space itself was surprisingly well‑appointed with everything on their supplies list: a long table stacked with crates of food and water and a neat row of bedrolls along the back wall. A small area had been set aside for medical supplies. There were bandages, antiseptics, and vials that glowed faintly green.

A shimmering magical barrier curved across the wide opening, sealing them in but leaving them entirely visible to the crowd.

“This is your haven,” the demon announced, gesturing toward the room as though unveiling a prize. “Accessible only to your fighting team during periods of rest. Off limits to all during battle rounds."

Willow tilted her head at the barrier. “Magical recognition keyed to your essence signatures. It's like a safe house."

“Or like a fishbowl,” Spike muttered, glancing up at the gawking spectators. 

Mira crossed her arms uncomfortably. “The audience is going to watch us sleep?”

Faith flopped down onto one of the bedrolls with a snort. “Better than sleeping out there with fangs breathing down your neck.”

At the mention of fangs, Buffy glanced over at Angel.

He was standing very nearby, still on the safe side of the barrier. He was restlessly pacing along the curved opening. The magical shimmer cut him off from them, its soft hum taunting in its constancy.

Every few steps he’d glance inside. Checking Buffy, scanning the Slayerettes, noting the position of every opponent like he could memorize it for later. But the longer he stood there, the more openly agitated he became.

“They can see you from the stands, you know,” Spike called over, leaning against a wooden shelf. “This tortured act is doing nothing for your street cred.”

“Angel you need to calm down.” Buffy said, her voice soft. "You don't have a choice here."

Angel stopped pacing, his gaze catching hers. “There’s always a choice. They just made sure mine was a bad one.”

The crowd above jeered, a few demons calling down taunts.

Angel didn’t look up. He just stepped closer to the barrier, close enough that Buffy could see the muscle in his jaw ticking, before he finally turned to walk away.

The crowd’s taunts faded into background noise as Buffy watched him retreat toward the far curve of the wall. For a second, she thought he was gone. Disappeared into the maze of tunnels behind the arena.

But then she caught sight of him again, a dark silhouette moving along the outer rim. He wasn’t leaving. He was tracking them, step for step, even from the wrong side of the barrier.

Buffy let out a slow breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

Spike noticed. “Don’t worry, Love. Mr Broody will be doing laps out there till this is over. Like a big, undead sheepdog.”

“Not helping, Spike,” Buffy muttered, but she didn’t take her eyes off Angel’s shadow.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, “I’ve had a long time to think about all this. I always knew I'd come in second to him and I’ve made my peace with it."

"Spike..." she began, then trailed off. "I genuinely care for you and I wish things could be different."

"I know. Don't sweat it, Sweet." he smiled. "We’re mates now, you and me."

Buffy gave him a small, surprised smile. “That’s unexpectedly mature of you. But probably unnecessary. I think he hates me.”

Spike huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. If he hated you, you’d know. He’s just angry. You’ll sort it out, you always do.”

Buffy sighed. "Maybe not this time."

“Especially this time.” Spike replied simply. “The two of you are drawn together like magnets. Doesn’t mean it’s not bloody irritating to watch, but I’ve had worse things to live with.”

"Like what?" she murmured, clearly worried for him. 

"Drusilla's bloody doll collection, for one." 

She studied him for a moment. “You’re really okay?”

“Course I am. I like my heart unshredded these days. Besides, someone’s gotta stick around to keep you from doing anything daft when he’s not looking.” He tilted his head. “Call it friendship with benefits.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “We don’t have benefits.”

“Not that kind,” he said, smirking again. “I mean the benefit of my charm, my fighting skills and my stunning intelligence.”

Buffy rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

Tzarael himself drifted toward their alcove, his grin as smooth as the wards around them. His presence near their team base was unnerving as it was terrifying. 

“The rules require non‑combatants be removed from the Maw now." he said smoothly. "This is for their safety and, of course, the enjoyment of our audience.”

Dawn stiffened. “Enjoyment?”

“You’ll have an excellent view,” he assured her, gesturing toward a staircase that curved up into the stands.

Xander grunted in resignation. “Guess that makes me official cheer squad.”

Spike smirked. “Wave your pompoms really hard, maybe it’ll scare the other teams off.”

“Spike,” Buffy warned, though a tiny smile tugged at her mouth.

Two demon attendants stepped forward, clearly ready to escort the civilians. Dawn’s gaze darted toward the stands, where the crowd’s jeers were already raining down. She seemed hesitant to pass underneath them to reach the staircase.

“You know they can still throw things from up there, right?” she gulped. 

“Then duck,” Faith called after her as the non-fighting team members were led away.

Buffy watched them disappear up the stairs, their figures soon reappearing high in the stands, boxed in by a low railing and a faint magical shimmer. Willow caught her eye from above and gave a small, reassuring nod.

Vorthazaar’s voice boomed over the arena, cutting through the hum of the wards. “Combatants, the hour is up. Take your positions.”

The magical veil over their alcove rippled and then solidified into a faintly glowing archway. The team stepped outside their safe space, preparing to begin. 

The sand beyond was blinding under the arena’s artificial sunlight, every grain looking like it was waiting to drink blood.

Buffy glanced around at her team. “Remember the plan. Stay to the edges, watch the choke points, and for God’s sake, don’t stand in the middle like a target.”

The roar of the crowd swelled. Somewhere above, a horn sounded — deep, resonant, the kind of note you felt in your ribs. It was a call for fighters to take their positions.

Buffy stepped forward. 

A shadow moved just beyond one of the archways. Then another. And another.

When the first opponent stepped into the sunlight, the air in the ward seemed to tighten. It was a creature straight out of a nightmare — humanoid, but stretched unnaturally tall, skin mottled grey and black like smoke stains, a mouth that split too wide and filled with serrated teeth. Its arms ended in long, hook‑like claws, and its eyes burned with a sickly, sulphur‑yellow light.

Behind it came dozens more, each different but equally wrong. One with a face that shifted constantly between masks of rage, grief, and joy. Another whose body rippled and swelled as if something was crawling under its skin.

Mira actually took a step back. “They look like they might eat people.”

“They do,” Faith said flatly.

Buffy’s jaw tightened, but her eyes swept the formations, taking in the teams’ sizes and spacing. No blades, no bows, nothing guns. Just claws, teeth, and whatever magic they carried in their blood.

Somewhere above them, a massive gong sounded, the vibrations rippling through the sand. The crowd rang out with a deafening roar of excitement. 

The battle had begun.

The gong’s echo hadn’t even faded before Buffy was moving.

“Reese and Mira, you’re my speed.” she called, eyes darting between the jagged ridges and shadowed trapdoors. “Keep the fliers busy, cut off anyone trying to flank. Faith, you’re on power plays. Spike—”

“I’ll be where I’m needed,” Spike cut in, scanning the incoming wave with a wolfish grin.

“Fine,” Buffy said. “Just don’t get dusted.”

From the far side, the hook‑clawed nightmare lunged, covering ten feet in a single bound. Reese dove to meet it, sliding under its swing to slam a brutal kick into its knee. Mira sprinted past, snapping a kick into the next attacker’s ribs, using momentum to vault clear before its claws could close around her ankle.

Faith met a double‑faced demon head‑on, catching its shifting jaw in one hand and slamming it sideways into a stone outcropping. “Seriously,” she muttered, “pick an emotion.”

Spike intercepted a lunging brute twice his size, hooking an arm around its neck and flipping it onto its back. “Knew those wrestling nights with Clem would come in handy,” he said, grinning.

Buffy moved like a storm, deflecting a strike from the left, shoving Mira clear of a whip‑tailed swing, planting her boot in the chest of a masked fighter who’d gotten too close. Every motion was tight, efficient. She was driving them toward a defensive wedge without anyone even realising it.

Angel’s pacing on the far side of the barrier had become almost mechanical. Back and forth, back and forth, like a predator trapped in a too‑small cage.

Every time Buffy disappeared into the melee, his shoulders tensed until she reappeared. Every time Spike went down and popped back up, his hands curled into fists.

From his vantage, he could see everything. The swirl of fighters, the churn of sand underfoot, the too‑calculated movements of the crimson‑and‑black team. But he couldn’t step in. Couldn’t warn them. Couldn’t fight beside them.

The frustration burned almost hotter than the helplessness. Almost.

In the arena, the five‑fighter wedge was holding. Barely. Buffy, Faith, Spike, Mira, and Reese moved in sync, covering each other’s flanks, driving back anything that came too close. Reese was a powerhouse, broad‑shouldered and grounded, every strike landing with punishing force.

But holding a line in the Maw was like holding water in your hands.

A horned gladiator swung a bladed chain into a snarling reptilian warrior’s neck. For a few moments it shimmered like a glittered confetti, before the demon disappeared into thin air. 

"Uh, what?" Mira gasped. "Did everyone else see the magical glitter?"

"Nifty little way to remove dead fighters." Spike smirked. 

"Concentrate!" Buffy ordered. 

A pair of insect‑limbed demons leapt onto a massive, four‑armed brute. The brute crushed one with a single hand, then flung the other into a wall hard enough to splatter. Shimmer, gone. Shimmer, gone. 

Two fighters from opposite ends of the arena locked onto each other in a frenzied grapple. One bite to the jugular, one head caved in. Both gone in a flash of gold dust.

To their left, a winged demon swooped low toward a goblin‑like fighter from another team, only to have its throat torn out mid‑flight by a tusked behemoth. Both fell in a tangle, and within seconds, the goblin had been impaled by a passing spear‑tail. The air shimmered, and both bodies dissolved into motes of light, whisked away in the same blinding instant.

On the far side, a cyclopean brute snapped a serpent‑limbed opponent clean in half. Shimmer. Gone.

No one stopped to mourn.

The hook‑clawed nightmare came back at them from the side, faster than before, and Reese was there to meet it. They collided with a thud that shook the sand. She got an arm around its neck, but didn’t see the second fighter coming from behind.

A spike‑backed demon drove a jagged elbow into her ribs, hard enough to crack bone. Reese gasped, staggered. The hook‑clawed one took the opening. Its claws swept up and in, tearing deep.

Buffy’s shout cut through the roar of the crowd. Reese's blood splattered across her face as she raced towards her apprentice slayer. 

She was there in seconds, kicking the hook‑clawed thing away. Faith slammed the spiked one back into a wall, killing it instantly. 

But Reese was already going down, blood soaking the sand under her.

Buffy dropped to her knees beside her, hands clamping over the wound. “Stay with me, okay?”

Reese gave a shaky laugh that turned into a cough. “Who would have thought I'd be first to die."

“Reese you’re fine, you’re going to be fine. ” Buffy’s voice was sharp, desperate.

“Hey,” Reese whispered, voice fading, “See you on the other side…”

The air around her shimmered. Light, faint at first, then bright enough to sting the eyes. It enveloped her from head to toe. Buffy’s hands pressed harder, as if she could keep Reese anchored by sheer will.

“No, Reese. Stay. ”

Her body dissolved into motes of gold dust, scattering upward like fireflies, until there was nothing left but an empty patch of blood‑stained sand. Buffy stayed there, hands still pressed to nothing, breathing hard.

Faith’s jaw was clenched tight. Spike’s grin was gone, his expression dark and dangerous. Mira stood frozen, fists balled so tight her knuckles were white.

Up in the stands, Dawn’s hand flew to her mouth. Willow was actively comforting the other slayers, as they screamed in horror.

The crowd around them were frenzied in their raucous cheering. 

And outside the barrier, Angel didn’t move.

He just stared at Buffy, at the blood still on her hands, and at the empty space where Reese had been just a minute ago.

They'd just lost their first fighter. 

The end of the day's fighting saw the crowd mostly disperse from the gargantuan arena, and the teams all retreat to their own safe zones. 

The jumbotron above the Maw listed forty-seven of the one hundred and thirty-eight contestants as eliminated from the competition. Reese's name amongst them. 

In contrast to the brutality of the arena, the safe zone looked like the kind of place you’d want to hole up forever.

The bedrolls were plush and inviting, there were steaming bowls of stew on the table, and shelves of neatly labelled medical supplies. It was all there, designed for recovery. And yet, the air still felt too thin, like it had been pulled from the arena outside and stripped of all the oxygen.

Mira sat stiffly on her bed, knees drawn up, hands twisted in the fabric of her clothes. Faith was beside her, speaking low, like every word might shatter if she wasn’t careful.

Buffy knelt in front of her. “Drink something. Eat if you can. Your body needs it.”

Mira shook her head, her voice raw. “Reese is gone. I saw her disappear,” Her hands jerked in the air like she could pull the memory out of her head. 

Buffy’s throat tightened. She reached out, resting her hand lightly on Mira’s shoulder. “I know you did."

In reality, it was Buffy who had taken the brunt of the trauma associated with Reese's departure. It had taken her almost an hour to completely scrub herself clean of Reese's blood. But Mira didn't need to hear that. 

Mira’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. “So is she dead?”

"No, honey." Buffy murmured comfortingly. "She's somewhere safe now until the battle is over."

Faith’s voice was steady. “Yeah. And she’d be telling you to keep your head in the game so you don’t end up with her.”

Spike was resting in the corner, his head under a bedroll and his feet up on a chair. He tilted his head, and hooked one foot over the other. “It’s bloody brutal out there, Pet. The only thing worse than losing someone is giving the bastards another body for free.” 

"I can't do this." Mira said, breaking into sobs. "I can't go back out there."

"We need to remember what we're here for, right?" Buffy added. "For Sadie."

"We're a player down but we're still strong, kid." Spike agreed. "You've got two of the toughest slayers in the history of mankind fighting either side of you. Don't you forget it."

The magical barrier shimmered along the far wall. On the other side, Willow, Dawn, and Angel were gathered. Xander’s absence told Buffy he’d probably already taken the other three girls back to the holding cells to get them away from the arena until morning.

Willow stepped right up to the barrier, her face drawn. “I spoke to Kennedy. She’s on her way back from the Congo. Two days, maybe less.”

Dawn added, “Giles is still on the field trip in Australia with the intermediate academy class. But if we need him, he’ll be on the first flight back.”

"What for?" Spike scoffed. "To bake us scones?"

"Scones are quite yummy." Faith replied with a smirk. 

Buffy ignored them. Her gaze had already shifted.

Angel stood a little apart from the others, watching her through the magic. That heavy look in his eyes was something she’d learned to hate and need in equal measure.

She rose without thinking, crossing the room slowly until she was face-to-face with him. Or as close as the glowing divide would let her.

The barrier hummed louder here, the air alive with static that prickled her skin. Perhaps because Angel was supposed to be on the other side with them. 

“You could at least say something,” Buffy said, her voice quieter than she’d intended.

Angel’s eyes flicked briefly to Spike, then back to her. “You’ve got enough people telling you what you want to hear.”

She blinked at him, the words hitting harder than she’d expected. “And you’re here to tell me what? That I’ve already failed?”

“I’m here to tell you to keep your head in the fight,” he said. “That girl,” his eyes shifted toward Mira, who sat quietly sniffling, “she needs you focused. Not chasing guilt.”

"I'm not..." Buffy started, but then sighed as she recognized Angel had seen through her cool visage. "I just can't shake it. I keep replaying every second of what happened to Reese in my head."

His voice was low, but it still managed to cut. “Then maybe you should be replaying how to win instead.”

Something hot flared in her chest. “You used to believe in me.”

“I still do,” he replied after a beat, and it sounded almost like an admission. “That’s why I’m saying this. Don’t let the past decide what happens to Mira now.”

Buffy searched his face, looking for the part of him that used to stand beside her in the fight, the one who knew what it was to carry the dead with you.

“The past is why I’m still breathing,” she said quietly. “It’s why I fight the way I do. And it’s why I can’t lose, Angel. I won’t.”

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before it shuttered again. “You can’t save everyone.”

She took a step closer, until the barrier’s magic buzzed almost painfully between them. “Watch me.”

They stayed like that, locked in place, caught in the charged silence that hung between them. There was something in the air. An unspoken understanding that this might be the last chance they had to really speak to each other.

Angel’s eyes dipped, and Buffy could read the anguish on his face. They both knew that in a few hours, it could all be over. Buffy might be in the badlands and they’d never have the chance to fix this.

“Buffy...” he started, his voice rough with the weight of unspoken words.

Her breath caught, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Yes?”

But then, before the words could come, Faith’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

“Yo, B.” she called, her tone sharp. "Enough chitchat. We need to actually get some shut eye." 

Buffy turned back toward Faith, her mind still tangled in the brief exchange with Angel. She glanced over at the others and noted that Mira was actively working to keep herself awake. 

Faith nodded toward the others. “Time’s ticking, B. We need to get in some rest before sun up.”

Mira's voice was small and tinged with fear. “How are we supposed to sleep? We’re in a glorified prison and someone could throw something down on us at any time. Or worse, someone could break through this damn barrier.”

"That's a good point." Dawn gasped from her side of the barrier. “We don’t know who’s watching. What if they come for you while you're all asleep?”

Buffy could see the panic starting to spread across the group. They had barely managed to stay alive in the arena, and now that they had this brief moment to rest, the vulnerability of it was overwhelming. 

Faith rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. “What’s the point of giving us an overnight break anyway? Why give us time to rest?"

Spike crossed his arms and smirked. “Isn't it obvious? They’re stringing it out to keep the punters paying. Well rested fighters means more days of battle to sell bleedin' tickets for."

Buffy shot him a half-amused look. “So, it’s all for profit?”

"Yep." Spike shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “Gotta drag it out, make a proper spectacle.”

Willow, on the far side of the shimmering ward, frowned. “That’s disgusting.”

Spike’s grin sharpened. “Course it is. That’s the point.”

Willow’s gaze slid to Dawn, who was hugging her elbows. She softened instantly, slipping an arm around her.

“Okay, that’s enough horror commentary for one night,” she said. “Dawnie and I are heading back to the holding cell. Showers, clean clothes, something warm to drink. We’ll be back before sunrise to talk strategy.”

Dawn groaned but let Willow steer her toward the tunnel, huffing in mild protest. “Why does it suddenly feel like I’m being babysat?”

Buffy called after them, teasing but firm. “Because you’re still a kid, Dawnie.”

“I’m practically 18!” Dawn shot back, rolling her eyes.

Buffy smirked. “Practically doesn’t count. If nobody’s singing happy birthday and you’re not blowing out candles, you do as Willow says.”

Dawn let out a dramatic sigh, her arms crossing in mock defeat, while Willow gently guided her into the tunnel, leaving Buffy and the others to the uneasy quiet of the holding cell.

“I’m still scared,” Mira eventually murmured. “What if they break through? What if they’re watching us sleep?”

Angel’s voice came steady, cutting through the tension. “I’ll stay.”

Buffy turned toward him. The simple statement landed heavier than it should have, carrying more weight than she could name.

“I’ll sit above the safe zone,” he continued, eyes locked on hers through the shimmer of the barrier. “I’ll keep watch while you rest. You won’t be alone.”

For a second she forgot to breathe. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, trying to keep her voice even but unable to stop the flicker of relief that rose in her chest.

“I know,” he replied. “But I want to.”

Faith glanced between them, the smirk in her voice muted. “Aren’t you two just the cutest.”

Angel still didn’t look away from Buffy. His voice was for all of them but the steadiness in it was meant for her. “Nothing is getting past me. But you have to promise you’ll sleep. All of you.”

Buffy swallowed hard. This wasn’t just about rest. It was about trusting him in the quiet hours when the fight couldn’t reach them but the fear still could.

“I’ll be here,” Angel added, softer now, as if the words belonged only to her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Something in her chest tightened. She wanted to tell him how much that mattered but Spike’s voice broke the moment. “Well isn’t that romantic. Should I light some candles, put on a bit of Barry White?”

Buffy shot him a look. “I swear to God, Spike, I’m about two seconds away from locking you outside the safe zone for a bit.”

Spike grinned. “Oh come on, Pet. You’d miss me.”

The others settled onto their bedrolls, the soft rustle of blankets and the slow exhale of exhaustion filling the space.

Buffy lingered where she was, her gaze drawn once more to the barrier. She found him there, still watching her. For a few long seconds they held each other’s eyes, no words passing between them, only the unspoken weight of what they both knew might come. Then he turned, slipping into the shadows above.

Buffy lay down between Spike and Mira. The lingering scent of stew hung warm in the air, a fragile comfort against the faint, constant hum of the barrier that reminded her they were still in the Maw.

Mira shifted beside her and reached for her hand. Buffy’s fingers closed gently around the girl’s, holding on until her breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Buffy let her eyes drift shut for a moment, though the fear never left. It pulsed under her skin like a quiet drumbeat. Somewhere out in the darkness, something heavy hit the ground. The sound was distant, but sharp enough to cut through her half-formed rest.

Her eyes opened again, and she looked up toward the seating above. Searching.

“Right here.” Angel said softly from the shadows, his voice grounding her once again. 

The hours blurred. The stew cooled on the table. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of the arena shifting in its rest cycle pulsed through the ground. She drifted off to sleep, the hum of the barrier and the slow breathing of those beside her forming a fragile cocoon.

Buffy dozed in fits and starts, never sinking far enough into sleep to forget where she was. Each time her eyes fluttered open, she found herself searching for the dark shape above them. And each time, she saw him there. Still. Watching over them in silence.

When her eyes opened next, the shape above was gone. A flicker of unease tightened her chest until movement at the barrier caught her eye.

Willow and Dawn were back, their silhouettes familiar against the shimmering wall. Dawn was already pressing a hand to the magic, peering in at them with tired but determined eyes. Willow’s expression was set, purposeful.

Buffy sat up, the weight of rest falling away in an instant. The safe zone, for all its warmth and comfort, suddenly felt smaller. The reprieve was over.

“It’s time,” Willow said.

Faith was already pushing herself upright, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the hours. Spike swung his legs off his bedroll with a groan that sounded more theatrical than genuine. Mira’s eyes found Buffy’s, still red-rimmed but steadier than before.

The sound of the crowd beginning to filter back into the arena rolled over them like distant thunder. The day was starting again, and with it, the fight.

Willow stepped forward, casting a glance toward Angel’s empty spot above. Her expression was tight, but there was an undercurrent of something that Buffy couldn’t quite place. Determination, maybe, or worry.

The witch hesitated for a moment, as if reading the unspoken question in Buffy’s eyes, then said softly, “He’s getting some sleep. He’ll be back soon.”

Faith stood, stretching her limbs with a series of satisfying cracks. “We’ve got an hour to eat and plan.” She glanced over at Buffy. “You okay?”

Buffy gave a brief nod, not trusting herself to speak just yet. The quiet of the safe zone had lulled her, but now the adrenaline was creeping in, and with it, the gnawing realization that the next fight could be worse than the last.

Mira was still sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, but her eyes were alert now. The fear was still there, lurking, but there was a quiet strength coming back. It was in the way she gripped the edge of her blanket and the way she held her gaze steady when it landed on Buffy.

“Good morning team. We’ve been watching the footage from yesterday." Willow said, addressing the group as a whole. "The Thunderdome’s unpredictable and chaotic, but there are ways to work the system.”

Spike leaned back against the wall, smirking. “If you call running around trying not to get gutted a ‘system,’ then yeah, I’m following along.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Maybe it’s time we started running around in a more organized fashion.”

Dawn opened her notebook and cleared her throat to shift the team's focus. “Most teams go straight for whoever’s closest. It’s instinct." she said. "You see an opponent, you attack. That burns a lot of energy. The teams that survive longer hang back at first."

"So you're suggesting we pick our battles?" Buffy frowned slightly, considering it. “Patience over glory.”

“Exactly,” Willow said. “You’re down a player already. You can’t afford a head-on charge. You need to let the chaos work in your favor.

"Stay moving, don’t get boxed in." Dawn added. "Go after anyone who’s already weakened or distracted. Opportunistic strikes.”

Mira spoke up quietly, still holding her blanket but with more steel in her voice. “That means we have to work tighter as a unit. No wandering off.”

“Right,” Willow said. “Your strength is coordination. Even when you split to flank, you need to stay in each other’s sightlines.”

Spike tilted his head, his grin widening. “So we hang back, wait for the other blokes to tire themselves out, and then swoop in like charming, deadly vultures?”

Faith snorted. “Vultures in leather coats, sure.”

“You keep your filthy mitts off my coat, Slayer,” Spike jokingly shot back without missing a beat.

Buffy’s expression firmed. “Fine. We’re not here to put on a show for the crowd. We’re here to win and to get Sadie back.”

Willow nodded. “Exactly. The flashier fighters won’t last. Let them burn themselves out. You just have to be standing when the dust settles.”

They didn’t waste time after that. They found breakfast and ate quickly, the clink of spoons against metal the only sound for a while. 

Faith was the first to move, tossing her empty bowl aside and heading to the clothes rack. “Let’s suit up, ladies and gents.”

Spike shrugged into his coat like it was part of his battle armor. “There. Back in black. Let’s give the fans something to scream about.”

Buffy laced her boots and cinched her belt in silence. 

The low hum of the barrier changed, a subtle shift that told her the arena was waking up again. Above, the stands were filling. The returning roar of the crowd rolled over them, enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck.

When Buffy glanced up, she spotted Xander back in the stands, the three younger slayers with him. They were leaning forward, already scanning the arena, and waved down at their team. 

And then Angel was there.

He moved to the barrier, his presence steady as ever, and for a moment, the chaos beyond felt far away. His gaze found hers instantly, locking in like the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Stay close to Faith and Spike,” he said, his voice low and meant only for her. “Don’t take the bait if someone tries to draw you out.”

Buffy tried her hardest to keep the mood light. “And you? You just gonna brood up there?”

The corner of his mouth almost curved, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers. “I’ll be watching. You’re not alone in this.”

She hesitated, then leaned in just enough that her voice wouldn’t carry to the others. “Angel, I might die today. Well, not die, but fifty cycles in the badlands is probably worse.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true,” she said, before smiling sadly. “You know it is. If there’s anything you need to say to me, now’s the time.”

His gaze didn’t waver. He paused. Whatever he was originally planning to say stuck in his throat. "You’re better than this place. Don’t let it break you."

The blare of the arena horn split the air, stealing whatever else he might have said. 

Faith was already moving out of the safe zone. “Showtime.”

The roar of the crowd hit them full force as they entered the arena. The open floor of the Maw stretched ahead, enemy teams already fanning out to take their positions.

The horn had let them know to stand at the ready, and then the gong sounded to announce the battle had re-commenced.

All at once the crowd was on their feet cheering and the opponents in the arena were meeting each other fiercely and desperately. 

Faith took point, Spike at her side, and Buffy stayed tight to Mira’s flank. They pushed forward, boots crunching over sand and dirt, keeping formation like Willow had drilled into them.

They stayed clear of the worst of the chaos at first, watching teams clash in vicious knots of fists, claws, and teeth. The air was thick with heat and dust, the crowd’s noise washing over them in waves.

“Left!” Spike barked, and Buffy pivoted, slamming her shoulder into a charging vamp hard enough to send him reeling.

A shattered support beam near the edge of the arena yielded a chunk of wood; Buffy jammed it into her grip like a makeshift stake and plunged it into the vampire's chest. First there was vampire dust, then it became golden shimmers that evaporated into the Maw.

"Hey. Neato." Buffy smirked. 

That was when Faith spotted the charming yet creepy demon boy in the red and black costume, and his equally creepy posse.

“Yo, B. Twelve o’clock.”

Buffy’s eyes cut through the chaos to the far side of the Maw. Caedric and his team moved in perfect unison, ignoring most of the brawl. They went after isolated fighters only. The ones already staggering from earlier blows. And when one went down, Caedric himself stepped in, pressing a hand to their chest.

Buffy froze. A faint, ghostly shimmer tore free from the fighter’s body and sank into the black crystal in Caedric’s gauntlet. The victim didn’t vanish or bleed out. They just went empty. 

“What the hell was that?” Faith demanded.

Spike’s voice was tight. “That, my dears, is soul-stealing. Old magic. Nasty as they come.”

The fighter left hollow on the ground was quickly slaughtered by an opponent and vanished into gold sparkles. 

Before Buffy could respond, one of Caedric’s fighters, the one wearing a fox mask, broke from their formation and came straight for Mira. She stepped in to block, but Caedric was suddenly there too, faster than she’d thought possible, his hand already reaching for her chest.

“Mira, don’t let him touch you!” Buffy shouted, lunging forward.

Faith intercepted, grabbing Mira by the arm and yanking her back so hard they both stumbled. Caedric’s hand sliced through the air where Mira had been a split second earlier.

He stopped there, his eyes locking on Buffy. Slowly, deliberately, he smiled.

"Hello again, Buffy. The renowned head slayer," he purred. "You look lovely as ever. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment."

Spike immediately stepped in front of her. "Sod off, you wanker. I don’t have a soul to steal, but I will snap your neck."

Caedric's grin only widened. With a flick of his fingers, he signalled to his team, and they melted back into the melee as smoothly as they’d appeared.

“I don’t think he’s here to win,” she breathed.

“Nope,” Spike said grimly. “I think he’s here for you.”

Buffy’s stomach sank. Then her gaze instinctively lifted, scanning the stands until she found him.

Angel was on his feet, watching her with a stillness that was heavier than the noise of the crowd. She couldn’t read every thought in his eyes, but she knew he’d seen enough to understand.

She gave the smallest shake of her head, a silent promise: I’m fine.

He didn’t look convinced. 

Buffy turned her attention back to her team, instinctively shifting closer to Mira to provide protection. 

Faith’s gaze darted between them. “So, new rule. None of us touch any of them. Ever. Not a shove, not a punch, nothing.”

The crowd roared as another fighter went down somewhere behind her, but Buffy barely heard it. It had become clear the only way to survive was to fight an enemy she couldn’t lay a finger on.

They moved as a unit now, keeping Caedric’s team in sight but never close enough for contact. Faith knocked an advancing demon into another brawl, sending both sprawling. Buffy sidestepped a lunging vampire, letting his momentum carry him into a jagged wall. Spike tripped an opponent into the waiting arms of a clawed beast from another team, who happily tore into him.

Every so often, Buffy’s eyes flicked upward, finding Angel again in the stands.

His arms were crossed, his expression a careful mask. But occasionally the mask slipped, and the truth bled through. Angel was scared.

She caught it when a horned fighter veered too close to her right flank. She saw it again when she threw herself in front of Mira, taking the full brunt of a hit that sent pain ripping through her shoulder. The impact was brutal enough to dislocate it, the joint popping out of place with a sickening crack. Angel's mask didn’t return until Spike, with quick, practiced hands, wrenched her shoulder back into its socket. 

Once, when she risked a glance during a brief lull, he mouthed something. Two words. She thought she caught 'behind you' and spun just in time to duck a blow meant for her head.

The crowd roared. Somewhere above the noise, she thought she heard Faith swearing. The shifting floor of the Maw yawned open a new gap, swallowing two fighters whole.

"Well now the Thunderdome is cheating." Faith growled, sidestepping the gap. 

"Some might say the dirt is playing dirty." Spike replied. 

Buffy didn’t have the luxury to respond. The fight was tightening, bodies closing in. 

The Maw was an endless blur of bodies, the sounds of fists and claws hitting flesh blending with the screams of the crowd above. Buffy paused momentarily to take stock of her surroundings and make her next move. 

That's when she saw Mira backing into the wrong fight.

Buffy’s heart skipped. “Mira! Eyes up!”

But Mira didn’t hear her.

Her focus was on a wounded fighter who was limping toward her, his face pale, blood staining his clothes. Mira reached out without thinking, her hands steadying him as he stumbled into her space.

And then it happened.

In the chaos, a massive horned demon from a rival team came barrelling toward her, his eyes wild, his claws unsheathing. Buffy tried to close the distance, but it was too late. Mira was already in his grip, her body yanked off the ground and tossed aside like a ragdoll.

Buffy’s breath caught. “Mira!”

The demon’s claws sank into Mira’s chest, and the sickening sound of bone cracking followed. Mira was slammed into one of the shifting stone slabs. Blood poured from her side, pooling beneath her.

“No!” Buffy screamed.

Just as her fingertips touched Mira's skin, the girl disappeared into gold dust. It held in the air around Buffy for a couple of seconds before vanishing with the other fallen soldiers.

Buffy’s hands went to her knees as she keeled forward, vomiting onto the dirt in front of her. The sour, metallic taste of blood mixed with the bitter sting in her throat. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the fight. It was the sickening weight of losing someone she'd sworn to protect.

Above her, Angel’s eyes locked on hers, his body rigid. The look in his eyes was a mixture of horror and fear. 

Her breath came in ragged bursts, but it wasn’t enough to stop the crushing realization of what had just happened. She’d failed. Again. 

Three of her student slayers now lost to the Thunderdome. 

And then, despite the distance, despite the roar of the crowd and the chaos surrounding them, Angel’s eyes softened for just a moment. 

His mouth opened to speak, the words slow and deliberate. And somehow she heard them. 

Get up. Buffy, get up.

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, an unspoken cry to keep going, to keep fighting. To not let the loss define her.

The words, thick with emotion, cut through the haze of grief and exhaustion clouding her mind. Angel wasn’t just telling her to stand; he was reminding her of who she was, who she still could be.

Buffy wiped her mouth, feeling the sting of tears that threatened to flow. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand again. Her knees wobbled, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. The fight was still on.

With a final glance up to the stands, Buffy saw Angel’s gaze never waver. He hadn’t looked away. And neither would she.

She pulled herself together, the fire in her chest igniting once more.

Mira wasn’t gone forever. Not if Buffy had anything to say about it.

The chaos of the arena swirled around her, but Buffy’s focus was sharp now. Her team was fighting hard, but she could feel the weight of the loss, still pressing on her chest. It made her move faster, hit harder, fight with more resolve.

She wasn’t just fighting for herself anymore. She was fighting for Reese, for Mira, for Sadie. For everyone she couldn’t afford to lose again.

The fight was far from over. But Buffy wasn’t backing down.

With a steady breath, she turned back to the battle, eyes locked on the path ahead. There was no room for hesitation now. The next step was already in motion, and victory was the only option.

The arena was quiet. The lights had dimmed to a low, ember-like glow, casting long shadows across the sand. 

In the safe zone, the fighters picked at their dinner in silence, every movement subdued, every bite heavy with the unspoken knowledge of what tomorrow might bring.

But outside the barrier, the Scoobies were hard at work.

Willow knelt in the dirt, hands splayed as she traced pulsing runes in the ground with steady precision. Her breath came in measured murmurs, ancient syllables whispered under her tongue as her magic probed the residual energy still hanging in the air from the day’s battle. Sparks rose from the symbols like fireflies, flaring and fading with each phrase. Her brow was furrowed, jaw tight.

A few feet away, Dawn sat cross-legged on a low crate, completely engulfed by a leaning tower of leather-bound Watchers' books. She flipped pages with purpose, pencil flying across her notepad, drawing symbols, underlining terms, cross-referencing glyphs.

At her feet, Naima, Ashwin and Lulu sat quietly in a small semicircle, their wide eyes fixed on Willow. They were supposed to be helping Dawn, but their research had been forgotten in favor of watching the redhead work, their reverence for her magic almost devotional.

“They’re not just taking souls,” Willow said at last, her voice tight. She didn’t look up from her spellwork. “They’re siphoning them. Storing them somewhere else. Look at this.” she jabbed a finger at a rune that had begun to pulse faintly red “This pattern is deliberate. Methodical. This isn’t some random soul-suck. This is a harvest.”

Dawn let out a gasp. “Will, I think I’ve found something.” She held up an open book, the pages yellowed with age. “They’re called Soulrender Wraiths.”

Lulu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is that good news?”

Dawn shook her head. “No. It’s really not. These demons are hunters. That’s all they do. They collect souls and store them in their hell dimension like trophies. Even an Orb of Thesulah won’t work on this. There’s no summoning, no re-binding. Once the soul is gone, it’s gone. Permanently.”

Willow looked up sharply, the glow of her spellwork reflecting in her eyes. “They’re keeping them. Like war prizes.”

From a nearby slab of rock, Xander pushed himself off the wall. He’d been quiet up until now, arms crossed, his usual snark replaced with grim silence. “So these Soulrender demons. Are they here to win the tournament or just fill their soul pantry?”

Dawn’s voice dropped, her words almost lost beneath the low hum of the barrier. “I think Buffy is their prize.”

Buffy froze where she sat, her spoon halfway to her mouth. Faith glanced at her sidelong but said nothing.

Willow’s expression darkened. “Which means the badlands don’t scare them. Fifty cycles of forced labor means nothing to them if they walk away with her soul. That’s the only trophy that matters.”

The weight of that hung in the air like a fog.

When heavy footsteps echoed from the mouth of the tunnel, they all turned simultaneously like they'd been possessed by a hive-mind. 

Angel emerged from the shadows, his coat trailing behind him, his expression thunderous. He looked like he’d walked through hell and from the look in his eyes, he hadn’t liked what he’d found.

“I spoke to the Arbitrators,” he announced. “Told them Caedric’s team is a violation of the arena’s entire code and that they’re not here to fight fair."

“And?” Buffy asked, setting her food down slowly.

“They didn't care." he almost spat the phrase. "They won’t remove Caedric’s team. Said the matchups are set. Said there’s no breach of the rules."

“Well, that’s it then. I’m drafting the overlords a strongly worded letter." Spike said. "Won't even use the scented stationery. That’ll show ’em.”

“I think the Thunderdome overlords have been paid off. Heavily.” Angel continued. “Caedric’s bought his way in.  And if I’m right then this whole thing was orchestrated. Capturing Sadie alive wasn’t about making her a prize. She was just bait.”

“So it turns out I’m the grand prize.” Buffy said, a brittle laugh died before it reached her eyes. “Guess I should be flattered.” 

Dawn’s face went pale. “You think the entire tournament was a trap?”

Angel glanced down at her, then back to her sister. “No. I think the tournament’s real. But Caedric is playing a different game. He doesn’t care about the prize. He cares about winning the soul of the only slayer who’s beaten every impossible odd.”

“I’m basically the demonic version of a stuffed unicorn at the county fair. Yay me.” Buffy swallowed hard, then added more quietly, “Can you stand guard again tonight, Angel? If it’s me they’re after, I’d rather you be the one keeping watch.”

Angel didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften. “I can’t.” His tone was flat, almost cold.

Something inside her cracked. She nodded too fast, the movement sharp and defensive. “Right. Of course.” 

Buffy turned back to the others before her face betrayed her. Faith shifted in her seat, biting back a comment, her eyes narrowing at Angel’s retreating form. 

“I’ll do it,” Xander said suddenly, stepping forward. His voice was rough but certain. “You need someone up top, watching? I’ve got one good eye and no set bedtime. I’ll keep guard.”

Buffy forced a smile, gratitude in it but hollow at the edges. “Thanks, Xand.”

"Come on girls, let's go to the mess hall and get some dinner." Willow suggested, gathering up the Slayerettes. 

For a few moments Dawn's eyes stared after Angel, before reluctantly following Willow. 

Later, the camp had fallen to restless sleep but Buffy lay awake, staring at the dim glow of the barrier above. 

She looked up and saw Xander, perched high in the stands, holding something like a conqueror’s trophy. It was an ornate goblet, all twisted gold and ridiculous gemstones, far too fancy for anyone to drink out of without looking like a royal idiot. 

Steam curled from the coffee sloshing inside it, and Xander held it like it was the Holy Grail itself. He gave her a mock solemn bow and raised it in a toast, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

“Don’t worry,” he called down, “No one’s dumb enough to attack a guy holding the Bedazzled Coffee Cup of Doom!”

Buffy blinked, part horrified, part amused. Somehow, the ridiculous little goblet made her feel a fraction safer. Xander, in all his absurd glory, was standing guard in his own, utterly unique way.

She told herself she didn’t care. That she didn’t need Angel there. But the truth leaked out anyway, raw and quiet, as she closed her eyes against the weight of it. 

Meanwhile, in the holding cells, Dawn slipped quietly into the room. She found Angel hunched over several thick books, shoulders tight, coat draped like armor.

“Angel,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t look up. “Dawn,” he said, flat but not unkind. His fingers tapped lightly against a book, restless.

Dawn took a small step closer, eyes scanning him. “Where did you get all these dusty books?”

"The Thunderdome has a surprisingly well-stocked library," he said with a shrug, finally glancing up at her. His gaze was sharp, cautious. "Did you need something?"

She swallowed, biting the inside of her cheek, and stepped closer. “I…I want to talk to you about what happened after L.A.”

Angel’s jaw tightened, but he stayed still. “Go on,” he said quietly.

Dawn drew in a shuddering breath. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “The second she heard about the fight, she flew straight there. Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep for three days. She combed through rubble, searching for you. Did you know?”

A flicker of guilt crossed his face. His hands flexed, releasing tension. “Did I know? No,” he said, clipped, voice low.

Dawn swallowed again, voice trembling despite her effort. “Then Connor called. Told her you were in a coma in San Francisco. She wanted to come straight away, but Spike and Connor told her to protect L.A. So she stayed. She fought off any lingering demons she could find, saved anyone trapped. She did what she thought you’d have wanted.”

Angel’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening, glancing down at the books but not touching them.

Dawn stepped close enough to reach out and touch his arm. “And when you woke up she tried to call you straight away. But you refused to speak to her. Why?”

Angel’s fingers flexed against the edge of the table, tense. A low hum escaped him, almost like a sigh. He said nothing.

“Angel I don't understand.” Dawn admitted. “I'm scared you’re punishing her. She needs you here. With her.”

Angel shook his head in disagreement. “I’m not abandoning her, Dawn.” he said. “I’m not punishing her. What do you think I'm researching here? I need to make sure she survives this.”

Dawn nodded, relief flickering across her face. “Good. Just...don’t shut her out. She's strong and brave but she still needs you.”

He studied her for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured.

He gathered up a handful of books and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Dawn to slip silently into the sleeping area of the holding cells. 

In the safe zone, Buffy managed four solid hours before her eyes blinked open again. Her first instinct was the same as it had been every time she woke here. To gaze upward, look for the night watch.

But Xander and his goblet were gone.

She pushed herself upright, wincing at the pull in her muscles, craning her neck to scan the shadows beyond the barrier. From her low vantage point, it looked deserted. The realization hit fast, sharp. What if no one was guarding them? What if the barrier wasn’t enough?

“Go back to sleep,” came a low voice from just outside the zone.

Buffy turned toward the sound, squinting until his form came into focus.

Angel sat on the ground, books spread open in front of him. The barrier’s faint shimmer caught the planes of his face, painting him in soft light.

She glanced over her shoulder. Faith and Spike were both out cold, the steady rise and fall of Faith's chest and Spike's utter stillness telling her they weren’t waking anytime soon. 

Something in her loosened. Without overthinking it, she gathered up her bedroll, dragging it across the floor until it was right up against the barrier. Close enough that, if not for the magic between them, she could have reached out and brushed his skin. She half-expected him to tell her to move back to her place. He didn’t.

She settled down, resting her head, eyes fixed on him. He stared back, his gaze both soft and searching, as though trying to read something in her face.

“You look worse than yesterday,” he said at last.

“Thanks,” she muttered, deadpan, though there was no real bite behind it.

“You should rest while you can.”

She shook her head. “Rest isn’t going to make me faster. Or stronger.”

His jaw tightened like he was holding something back. “You’ve walked into worse than this and come out standing.”

Her brow lifted. “You mean like the First?”

The faintest curve touched his mouth. “I mean like you survived me.”

That coaxed a small, fleeting smile from her, but it faded almost instantly. “This is different, Angel. They’re coming for my soul.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared under the low hum of the barrier. “But I’m not letting them take you.”

The words twisted something inside her. Fear yes, but something warmer too. “That’s not how this works. You can’t stop them.”

She stared at him for a long moment. The barrier between them buzzed faintly, warm and cold all at once, like the universe couldn’t decide if it wanted them close or apart forever.

“You know,” she said slowly, “I can’t figure out if you hate me or love me right now.”

Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe. “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

“Because you’re looking at me like I’m both the reason you’re here and the reason you wish you weren’t.”

His gaze held hers, steady, unflinching. “Maybe you are.”

She tilted her head. “Are you deliberately trying to be obtuse to take my mind off the battle?”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Is it working?”

“Not even a little,” she said, but her voice had softened.

And despite herself, her pulse steadied. That brief thread of humor was enough to let her exhale, to let her muscles loosen a fraction.

Her eyes drifted closed, her breathing evening out. Angel watched her for a while before his gaze dropped back to the books in front of him.

When she stirred again some time later, the glow from the barrier hadn’t shifted. He was still there, still keeping vigil. She caught him mid-page, his attention buried in a text.

“Sorry,” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you if you’re reading something saucy.”

That elicited a throaty chuckle, but he didn’t look up. “I’m researching.”

She rolled to her side, propping her head on her elbow. “What are you researching?”

This time he closed the book, resting it on his lap before meeting her eyes. “The badlands. Ways to rescue slayers who might end up there.”

The weight of his words landed with such force it made her throat ache. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them. She swiped at them quickly.

“I’m not ready to think about that,” she whispered.

“Good. Then don’t.” he said, voice steady. “Just worry about the fight. I’ll think about everything else for you.”

She didn’t answer. She only let her gaze linger on him a few seconds longer before laying her head back down, the faint hum of the barrier between them feeling almost like a heartbeat.

Buffy wasn’t sure when she drifted off again, but when she next opened her eyes, the lights in the zone felt brighter, the air a little less heavy. Behind her, bedrolls rustled and low voices stirred.

Faith’s groggy voice cut through first. “Okay, I’m confused. Did we all swap sleeping arrangements in the night, or did B just get bored of us?”

Buffy jerked herself upright, momentarily confused. “What?”

Spike’s amused drawl followed, still gravelly from sleep. “Look at you, Pet. All curled up next to tall, dark, and forehead like a lovesick teenager.”

Buffy shot him a flat look. “I was keeping watch.”

“From inside the barrier?” Faith smirked, rubbing her eyes. “That’s some next-level guarding.”

Buffy ignored them, busying herself with straightening her bedroll.

“I’m headed back to the holding cell to shower.” Angel said suddenly, gathering his books and dragging himself to his feet.

“Thanks for the life update, mate.” Spike swung his legs off his bedroll and gave a mock salute. “I’ll be sure to note that down in my diary.”

Angel didn’t respond, just started toward the tunnel. Buffy’s eyes tracked him until he disappeared from view, only for Willow, Dawn, and Xander to emerge almost immediately in his place.

“Good morning, team,” Willow greeted, far too bright for the hour.

“Right then,” Spike said, stretching until his joints cracked. “If we’re done with the slumber party critique, what’s the plan for not getting the souls of either of you two vacuumed out today?”

“Now I’m imagining the bad guys as big ol' Hoovers,” Xander muttered.

“Spike, you need to take the lead now,” Dawn cut in, ignoring him. Her voice had a firmness that brokered no argument. “You have no soul to lose. You run point, the girls guard your flanks.”

Buffy nodded. “Faith and I stick to yesterday’s plan. Stay in each other’s sightlines. No direct contact with Caedric’s team.”

Faith leaned forward on her elbows. “And if they get too close, we use the environment. Shove them into other fighters, block them with debris, whatever it takes.”

Willow added, “We just have to make it to the end without giving them what they came for.”

Faith’s brow lifted. “Yeah, no pressure.”

Behind her, Spike pulled on his coat, his tone lighter but still edged with intent. “Sure, we haven’t got the numbers. We haven’t got the brains.” He looked at Buffy with a wicked glint. “But we do have the one soul in this arena apparently worth fighting over.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Why are you so annoying?”

“Someone’s got to fill Angel’s spot while he’s off getting all wet and slippery,” Spike replied.

Faith choked on her cereal mid-bite, coughing bran flakes across the table.

Buffy arched an eyebrow. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

They lingered in the safe zone for a while longer, running over the day’s tactics between mouthfuls of bland rations.

Faith worked on strapping fresh bandages over a deep gash along her thigh. Spike knelt to tighten his boots, muttering under his breath about how he’d kill for any kind of weapon.

Buffy pulled her hair back into a tight braid, the repetitive motion steadying her nerves. Dawn hovered nearby, fussing over the stitches on Buffy’s arm, which was impressive considering they were physically separated by the magic.  

When the horns sounded in the distance, a low, rumbling warning that the next round was drawing near, everyone shifted gears. Armor adjusted. Boots laced. Jawlines tightened.

By the time they prepared themselves to step out of the safe zone, the crowd’s roar was already beginning to swell.

Up in the stands, just beyond the shimmer of the barrier, Angel was back in place. He looked cleaner, sharper, but with that same unshakable watchfulness fixed on the three fighters below.

Buffy felt the weight of his gaze before she even looked up. When she did, it was like the rest of the noise fell away just for a moment. He didn’t move, but his eyes held hers as if he was willing some kind of shield into existence between her and the danger ahead.

Faith noticed, smirking wickedly. “Why do they always stare at each other like they're having a silent conversation?" 

Spike pulled a face, his eyes flicking between them. “Bet you ten quid he’s mentally telling her not to get killed. Same thing he’s told her a hundred times, but y’know...broodier.”

The gong echoed through the Maw, signalling the commencement of battle. 

"Less mocking of Buffy, more punching of baddies." Buffy scowled, assuming a fighting stance. 

Spike didn’t wait for the fight to come to him. He surged forward, slipping through the fray with a predator’s precision, fists and boots finding targets before anyone could register his approach. The first two fell in quick succession, sprawling in the dirt before they even knew what hit them.

Buffy and Faith stayed tight behind him, cutting through opponents who came too close. The rhythm was fast and brutal, with no room for hesitation. Somewhere ahead, Caedric’s team was weaving through the melee like shadows.

Spike saw them. The grin that curved his mouth wasn’t friendly. “Time to make myself useful.”

He broke formation and went straight for the nearest one. The fighter barely had time to react before Spike’s hands twisted sharply, breaking his neck with a sickening crack. The body dissolved into the same golden dust they’d seen countless times before. 

"One down, five to go!" Faith whooped.

Buffy’s victory spark was short-lived. 

There was a blur of movement from the left and another team entirely came crashing into Faith’s side. A blade-like appendage on the neck of a green horned demon tore deep into her ribs.

Faith staggered, blood blooming across her shirt. Buffy’s instincts overrode strategy; she was at her side in a heartbeat, taking up a defensive stance, blocking every strike that came too close.

“Faith -”

“I’m fine.” Faith’s voice broke into a harsh cough, blood on her lips.

Buffy’s eyes caught the dark stain spreading under Faith’s hand. “You’re not fine.”

Faith’s answer was a crooked grin that looked more like defiance than humor. “It's just a flesh wound, B. Let's get back to work."

It didn't take an expert to tell Faith was lying, however the slayers had no choice but to return their attention to the battle. 

From that moment on, Buffy fought with her body angled toward Faith, cutting down anything that got close. Faith stayed in the fight, stubborn and fierce, every movement a testament to willpower.

But Buffy could feel her sister slayer weakening. It was the slow drain of Faith's energy, the way her strikes were a fraction slower, her balance just a little off.

Despite their best efforts to stick together, they had been separated from Spike. He was somewhere on the eastern wall of the Maw battling with a six armed demon.

Buffy could see through the arched windows along the roof of the Thunderdome that the sun was dipping low, throwing long shadows across the bloodstained sand. They were minutes from safety.

“Almost there,” Buffy panted, deflecting a blow that would have taken Faith’s head. “Just hang on.”

“Wouldn’t dream of checking out early.” came the strained reply. 

But when the next wave hit, Faith faltered. She dropped to one knee, catching herself on her hand. Her breath came in shallow bursts. Buffy crouched beside her, taking a solid strike to the arm that had been meant for Faith.

“Get up!” Buffy shouted. “You can make it.”

Faith’s gaze locked on hers. The fight was still in her eyes, but her body was failing her. She gave the smallest shake of her head, almost imperceptible, and then the light in her expression softened.

Buffy clutched at Faith's shoulder, willing her to stay, but the gold dust came anyway. Shimmers were rushing out of Faith’s body in a warm burst that lingered in the air before vanishing into nothing.

Buffy couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, frozen in place, before the cold weight of reality crashed down on her. This wasn’t over. She was still in danger.

But when Buffy finally forced herself to move, the ground beneath her seemed to shift, and she found herself face to face with Caedric.

His eyes gleamed with victory, and two of his men flanked him, drawing her in. Slowly, surely, they advanced.

As she staggered backward, she felt the oppressive presence of Caedric and his men closing in around her. She backed herself into a corner, trying to catch her breath, trying to find a way out. Trapped. 

The barrier hummed faintly behind her, an invisible line separating her from safety. She glanced up at the roof again, willing the sun to set and the horn to blow.

Think, Buffy. Her mind raced, but there were no easy answers. She couldn’t touch them, couldn’t fight them directly without risking her soul.

And with every step they took, the pressure tightened. She could feel the air, heavy and suffocating.

With no other options, she dropped into a fighter's stance and readied herself to go down swinging. 

She could hear Spike shouting her name from somewhere across the Maw. 

Dawn’s voice, shrill with panic, was screaming something from the stands.

But she couldn’t focus on that. Not when Caedric was so close.

Just then, the thunderous applause of the crowd rose up around her. She barely registered it, but then she heard the crackle of magic as the barrier stretched and rippled. 

A blur dropped into the arena from the far side, cutting through the chaos like it owned the ground.

A familiar figure was approaching them at a rapid pace. 

A last-minute pivot on the dirt, a slide on one knee that sent dust spiralling up like smoke, and he shot right between Caedric’s legs and out the other side. 

He used the momentum from his slide to whip around and drive his heel into the chest of the nearest Soulrender. The creature went flying several feet and landed in a boneless heap. Dead. 

The crowd went wild like Buffy had never heard before. 

Sand and grit swirled between them as he finally turned to face her.

That trademark smirk was lazy, cruel, and unshakably confident as ever. His eyes locked on hers, bright with wicked amusement.

“Hello, lover.”

The words slid into Buffy's ears and down her spine, and she hated that part of her still reacted, still recognized the cadence, still felt the weight of history in them.

But this was different.

Angelus wasn’t circling her. He wasn’t poised to strike. Instead, he’d come between her and Caedric like a shield.

Before she could even process what was happening, Angelus pivoted on the ball of his foot and closed the distance to the second Soulrender. This violence wasn’t fast out of necessity. It was drawn out, designed to be watched. A twist, a brutal knee to the chest, a hand at the jaw and another at the crown, wrenching until the head came away in his grip. 

Again, the crowd erupted. 

Angelus tossed the head like garbage, letting it roll almost lazily toward Caedric’s boots before it vanished into shimmers.

"You've picked the wrong slayer to hunt." his voice was smooth and dangerous. "This one belongs to me, pal." 

The implication was clear, the possessiveness more terrifying than anything else he could’ve said. 

Caedric sneered at Angelus before immediately retreating. 

Angelus yawned theatrically and stretched his arms luxuriously like he'd just woken up. Which, in reality, he had. 

Buffy was standing stiff as a poker, slack jawed and wide eyed like she'd just seen a ghost.

He sarcastically rolled his eyes at her. "Oh come on, Buff. That's the face you make when I save you?" 

Angelus laughed under his breath, brushing stray dust from his coat like the fight had been nothing more than an inconvenience. His gaze slid back to Buffy, lingering just long enough to make her pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.

“Your expression says ‘appalled,’” he drawled, his smirk curling into something darker, “but I’m choosing to hear ‘impressed.’”

The roar of the crowd swelled again, hungry for more, but Angelus didn’t move. He just stood there, daring anyone to try again.

Buffy’s grip tightened on her weaponless hands, the sickening reality sinking in.

Angelus was here. And this time, the monster was on her side.

The horn that signaled the end of the day's battle ripped through the chaos like a blade.

Spike’s head snapped up and he searched for Buffy in the arena, immediately catching sight of Angelus.

"Bloody hell Peaches, you massive wanker." he muttered. 

Before Buffy could get her bearings, Spike was at her side, one hand fisting the back of her jacket, the other catching her elbow. “C’mon, Love.”

They sprinted together, boots pounding over sand slick with demon blood. The crowd’s roar swelled, part jeer, part cheer. Spike’s grip didn’t loosen until they hit the shimmering line of the safe zone. They dove through in tandem, skidding to a stop on the polished stone inside.

Behind them, Angelus lunged after, only to slam against invisible resistance with a snarl. The barrier flared gold for a second, then settled back to a faint shimmer.

His eyes locked on Buffy. “What the hell?”

“Looks like you need an invite, mate.” Spike said, straightening and flicking demon gore off his coat. “Shockingly, yours got lost in the post.”

Angelus’s eyes narrowed. “Let me in.”

Buffy glanced at Spike. “How…?”

“My best guess?"  he said without looking at her. “The safe zone is currently inhabited by a human. That's you, Pet. Means our charming friend can’t stroll in without permission.”

Angelus’s jaw tightened. “You think you can keep me out?”

“Not think. Know.” Spike replied. “She’s going to rest, patch herself up, and when she’s ready, if she's ready, you'll get your invite.”

“That’s not your call.”

“Pretty sure it is.” Spike answered tartly. “So why don’t you toddle off, do some push-ups, make a nuisance of yourself elsewhere and wait your turn.”

Angelus leaned close until the barrier hummed between them. “Don't make me hurt you, boy.”

“Oh no, he's threatening me.” Spike pressed his hand to his chest in mock horror. “Quick, somebody fetch my fainting couch."

Angelus’s eyes narrowed, lips curling into a sinister grin. “Keep yapping, Spike. I’ll rip out your tongue and beat you with it.”

Spike laughed, leaning lazily against the wall. “I don’t think a walloping with my tiny pink tongue would actually cause much pain, but hey, it's your evil plan big guy."

Angelus’s grin twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Movement caught the evil vampire's eye. Dawn was fighting her way down a narrow staircase from the stands, Willow and Xander right behind, with Lulu, Ashwin, and Naima following in a loose knot.

Angelus’s gaze locked on Lulu. “Well, hello,” he said in a low, velvet tone. “Why don’t you come say hi, sweetheart?”

Lulu froze. Her lips parted as if to respond, but Naima grabbed her arm and yanked her backwards.

Spike barked another laugh. “Oh, brilliant. Really got a thing for little blondes, don’t you, mate? Should put it on your business card.”

Buffy gave him a look. “Not helping.”

“Not trying to,” Spike replied.

Naima, still gripping Lulu, tilted her head toward Buffy and muttered with a smirk, “I think I finally get it. He's way hotter now that he's a dangerous bad boy. I can see the appeal." 

Buffy pulled a face like she'd just swallowed sour milk. "Feel free to keep your inside thoughts to yourself, Naima."

"Are you seriously going to make me stand out here?" Angelus asked, drawing everyone's attention back to the Maw. "What if I get killed?" 

"There's no way we'll get that lucky." Spike rolled his eyes. “Now sod off before I start selling tickets to the 'Angelus Gets Murked' show." 

Angelus scowled but turned and skulked away into the dimly lit arena. 

"Bye bye!" Spike called merrily after him. "Try not to cause an apocalypse before tea time!"

By then Dawn had reached the barrier. She reached for Buffy’s hand automatically, but her fingers met nothing but a thrumming wall of magic. The energy sparked faintly under her touch.

Buffy lifted her own hand, palm against Dawn’s through the barrier. The space between them felt heavier than it should.

“I tried to stop him,” Dawn blurted, voice tumbling over itself in a panic. “As soon as he saw you were trapped, he just moved. I grabbed his arm, I told him no, I said it was too dangerous. But it was like I wasn’t even there. He threw me off, vaulted the wall. Buffy you know how he gets. But I’ve never seen him like that. He looked wild.”

"This isn't the first time Dead Boy has made a stupid decision." Xander said mockingly. "Let's just hope it's not the last." 

Willow, ever the calm and rational one, was neither as panicked as Dawn or petulant as Xander. 

"A team has just filed a formal complaint against us." she said. "Angel entered the contest on day three so they're calling it unfair interference." 

"Don't worry, Tzarael has rejected the complaint." Dawn added. "Apparently this development is selling a lot of extra tickets and the Thunderdome is raking in a fortune." 

"Of course it is." Spike snorted. "Angelus in the arena was their plan all along. Nothing like an unhinged psychopath to increase profits." 

"Hey, Will?" Buffy whispered, drawing her best friend's attention. "I think the situation here is becoming a bit precarious. I think you need to get Dawn and the girls out of this dimension before anything gets worse."

Willow's brow furrowed, but she nodded slowly. 

"I'll take everyone back to the holding cell for a bit." she replied. "I think everyone could do with some sleep." 

Once the Scoobies disappeared down the tunnel, Buffy finally allowed herself to groan in pain. She clutched at her sore shoulder and lowered herself onto her bedroll. 

Spike was there almost instantly, offering a glass of water. 

She took it, drank, and handed it back. “Thanks.”

“For the water or for hauling you in here?”

“Both.” She leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling.

"Are you doing ok?" he asked. "Like, mentally? I know it must be hard for you to see Angel like this again." 

Buffy was silent for a few moments before answering "All the things we've been through together over the years and I don't know which version of him I'm fighting half the time." 

"What's becoming clear is that all of his versions love you and want to protect you." Spike replied, sinking onto his own bedroll beside her. 

“Why would he even want to protect me? Think of all those months back in Sunnydale when he just wanted to destroy me.”  she pondered. "For the sake of the argument, I'm willing to accept that I'm his soulmate. But right now he's missing the soul."

Spike studied her for a moment. “Maybe you’re not just his soulmate, Love. Maybe you’re just…his mate. Soul or no soul.”

Her brow knitted nervously. “Meaning?”

Spike’s mouth pulled into a wry line. “After Angel got his soul back he marked you, right? Before the Mayor's ascension?" 

"He drank my blood if that's what you're asking." Buffy answered nervously. 

"Right." Spike nodded. "You didn't know that he also marked you as his mate?" 

"Um, no." Buffy scowled. "I must have missed that memo." 

"Being the mate of a vampire isn't just the romantic ‘you’re mine forever’ bit." Spike explained. "It’s the demon part of him saying you belong to him. You are like Angelus’s possession. And a demon takes care of what’s his.”

"I'm definitely not his." Buffy said, nostrils flaring in indignation.

"I know you like to think of Angel and Angelus as two separate twats. Hell, we all do." Spike said. "But the reality is, they're the same. Just one twat. You belong to Angel, you belong to Angelus. Sorry, Pet." 

The words sat heavy between them, undercut by the muffled sounds of the arena at rest. 

Neither warrior had very much to say after that. The loss of Faith hung heavily between them. The fear that they were going to lose. The horror that perhaps awaited Sadie. 

They patched themselves up in silence. Spike pulling a shard of something chitinous from her arm, Buffy pressing gauze to a gash over his eyebrow. The motions were automatic, well practiced, and neither of them needed to speak for the comfort to settle between them.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged them down. They stretched out on their bedrolls and drifted into restless sleep. 

Buffy was still bone tired a few hours later when a thumping sound awoke her. 

Angelus stood on the other side of the barrier, staring at them intently and tapping his foot in rhythmic frustration. 

Spike groaned without opening his eyes. “If that’s room service, I’ll take my blood warm with a splash of nutmeg.”

Buffy sat up slowly. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to talk strategy,” Angelus said curtly. 

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Not really in the mood."

"Let me in." he demanded.

“You know the rules,” Spike said, voice lazy but laced with satisfaction. “Barrier’s picky. Needs an invite.”

“I’m not here to fight you,” Angelus said, tone edging toward annoyance. “You want to win? Then let me in. You're going to want to hear this.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “You hear that? He’s got something important to share. Maybe he’s found a catapult full of custard pies.”

Buffy sighed. “Fine. I invite you in.”

The barrier flickered, and Angelus stepped through with that trademark predator’s grace.

“Right,” Spike muttered. “And there goes the last bit of our peace and quiet."

Angelus ignored him. “I’ve done a walk-around of the arena. Found a way to give us an edge.”

“Magic beans?” Spike asked hopefully.

“Slayer blood,” Angelus said flatly.

The humor evaporated from Spike’s expression. “Not happening.”

Buffy stood from her bed, immediately angry. “Are you insane? You think I’m just going to hand you my throat like a snack break?”

“Not drain you. Not even close. Just enough to sharpen reflexes, boost strength." Angelus said determinedly. "It’s the purest fuel we’re going to get.”

"Not a chance." Spike fumed. "Over my dust."

Angelus's gaze flicked to him. "You don't trust me? Fine. But you take it. Just enough slayer blood to heighten your senses and keep her alive."

Buffy swallowed hard, starting to see the unfortunate logic in the vampire's words. 

Angelus’s voice was low and dangerous. “Only the best of the best are left in the arena now. You two are injured and exhausted. Go in at your current level, you won’t last ten minutes. This is survival, not a tea party.”

The silence stretched as both Buffy and Spike stared at each other in abject horror. It wasn’t the worst plan they’d ever come up with.

"Up to you, Pet." Spike finally murmured. 

Angelus suddenly looked giddy with excitement at the prospect of getting his own way. He clapped his hands together in anticipation.

"Just a few mouthfuls, Spikey boy." he said. "Enough to sharpen your reflexes without weakening her." 

Spike moved in slowly and carefully, one hand on Buffy's shoulder as he dipped his face towards her neck. 

Angelus moved too, then, and momentarily pulled Spike back. "Not the neck, you idiot."

Spike rolled his eyes, but gently rerouted to Buffy's wrist. When his fangs broke the skin, Buffy hissed at the onset of stinging pain. The process was controlled and clinical. He swallowed three times before Angelus roughly yanked him back again. 

"My turn." Angelus announced. 

"Try anything silly and I'll stake you where you stand." Spike growled at him. 

Angelus stepped in, brushing Buffy's hair aside with slow and deliberate fingers to expose the mark on her neck. His mark. 

"Mine." he murmured so softly that the word only reached Buffy's ears. 

Then the bite came, much deeper than Spike's and yet somehow less painful. Teeth sinking into the same place Angel had claimed long ago. 

Almost instantly, a sleeping bond roared back to life. 

This wasn't Angel's timid carefulness or gentle warmth. This was something entirely primal. A flood of molten heat pooled between Buffy's legs and her knees buckled underneath her. Angelus snaked out an arm to keep her upright and steady. 

Buffy could feel Angelus himself pulsing through her veins. His mind, his hunger, his amusement, his possessive need to have her and keep her. 

She could feel his satisfaction at tasting her again. The way he catalogued the rhythm of her pulse, the hitch in her breath. The raw, hungry protectiveness that was his version of devotion.

It was wrong. Twisted. Completely against her will.

And she loved it.

And she hated herself for loving it.

When he pulled back, sealing the wound with his tongue, his eyes met hers and he grinned. She knew he could feel her conflicted reaction as clearly as she could feel his smug certainty.

"Well." Spike said, breaking the silence. "I’ll just file that monstrous display under ‘Things I Did Not Need To See Today.'"

He filled a glass with more water and passed it to Buffy so she could re-hydrate. 

"Enjoy your little snack?" she snapped.

“I feel fantastic!” Angelus crowed, flexing his energized muscles. “Now we’ve got a fighting chance.”

"Psycho Popeye has had his spinach." Spike rolled his eyes. “He's faster, he's stronger, he's still a complete wanker." 

Angelus leaned back like a man perfectly content with his choices then reached over to caress Buffy's arm. She violently jerked her body out of his grasp, but he could feel the lust thrumming through their revitalized connection.

"I enjoyed what it did for us." His smirk deepened as he watched her squirm in discomfort. "And don’t pretend you didn’t."

Buffy’s jaw tightened, but Spike cut in before she could fire back.

"Let's just get back to the part where we don’t all end up dead in the next round." He tipped his head toward Angelus. "He’s juiced up now, so maybe we actually stand a chance of not getting our arses handed to us."

Angelus rolled his shoulders, testing his new strength with a pleased grunt, but his gaze never left Buffy.

"You know the one advantage to having a vampire as a mate?" he asked plainly. "If you drank from me, our connection would be even stronger. You’d feel what I feel, see what I see. We’d move as one in perfect, lethal coordination."

Her pulse tripped at the thought. Not because she wanted to, but because her pull to him was so strong. She hated that she couldn’t stop imagining it.

"Not happening," she said, cutting the words like a blade.

"It would win us the fight."

"It would make me you," she shot back, stepping forward to put steel in the space between them.

Spike snorted. "And that’s a horror show no one needs. Sit down, Captain Personality Disorder."

Angelus’s mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smirk before the sound of boots and chatter cut in.

The Scoobies arrived in a noisy rush. Dawn first, then Willow, Lulu, Ashwin and Naima, boots pounding against the stone like a syncopated drumbeat. And then Xander, one hand casually hooked into his belt, the other holding his fancy coffee goblet. 

The three Slayerettes looked mentally and emotionally exhausted. They hung back near the tunnel entrance, too scared of Angelus to approach the barrier.

Trailing behind them came Kennedy, backpack slung over her shoulder and a grin that said she was here for business and to make everyone uncomfortable.

“Kennedy?” Buffy blinked.

“Surprise!” Kennedy said brightly. “I made it here in time and the good news is I'm fully briefed on what will happen when you die.”

Buffy arched a brow. “That’s, uh, quite morbid.”

“Realistic,” Kennedy countered. “If the need arises I'll lead the slayer school just as well, if not better than you Buffy.”

"Gee thanks for the vote of confidence, Kennedy." Buffy said. 

“Nothing like a little morale boost before a battle.” Spike muttered. “Maybe later you can give us all our funeral playlists.”

"Well if we’re talking morale, we’re already at a disadvantage." Xander sneered. "Dead Boy here’s looking smug, which is never a good sign.”

Angelus smirked without turning. “Better smug than stuck like you, One Eyed Jack.”

“Better one eye than no soul,” Xander shot back instantly.

Angelus, who had previously been uninterested in the conversation, turned slowly and moved to the barrier. 

"God, Xander." Dawn hissed in frustration. "Why'd you have to piss him off?"

Xander crossed his arms, eying Angelus like he was something he’d found under a fridge.

“So, you’re the plan now?" he scowled. "We're teaming up with evil vampire twin number two?”

“That’s rich coming from the guy whose greatest contribution to the team is carpentry,” Angelus laughed. “What are you going to do? Build Caedric a birdhouse in exchange for surrender?”

Xander shot him a flat look. “I could build you a little coffin. Just big enough for your dust.”

Angelus smirked, unfazed. “How about you build yourself one? Engrave it with ‘Died as he lived — tragically useless.’”

Willow stepped between them, palms up. “Okay, let’s not turn this into a middle school cafeteria.”

Xander huffed. “Fine. But if he so much as looks like he’s planning something...”

“I’ll do more than look,” Angelus said, his grin widening. “I’ll do whatever I want, and then I'll wave.”

Angelus punctuated his statement by slinging his arm around Buffy's shoulders and then waving cheerily at Xander through the barrier like they were old friends meeting at the park.  

Buffy rubbed her temples and shoved his arm away with exaggerated force. “Really? We’re doing this now?”

“No time like the present, Lover,” Angelus said, clearly savoring every ounce of Buffy’s annoyance.

Spike folded his arms. “Can we please get back to the part where we focus on not getting murdered?”

Willow let out a slow breath, as if counting to ten in her head.

“Right. Strategy.” Willow said, turning to Dawn. “You want to fill them in on your recon?”

“Sure.” Dawn brushed past Xander with a pointed shoulder bump. “We’ve got twenty-two fighters still in the game. That’s you three, plus Caedric and his two steroid-sculpted bodyguards.”

“Who are the other sixteen?” Spike asked, frowning.

“A grab bag of beasts,” Willow said. “Mixed species, mixed skills, all unpredictable. And the more chaotic the fight gets, the worse our odds.”

“Caedric’s not going to just sit back and wait for you to take him out,” Dawn added. “We don't know much about him, but we do know he’s got an ego the size of a Hellmouth and won’t be above rigging the game to take you down.”

"But you don't need to worry." Kennedy piped up again. "Just remember I’m briefed on everything. If you don’t make it out, I’ll handle the Slayer Academy.”

"Hey, Kennedy?" Buffy’s brows knit with curiosity. "Purely out of interest, did you travel here from the Congo just to give me my death contingency speech?”

Kennedy simply shrugged. 

“What’s next?" Spike drawled. "Is Xander going to read us Buffy's eulogy before we’ve even lost?”

Xander took the opportunity to glare at Angelus again. “Already have a draft. Starts with ‘She was stubborn, sarcastic, and had terrible taste in vampires.'"

"Hey leave me out of this." Spike huffed. 

"Want me to proofread it for you, Cyclops?” Angelus grinned, not missing a beat. 

Xander’s eye narrowed. “I bet you proofread like you fight. Messy and overconfident.”

“Oh, I fight just fine,” Angelus said, leaning casually on the barrier like a man in no hurry. “Lucky you’ve got front row seats to watch me. Shame about the depth perception, though. You might miss the good parts.”

Buffy slouched back, pinching the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb. “Honestly, if this is how we plan to survive, I’m less worried about the demons and more worried about us.”

"Let's focus." Spike suggested. “Do we have a genius strategy for not dying? Or do we just wing it?”

Angelus sighed wistfully. “My plan? Kill everything that isn’t us.”

“Wow." Buffy deadpanned. "And they say military brilliance is dead.”

Before anyone could say anything else, the horn sounded to signal the combatants should enter the arena to commence their battle. 

"Nothing like being underprepared." Spike muttered as the three fighters readied themselves to enter the Maw. 

"I love you Buffy." Dawn called out forlornly. 

"See you soon, Dawnie." Buffy replied, giving her sister a tight smile as she stepped through the barrier onto the dirt. 

The horn’s note still echoed when the arena began to shift underfoot.

Walls of black stone groaned upward, breaking the sand into jagged trenches and uneven ridges. Dust rolled across the ground like smoke, clinging to their skin.

"What trickery is this?" Buffy gasped. 

The gong echoed through the Thunderdome and the crowd erupted into wild cheers in anticipation of the battle ahead. 

Buffy dropped into a combat stance in anticipation. Spike danced from one foot to the other like a fighter in a boxing ring. 

Angelus ducked behind Buffy and disappeared from view, but she could feel the hum of him nearby. 

The air thickened, heavy with tension, as the jagged landscape settled into its grim new form. Buffy’s eyes darted over the uneven terrain, calculating, searching for any advantage. The dust swirled, catching the light like tiny embers.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the faint blur of Angelus. Even in his undead form, his presence was a steady pulse in her senses, like a dark heartbeat syncing with her own.

Suddenly, the silence snapped. From the far edge of the arena, shadows shifted. Figures emerging slowly, deliberately. But something was off. None of them charged or attacked. 

They came to a stand still on the other side of the Maw, all seemingly waiting for something. 

Buffy’s pulse quickened. “Why aren’t they coming?”

"Maybe they're admiring my jawline?" Spike suggested, though his voice was laced with nervousness. 

A low ripple of unease worked its way down her spine.

Then Caedric strolled forward, every inch the man in control. 

The two teammates at his sides mirrored him like shadows.

His eyes went to Buffy and he bowed performatively at her, but it was Spike he smiled at.

His voice carried across the arena. “You can’t win, Slayer. Every fighter here dances to my coin now.”

He raised two fingers.

The rest of the fighters shifted, almost imperceptibly. Their bodies angling, feet adjusting, hands at the ready. Then all sixteen turned in unison towards Spike. 

“Well, this feels bloody personal,” Spike muttered.

They hit him like a storm. The pack of demons surged forward all at once, forcing Spike into a desperate retreat. Not even his newly acquired slayer power-up could save him from this vicious onslaught. 

Buffy moved to intercept, but Caedric’s lieutenants slid between them, cutting her off like a closing door. 

Spike fought like a mad dog, but sixteen against one was ugly math. He managed to kill two fighters before he stumbled and fell. 

"Buffy!" Spike shouted.

The gnashing of claws, horns and fists was somehow louder than the cheers from the spectators. Every blow pushed him further down until he disappeared completely under their mess of bodies.

Buffy screamed his name and took a half-step toward him, but Angelus materialized out of nowhere and locked his grip onto her arm. He pulled her backwards, towards the barrier.

Caedric and his two goons were on her, closing in with rapid pace. 

The dust churned around them as Buffy saw gold shimmers rise above the mob of fighters. 

"Spike!" Buffy wailed again. 

Her scream was lost in the roar of the crowd.

The combatants, done with Spike, all turned to look at her. 

Angelus shoved her back toward an opening in the chaos. “Move, Buff. Now.”

They ran. Not away, but sideways, weaving through other fighters, cutting down whoever got in their way. Angelus managed to kill a slimy looking demon with grey eyes as he shoved Buffy ahead of him. 

Caedric and his two stayed on them, relentless.

By the time they ducked behind a jagged outcropping, Buffy’s lungs burned and her arms shook from blocking blows. Her mind was a knot of grief and rage and terror.

They'd only been in the Maw for ten minutes and already Spike was gone. 

Her hands were trembling before she even realized she’d stopped fighting. Her knees wanted to give out.

“Oh my God.” Her voice was a raw whisper that still scraped like sandpaper. “We’re going to lose, aren’t we?”

It was all very uncharacteristic, but panic pressed into her ribs like a hand trying to crush her lungs.

Angelus leaned close, his tone urgent. “It’s now or never. Drink from me. Feel what I feel. Move as I move. It’s the only way we keep you alive.”

Her stomach turned so sharply she thought she might actually be sick. Every cell in her body screamed at her to say no. Screamed that this was the worst decision she could ever make.

But the battlefield didn’t care about her principles. The Maw didn’t care about her disgust. And there was no other way. No other way to save Sadie, or Faith, or her own soul.

She peered up at him. “This won’t...God, it won’t turn me into a vampire, right?” The words tumbled out, shaky and absurd, even as she knew the answer.

Panic was scrambling her thoughts, making her sound like a rookie.

His expression softened. Not into kindness, but something like recognition.

“No. Not unless you drink too much and I drain you dry first.” His mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “We’re not ready for that just yet.”

The yet lodged in her throat like a splinter the moment he said it.

She shook her head, more to clear the fog than to refuse. “This is insane. This is...”

“It’s survival.” His voice cut through hers like a blade. “And if you’re going to survive, you need to stop thinking like a girl who’s afraid of monsters and start thinking like one.”

Buffy’s heart hammered. She could hear the sounds of Caedric’s barked commands, the heavy footsteps of his lieutenants hunting them, and the roar of the other demon combatants. 

She didn’t have minutes. She had seconds.

“Do it,” she said, the words tasting like defeat.

His smirk was fleeting, just enough to tell her he’d won this round. Then he brought his wrist to his mouth and bit.

The sound of deep, wet tearing of flesh made her flinch. Blood welled instantly, dark and vicious, and he held it out to her like a chalice.

The smell hit her first: metallic, sharp, almost electric. She wanted to recoil, but her hand had already closed around his forearm, her fingers digging in. 

She hesitated a fraction too long.

“Drink, Buffy,” Angelus said quietly. “Or die wishing you had.”

Her mouth met his skin, and the taste exploded across her tongue. Heat and iron and something darker, something that pulsed with life that wasn’t hers. She shuddered violently but forced herself to swallow.

It burned. God, it burned. Like swallowing fire laced with lightning, every drop sending a shock through her chest and into her limbs. 

The disgust didn’t fade, it deepened. She only managed two mouthfuls before she pulled away, gagging. 

Then, her breath hitched.

The world shifted.

The grit under her boots became individual grains of sand she could count.

The dust hanging in the air painted perfect halos around the sunlight near the stadium roof.

She could hear the rhythmic tapping of claws shifting on the stone floor, all the way across the Maw. 

And then there was him.

The bond flared open like a locked door kicked wide. His emotions bled into her all at once. She could feel the sharp, animal thrill of the hunt, the predatory focus, the cold joy in chaos. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and she hated how natural it felt.

She shoved his arm away, tasting the metallic tang of his blood still on her tongue. “Let’s just end this.”

They moved.

A hulking demon with tusks came charging through the dust. Buffy sidestepped, caught its arm, and used its momentum to send it stumbling toward Angelus. He stepped into its path like he’d been waiting for it his whole life, ripping the tusk from its head and burying it in the base of its skull. It hit the ground so hard the earth shook.

Before the body even had a chance to disappear into golden shimmers, Angelus caught her by the elbow and yanked her behind a jut of black stone. 

“Caedric,” he murmured.

She risked a glance. Through the shifting haze, the warlord moved with his two sidekicks, their silhouettes upright and sure. They weren’t hunting the rest of the fighters. They were hunting her.

Buffy held her breath as the three passed, their boots crunching just on the other side of the stone. Angelus didn’t so much as twitch.

When the danger moved on, they broke cover, circling wide before slipping back into the fight.

Before she could even breathe, a lithe, scaled fighter leapt down from the jagged ridge above. Buffy ducked under its spear-like tail, drove her elbow into its ribs, and spun low to sweep its legs. It hit the ground hissing. Angelus’s boot came down hard on its throat, silencing it.

She shot him a glare. He only smiled.

Like they were a team. Like it was their kill.

Two masked fighters came at them together, talons curled like blades. Buffy tangled with one while Angelus grappled the other.

Without looking Buffy knew when he’d turn his opponent into her path. She shifted, her fist already there when the fighter stumbled forward. She flipped him onto his back and used his own talon to slice his throat. He disappeared into golden swirls. 

“Stop enjoying this,” Buffy snapped, trying to ignore the glee radiating off Angelus. 

He grinned wider. “Not a chance.”

They kept moving, weaving through the jagged terrain, striking down isolated fighters and vanishing again before Caedric could pin them. Sometimes they heard his voice echoing across the trenches, low and commanding. Each time, they sank into shadow, muscles taut, waiting for the footsteps to fade.

By the twelfth kill, her arms were shaking, sweat and grit burning her eyes. She didn’t dare slow down.

The last of the day’s prey found them in a narrow gorge. A brute with arms like tree trunks and a smaller, robed figure whose hands hissed with sickly green light.

The brute came in first, bellowing as he swung a haymaker meant to take Buffy’s head clean off. Angelus stepped into the blow, catching the wrist mid-air and wrenching it until bone cracked like dry wood. The roar that followed was cut short when Buffy drove both knees into his ribs, feeling the cartilage give way under her weight.

The sorceress barked a word in a language Buffy didn’t know, and a sphere of green fire burst from her palms. Buffy ducked, heat licking her scalp and singeing the tips of her hair. Angelus yanked the brute into the path of the spell, the smell of burning flesh hit them instantly and the demon collapsed with a guttural groan then disappeared.

Before the sorceress could summon another spell, Buffy was already moving. She slammed into her, driving her backward into the jagged stone wall. The impact jarred through both of them, and Buffy grabbed the woman’s glowing wrists, forcing them downward. The green fire flared wildly and this time it consumed its own caster.

The sorceress shrieked, the sound cutting sharp through the gorge before choking off. Her body crumpled to the dirt, skin blackened and cracked like scorched clay. Then she was gone. 

Suddenly there was complete silence in the gorge, save for the sound of Buffy's ragged breathing. 

Sixteen competitors down.

Only five left: two of them, three Soulrenders. 

She could both see and feel Angelus anxiously scanning the Maw for a sign of Caedric or his goons. 

Buffy's gaze met Angelus's. That tether between them was heavier now, not just in her mind but in her muscles, her pulse. She hated that she could feel the faint thrum of his satisfaction, and worse, the faint flicker of concern buried beneath it.

The horn blared overhead, long and resonant, shaking dust loose from the gorge walls.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

When they broke into a run, it was perfectly in sync, their strides matching without thought. The dying light painted the jagged ground in shades of rust, their shadows stretching side by side toward the safe zone.

They crossed the barrier just as the sun’s last edge dipped below the horizon. 

Buffy staggered to a halt, her chest heaving. Angelus stopped beside her, his eyes tracking her face like he was still weighing every flicker of expression. The hum of that unwanted bond lingered between them, buzzing under her skin.

Neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t peace.

Somewhere beyond the barrier, Caedric’s laughter carried on the wind.

Tomorrow, it would end.

Tomorrow it would be them or him.

The safe zone felt wrong. 

Too quiet. Too empty. Too still.

The roar of the crowd outside had faded hours ago and the stadium was at rest.

Chaos was swallowed by the thick magical barrier that caged them in, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that clung to the air like smoke, heavy and waiting. Even the torchlight seemed muted, the flames burning low and throwing long shadows across the uneven floor.

Buffy sat with her back against the wall, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them. Sweat had dried to a sticky layer on her skin, grit and dust clinging wherever her clothing didn’t cover. Her arms ached from the day’s fighting. The pads of her fingers felt raw from striking stone and flesh alike. Every breath scraped her lungs like she had been inhaling sand all day.

She forced herself to stand and busied herself with menial tasks. She showered, re-braided her hair and forced down a bowl of stew.

Angelus’s eyes followed her every move, sharp and unblinking. She belonged to him. That knowledge made him furious, made him ache, made him want to tear her from the world while keeping her impossibly close.

He hated it and loved it in equal measure. She was his mate, but not of his choosing. That meant survival, anger, protection, dominance, and desire were twisted together into something he could barely parse. He could kill, maim, manipulate, and terrify the world with ease, yet the thought of her falling to Caedric’s hands made his teeth ache.

It was utterly disgusting to care. The bond thrummed in his chest like a chain, pulsing with her every breath. He wanted to rip it out of himself and bury it in her at the same time.

After a while, Buffy collapsed into the corner of the zone. She pressed her palms into the rough floor, trying to steady her thoughts, but they refused to be tamed. Every detail from the day played in her mind, looping like a broken reel: the masks of Caedric’s men, the smell of dust and blood, the rhythm of fists and teeth meeting flesh. 

Her eyes flicked toward Angelus. He was lounging in the opposite corner, impossibly relaxed, like he had just walked in from a casual stroll along the beach. She knew she should hate him. She should be screaming, pushing him away, reminding herself he was a killer who wore Angel’s face. Yet even in the quiet, he unsettled her. Not with fear, not with threat, but with that slow, deliberate presence that seemed to anchor her, even while threatening to drag her under.

He could protect her, keep her alive when survival demanded it, but each glance, each touch, each decision she made in his presence would eventually become part of Angel’s memories. Even worse was the knowledge that every act of cruelty Angelus enacted would also become Angel’s to reckon with. He would have to bear the guilt of violence and horror he had never truly committed, unless she could keep Angelus contained. It was enough to make her feel physically ill. 

Angelus’s gaze, dark and precise, seemed to pierce through the haze of her exhaustion, reading her fear alongside every beat of her desire. He was not mocking, not now. He was not sneering. He was waiting, patient and unyielding, forcing her to reckon with the duality of the vampire she loved and the vampire she feared.

Buffy drew a slow, shuddering breath. The arena battle would come, and there was no avoiding it. Her body could endure the blows, her mind could plot and weave. But her soul, fragile as it was, trembled in the quiet, aware of the cost that survival might demand.

Angelus remained relaxed, one boot propped against the wall, arms folded. His shirt was still rumpled from the day’s fight, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. Not one bruise, not a speck of blood on his skin that wasn’t someone else’s.

He was different in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of them. He was still Angelus. Still evil, still calculating. But the edges were somehow softened. The voltage of his showmanship dimmed. The smirk became something subtler, slower, meant for her alone.

“You keep pacing in your head like that, you’re going to wear a hole right through your skull,” he said finally, his voice breaking the silence with an unhurried drawl.

Buffy didn’t look at him. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous habit." 

She drew a slow breath. “We’re not going to survive tomorrow if you have to spend the whole fight protecting me.”

"Is that your way of saying I should just let you die?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Little morbid, don't you think?”

There was no mock horror in his tone, no exaggerated grin. Just the quiet challenge of a man who wanted to hear her say it out loud.

“It’s my way of saying you fight better when you don’t have to split your attention.” she answered curtly, meeting his gaze for the first time. 

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, gone almost before she caught it. “True.”

“Then maybe that’s the only way you take Caedric and his men,” she pressed. “You go in without worrying about me.”

He pushed off from the wall, slow and deliberate, the boot that had been braced against the stone landing with a quiet thud.

“Are you suggesting that I let them take you, Buff?” His voice stayed even, but there was an edge to it now. “That’s really not on my agenda.”

“Why isn’t it on your agenda?” she asked, watching him as he took the slow steps toward her. “Why do you care? You’ve always wanted me dead.”

He stopped a few feet from her, hands still loosely at his sides.

“That’s not the same thing,” he said.

Buffy arched a brow. “Pretty sure dead is dead.”

His mouth curved into something that hovered between a smile and a warning. “Oh, I’ve imagined killing you more ways than I can count, Lover. Messy ones. Elegant ones. Some so twisted you’d almost have to applaud. But that’s not the same as letting Caedric take your soul.”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the sharp, unwanted flicker of warmth in her chest. “You don’t even like my soul.”

“Correct,” he said instantly, taking a slow step closer before crouching down in front of her. “It’s a tedious little thing. Self-righteous. Always getting in the way of all the fun.”

His hand moved without warning, fingers closing around hers. She should have pulled back, should have thrown some cutting remark to shatter the moment. But she didn’t. Heat flushed her cheeks, and she hated herself for it.

“Turning you into a vampire? That’s one thing,” he went on, his thumb tracing slow, idle circles against her skin as if he had all the time in the world. “The soul would go but you’d still be mine.”

Buffy swallowed thickly, her eyes dropping momentarily to his lips. His gaze didn’t waver, the faintest shadow of something unguarded flickering there before his voice dropped lower.

“But if Caedric rips your soul out and casts it into a hell dimension to burn forever, then part of you belongs to him. That’s not going to happen." he said firmly. "Not to my mate.”

The words hit like a thrown blade, sinking deep. She felt the weight of it coil inside her, and hated how part of her wanted to hold onto it.

“So this is about possession, not protection.” she said.

“Semantics,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on her longer than they should have. The sharp edge of his tone was gone now, replaced with something quieter, something dangerously close to tender. “I’m selfish, Buffy. Always have been. But even selfish things have lines they won’t cross.”

“Buffy!”

They both turned toward the sound. 

Beyond the shimmering curve of the barrier, three familiar figures stood at its edge, their shapes blurred by the faint distortion in the air. 

Dawn’s hands were pressed flat against the invisible wall, her face pale and tight. Willow stood beside her, magic humming faintly in the charged space around her. She looked completely exhausted. 

Xander was just behind them, arms folded, eyes sweeping the arena like he half-expected something to come lunging out.

Angelus rose to his feet in one fluid motion, whatever softness had been in his expression moments ago was locked away behind his usual mask of indifferent arrogance. 

Buffy stepped forward until she was a few feet from the barrier. 

"Will, what's going on? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Where are the girls?"

"I'm okay." Willow nodded, sipping from a large cup of water. "I found a gap in the fabric of this dimension, without needing to open a full portal. I sent Kennedy back home with the girls to keep them safe."

"Good." Buffy nodded, before turning to admonish her sister. "I wish you'd gone with them, Dawnie."

Dawn's eyes flicked to Angelus for a brief second before turning back to Buffy. "I'm here as long as you are. If you end up in the badlands I'll find you. I promise." 

Buffy shook her head sharply. “No, Dawn. You stay safe. That’s the only promise you make me. Understand?”

Willow touched her fingers to the barrier, the magic sparking faintly where her hand met the surface.

“I’ll protect her,” she said firmly. “If anything happens, I’ll get her home. You have my word.”

Buffy swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod. “Okay.”

Behind her, Angelus shifted just close enough that his presence pressed at her back. It was protective without being obvious, and she hated that she noticed.

“So, uh, what do we do now, Buffster?” Xander’s voice was tentative but steady. “How can we help you?”

Buffy turned to face them, meeting their worried expressions with as much calm as she could muster.

“Go back to the holding cell. Get some rest.” She paused, eyes flicking to Willow and Dawn. “I’ll need you at full strength tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, the Scoobies nodded and retreated down the tunnel, their silhouettes swallowed by the shadows.

Buffy immediately spun back to Angelus, determination hardening her features. “I have an idea.”

Angelus grinned, a flash of mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “We kill Xander?”

She ignored the tease and met his gaze squarely. “No. A proper idea.”

“Oh? Do tell.” he replied, arching an eyebrow quizzically. 

She drew a slow breath. “I’m going to offer Caedric my soul.”

Angelus blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Come again?”

“I’m going to bargain for Sadie.” she explained, her resolve hardening. "He gets my soul on the proviso he hands Sadie over when his team wins the Thunderdome."

Angelus's grin vanished instantly, replaced by a hard, cold stare. "Buff, that's idiotic." 

She blinked, startled by the force of his dismissal. “It’s our best shot.”

“No. It’s a sucker’s bet." he said, shaking his head sharply. "Caedric won’t honor any deal that gives him less power. He'll take your soul and then he'll take Sadie too and your little band of merry white hats will end up with nothing."

Buffy opened her mouth to argue, but Angelus held up a hand.

“I have a better plan." he said. "One that guarantees your soul stays intact.”

Her heart hammered in her chest as he stepped closer, clutching her shoulders as he pulled his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel his cold lips on her skin.

"I kill you." 

Buffy pulled back in disbelief and shock, trying to read any type of satire on his face. 

"Kill me?" she gasped. "For your own enjoyment?"

Angelus violently rolled his eyes. "No, Buff. Not because I want to. Because it keeps your soul out of Caedric's hands." 

She swallowed hard as she processed his words. The logic was, unfortunately, starting to logic.

“You don’t actually die.” he continued. “You just disappear from Caedric’s grasp while I finish him off.” 

"That's brutal." she whispered. "And genius." 

"Obviously." Angelus grinned. "I'm the biggest genius I know."

"And so modest." Buffy muttered. 

"Modesty is for the mediocre."

She let out a shaky laugh and collapsed onto her bedroll. "So you really think you can take Caedric and his men if you don't need to worry about protecting me?" 

"I'll handle them." he affirmed. "It'll be fun." 

He sank down onto the bedroll next to her. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Eventually, and possibly without thinking, he reached out and dragged her across the floor to share his mattress with him. They each recognized the pull of their mated bond and understood their need for closeness had little to do with how much they disliked each other in reality. 

"What if you lose?" Buffy asked quietly, breaking the silence with a whispered hush. "If we end up in the badlands, will it be you there with me? Or Angel?"

She turned her head to look up at him over her shoulder. His arm tightened around her waist. 

"Which would you rather?" Angelus asked darkly, his eyes flickering across her face. 

"For the sake of the others, probably Angel." she admitted with a wry smile. "But somehow you seem to like me more than he does." 

"I hardly think so." Angelus replied, letting out a sharp laugh. 

Buffy’s brow furrowed as she traced a finger absently along the edge of the bedroll. “He's certainly been acting like it." 

Angelus laughed again. "He's just being a pansy and holding petty grudges because you voted against helping him when he called for backup in L.A."

"What are you talking about?" Buffy's brow furrowed and she sat up. "I never voted. There was no vote." 

"Giles said it was unanimous." Angelus replied smoothly, watching her reaction closely. 

"...Giles what?" Buffy frowned, caught off guard. 

But Angelus had already moved on.

"Giles is an annoying, spineless old twerp. I really can't stand him." he scoffed. "He's as annoying as that little bitch Cordelia. I'll never understand why Soul Boy fell for her." 

Buffy looked away, the mention of Cordelia hitting harder than she expected. A sting of hurt lingered in her eyes, unspoken but heavy between them. 

She knew she had no right to be jealous. After all, she'd moved on with Riley and then Spike. But somehow Angel developing feelings for someone other than her felt wrong in a way she couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just about him. It was about what she had lost and what she still secretly held onto. 

Angelus noticed the shift immediately, the subtle tightening around her eyes, the way her jaw clenched just so. He let the moment hang between them, neither pushing nor retreating.

“Don’t,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “It’s not worth the trouble. He was just trying to replace you with a stopgap.” 

Buffy gave a small, bitter smile but said nothing. The rawness of the night and the weight of their unspoken feelings settled over them again.

“Enough for now,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You need to sleep, Buff. Whether or not you'll fight when the sun comes up, you need to have your wits about you on the other side." 

Buffy hesitated, then nodded, the exhaustion finally pulling her under.

Angelus settled back beside her, his presence a quiet anchor in the dark. 

Buffy’s breathing evened out, the exhaustion dragging her into a restless sleep. Angelus remained vigilant, his dark eyes flickering over her, a silent guardian in the shadows. Then finally, he too slept. 

A sharp bang echoed against the barrier, dragging Buffy and Angelus from their restless slumber. The sound was followed by a familiar, gruff voice.

“Hey! Get your hands off her!" Xander shouted. "Buffy, wake up! Angelus is spooning you!”

Buffy’s eyes fluttered open, still heavy with exhaustion, and she groaned softly. 

From behind her, Angelus smirked and only pulled her closer. "Spooning her is one thing. Maybe next I'll fork her."

That was enough for Buffy to violently push herself from his grasp and stand from the bedroll. She was far too exhausted to deal with another Angelus and Xander pissing contest. 

Dawn stood just behind Willow, her lips pressed into a tight line. She kept her eyes on Buffy, fighting back tears.

"I lost you once, Buffy. I won't do it again." she whispered. "Whatever happens, we will come rescue you. Okay?" 

Willow nodded, her hand gently resting on the barrier as if trying to send a protective wave through the magical wall. “I’ll protect Dawn. You have my word."

Buffy swallowed hard, the weight of their words settling heavily on her chest. She forced a smile, nodding. “I love you guys. Be safe.”

Xander’s voice cracked through the thick tension, sarcastic as ever. “Hey, Dead Boy? If anything happens to my best friend, you'll have me to answer to.”

Angelus's whole face lit up in wicked amusement. "Oh I'm so glad you said that."

Buffy's stomach clenched. There was a dangerous secret lurking just below the surface. She knew what was coming and how Xander would likely react. But she couldn't tell her friends, in case they tried to stop it. 

Angelus smirked, clearly entertained by Xander’s antics. He reached out his hand to Buffy with that familiar crooked smile. “Shall we?”

Buffy hesitated, her gaze flickering briefly to Dawn and Willow, then back to Angelus. Her fingers curled around his hand, cold and certain as she stood.

The barrier shimmered and then parted, revealing the brutal arena beyond. The last moments of calm before the storm.

The horn sounded. Something inside Buffy remembered this would be the last time she heard that horn - either way, the battle was coming to an end. 

"Bye, children." Angelus called. "Watch and learn as I headline yet another spectacular show." 

Angelus gripped Buffy’s hand just a moment longer than necessary. His smile softened for the briefest flicker before the cruel mask snapped back into place and he waved happily to the trio behind the barrier.

Together, they stepped into the Maw for the final time. 

Caedric and his two sidekicks were already pacing with gleeful anticipation on the other side of the arena. 

Angelus instantly heard the uptick of Buffy's heartbeat, felt the waves of nervousness cascading from her mind. 

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice low and steady. 

"I'm not afraid to die." she answered resolutely. "Been there, done that. Twice." 

"Personally I'm really looking forward to this moment." he crowed, dark humor lighting up his eyes. "Always been a wet dream of mine to kill you, Lover."

The gong sounded. 

The crowd erupted into cheers. They were hotly anticipating violence of the highest caliber. 

Angelus turned to Buffy, his voice barely more than a whisper, but edged with steel. “Ready?”

Buffy met his eyes. Those dark, swirling depths that held so many contradictions: menace, vulnerability, and something fiercely protective. 

But then, almost imperceptibly, his gaze softened.

She knew this was a deliberate choice on his part. A quiet, unspoken reassurance. Angelus was putting on 'Angel face' for her. Trying to steady her trembling with the memory of the man she loved, even as he prepared to do the unthinkable.

She gave a tight nod, though her heart was pounding like a drum in her chest.

Caedric and his men began advancing on them from across the dirt. They didn't have much time. 

As Angelus stepped forward, the cruel, mocking grin that usually twisted his lips faded. In its place came the haunted, softer eyes of Angel. He reached up slowly, as if to cherish a fragile moment before the storm.

His hand cupped her face with surprising tenderness, fingers tracing the line of her jaw. His lips fell down upon hers in a crushingly affectionate kiss that conveyed promises unspoken and sacrifices too heavy to bear.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, a fragile plea.

Buffy’s breath hitched. His words mirrored those she had once spoken to him, in a beautiful, bitter parallel.

She wanted to protest, to pull away, to scream that this couldn’t be happening. But deep down, she knew there was no other way.

Her eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the unbearable inevitability. Her hands reached up to grip his elbows, holding on to the delicate moment as he still held her face.

Then, with a movement both swift and precise, Angelus’s hands moved to her neck.

The snap of bones echoed in the Thunderdome.

For a moment, the entire stadium fell into stunned silence and time itself felt frozen. 

Buffy’s limp body slipped down into Angelus’s arms, and he cradled her gently, making sure she didn’t fall. A final breath caught in her chest. 

Then, slowly, her body began to shimmer, dissolving into a cascade of golden dust that floated upward, catching the light like sparks from a dying flame. The dust danced and twirled in the still air, a fragile and beautiful farewell.

Then, as if a spell was suddenly broken, the crowd erupted. First with gasps, then with wild cheers that rippled like thunder through the stadium.

It was apparent that no one could believe what they had just witnessed: the renowned vampire had killed his own teammate. The crowd reacted like they were witnessing the greatest plot twist of all time.

Caedric’s face twisted in raw, seething fury. His eyes blazed with a deadly fire, veins pulsing at his temples. He snarled, thick with rage and disbelief.

"No! This cannot be! My prized slayer soul!" Caedric's voice cracked with anger so powerful it shook the very ground beneath him. "I will end you, vampire."

Angelus held the space where Buffy had been for a long, deliberate beat before turning his gaze to the Scoobies in the crowd.

Xander was on his feet, shouting so aggressively his face had turned tomato red. Willow was openly weeping.

Then Angelus locked eyes with Dawn.  She sat calmly amidst the chaos, her expression unreadable. Then she gave him a subtle, knowing smile and a nod.

The unspoken understanding was clear.

The sacrifice was complete. The soul was secured.

Her sister was safe.

Slowly, Angelus turned to face Caedric, his voice low, commanding, and filled with dark resolve.

“Get over here Caedric!” he called out, the thrill of the fight returning. “And let’s play.”

Angelus. Angelus. Angelus.

The noise hit him first.

It was everywhere, swallowing thought, pressing in from all sides. Thousands of voices rising in a three syllable chant, the rhythm pounding in his head until it felt like his skull might split. 

He could hear his name in it, except it was wrong. Warped. Too sharp on the end.

An. Gel. Us. An. Gel. Us. 

An. Gel. Us. 

No, it wasn't his name. A large crowd was chanting the name of his demon. 

The lights above burned his eyes. He turned his head and the brightness fractured into jagged pieces. Shapes moved at the edge of his vision, blurred and shifting, their edges smearing together. His legs felt unsteady, his arms heavy, like his body had been hollowed out and filled with stone.

Something was running toward him. Small. Fast. A streak of movement cutting across the arena floor. A girl, he thought dimly. Long brown hair streaming behind her. She threw her body at his chest with significant force as her warm arms wrapped around his neck in a tight embrace.

“You did it, you did it!” she said, her voice high and urgent, breaking on the last word.

He stared down, blinking slowly. Her face swam in and out of focus. For a moment he was sure he had never seen her before. But then a fragment of memory slotted into place and the blur sharpened. Dawn.

She was still talking but the words slipped past him. All he could hear was the chanting, like the crowd was trying to beat the name into him. Angelus.

Another figure was moving toward him now. Taller, dark hair, eye patch. Shoulders tight with anger. Xander.

The expression on Xander’s face made Angel’s stomach knot, though he didn’t know why. Then there was a sudden crack of impact and pain exploded across his jaw. The world tilted. He went down hard, his vision flashing white.

“You killed Buffy!” Xander’s voice tore through the air, jagged with fury.

The words rooted him to the ground more than the blow. His head spun and yet somewhere under all the noise and pain there was something else. 

A thread, faint but unbroken, tugging at the back of his mind. Buffy. He could feel her there, like an echo he could almost reach. It made no sense. If she was dead why could he still sense her? Why was the connection warm instead of cold?

Dawn shoved Xander back with more force than he expected, her voice sharp with anger. “Shut up! He saved everyone!”

“He's a monster.” Xander shot back, his voice dripping with accusation. “I saw him—”

“Enough!” Dawn snapped. “Just stop talking!”

Angel’s palms pressed to the floor, the cold seeping into him. A hand touched his shoulder. Gentle. Steadying. He looked and found Willow beside him, her face a mixture of worry and something softer.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, like she was speaking to someone on the edge of panic. “You’ve been gone, but only for a few days. It will come back to you.”

“I…” His throat caught. “Buffy…?”

“She’s fine,” Willow said, firm enough to leave no room for doubt. “And you did the right thing. Even if you don’t remember why yet.”

Her tone was like a lifeline, but the knot in his stomach didn’t ease. He could feel Buffy, close and alive, but Xander’s voice kept repeating in his head. You killed Buffy.

Before he could speak again, shadows fell over them. Three demons stood there, their presence blotting out the noise of the crowd. Tzarael stepped forward, the curved lines of his mouth shaped into a predator’s smile. Vorthazaar and Glornax loomed behind him like living statues.

“Well done, vampire. Your part in this contest is complete.” Tzarael said smoothly. “Return to your holding cells. The Champion will dress in ceremonial robes for the award presentation in one hour.”

They turned and left without waiting for an answer.

The walk back through the tunnel blurred into a haze of movement and noise. Dawn and Xander trailed behind him, their argument a constant pulse at his back. 

Willow kept to his side, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm every few steps. She didn’t speak, but he could feel her presence holding him upright, an anchor against the swirl of voices.

“You’re unbelievable, Xander Harris.” Dawn hissed. “Angel just fought his way through—”

“Through Buffy, you mean?” Xander interrupted furiously. “We all saw him snap Buffy’s neck.”

The words hit Angel like a blade between his ribs. For a second he thought he had misheard, but the image his mind conjured was so vivid it almost knocked him over. His feet faltered on the packed dirt floor.

Snap Buffy’s neck.

The phrase repeated in his head with the steady, merciless rhythm of the crowd’s earlier chant. He tried to tell himself it was impossible. He would never. Not even Angelus...

Except Angelus would. 

And if the crowd had been screaming Angelus just moments ago, then maybe that was exactly what had happened.

But then why could he still feel her? The thread was still there at the back of his mind, undeniable, pulling taut like she was only a few steps away. If she were gone, truly gone, that connection would be nothing but cold ash.

He dug for memory, but all that came were flashes. Buffy’s expression fierce, their bodies moving in tandem against a blur of enemies. The rush of adrenaline, the sharp clang of impact, the raw urgency of survival. It all blurred together, slipping through his grasp like smoke. And then nothing. Just the blank stretch of absence that always came when Angelus was in control.

A cold weight settled over him. The silence screamed louder than any crowd.

If Xander was telling the truth, then somewhere in that dark void between moments, he had killed his true love. The thought was a jagged shard slicing through what little calm he’d managed to hold.

His legs weakened, and he faltered, reaching out to steady himself against the cold stone wall. A sudden wave of nausea rolled over him, fierce and unrelenting. His throat clenched painfully, and before he could stop it, he gagged, retching up a small mouthful of blood.

He couldn’t tell if it was Buffy’s blood or a demon’s. The uncertainty twisted inside him like a knife.

Willow’s hand brushed lightly against his arm, the contact deliberate and steady. She didn’t say a word, but the small, grounding touch was enough to steady him and continue their journey through the tunnel. 

“I saw you punching him when he could barely stand!” Dawn’s voice cut back in, sharp with outrage.

“Barely stand? He was fine enough to—”

“Just stop talking!” Dawn snapped, stepping into his path to block Xander’s glare.

Angel kept moving, his eyes locked on the ground. Willow matched his pace, silent but solid beside him. 

Every step carried the same sick loop of Xander’s voice saying he had killed Buffy, the phantom tug that told him she was alive, and the empty stretch of memory where the truth should have been.

By the time they reached the holding cells, his jaw barely ached from Xander’s punch, but it was the uncertainty gnawing at him that hurt more.

He moved past the others without a word and shut himself into the shower.

Steam filled the small space. Hot water hit his shoulders and rolled down his back, carrying with it the blood and dirt caked on his skin. He let his head hang forward, eyes closed. At first there was nothing. Just the rhythm of water against tile.

Then the images began to surface. The amnesia was dissipating. His brain started cataloguing the memories of Angelus and slipping them neatly into place. 

At first they were blurred, broken shards flashing too quickly to hold onto. Then they began to sharpen, each one carrying a weight heavier than the last. 

Buffy sleeping. Her face so close it filled his vision. His fingers tracing down her torso as she lay beside him. Trusting his demon to keep her safe in slumber. 

Buffy's blood. Her blood in his mouth. It had been so long since he’d felt it, that impossible combination of strength and intimacy. And then the answering pull as his own blood moved into her, sealing something between them that had been dormant for years.

The sensation was overwhelming. Not just the raw power but also the connection. The walls between them had dissolved in an instant, leaving nothing but the unfiltered truth of what they were to each other.

Then the battle itself began knitting together in his mind. The crush of bodies. The hot stink of demon breath. Caedric bearing down on Buffy, his hands reaching for her soul. 

Buffy fighting. The defiant set of her jaw, the heat in her eyes. The way her breath caught when they moved in perfect sync, their bodies pushing through the mass of snarling demons. 

Then the memory of Angelus placing hands around Buffy's neck. His hands. 

The crack of Buffy's fragile bones echoed in his mind. 

It had worked. It had saved her. But it had been Angelus holding her when her neck snapped. That image would never wash clean.

He saw Caedric’s snarl, the frustration when the soul he’d been after slipped beyond his reach. Then the brutal battle Angelus had unleashed, strength and rage unleashed in a wordless assault. The demon staggering, reeling beneath Angelus’s relentless onslaught until finally he and his goons were defeated. 

Angel pressed his palms flat to the slick tile, his eyes shut tight. The taste of her lingered, metallic and warm, and with it came the truth he didn’t want to face. Whatever had been reignited in that arena, it wasn’t going to burn out just because the fight was over.

He shut off the water but could not shut off the grotesque memories that were flooding his brain.

Steam clung to the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Angel stood under the harsh yellow light of the bathing chamber, toweling water from his hair in slow, distracted strokes.

The robes lay folded on the bench beside him, ceremonial white edged in gold thread. They felt too clean, too soft against the grit still lodged in his mind.

Three sharp raps sounded on the wooden door.

“Angel?” Dawn’s voice, warm and bright. “We’re heading up to the crowd now. We’ll see you in a bit!”

Footsteps faded, leaving him alone in silence. 

He dressed slowly, pulling the robe over his shoulders, tying the sash with hands that wanted to fidget. His mind kept returning to the fight, to the blur of blood and dust. Where Angelus had leaned forward in the dark, grinning, whispering that he was the one who’d carried them through.

By the time he stepped into the narrow corridor that led upward to the arena, his jaw was set tight enough to ache. The noise began as a faint thrum underfoot, then grew with every step. The passage twisted to the left and finally light spilled ahead.

He emerged to find a stage had been erected in the middle of the Maw. Three thrones dominated it, each occupied by one of the demon overlords. Vorthazaar lounged with the self-satisfaction of a king surveying his empire. Glornax’s massive frame sat still and watchful, predator-patient. Tzarael’s gaze was sharp enough to cut.

For a moment Angel hesitated by the entrance, suddenly panicked that he would become Angelus again once he crossed that threshold. A demon guard shoved him roughly forward and he clumsily staggered through the barrier. 

With a sigh of relief, he realized that he was still himself. The magic that stripped him of his soul clearly no longer applied now that the contest was over. 

He crossed to stand in front of the stage, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes scanning the floor. He searched for familiar faces. For her. But he saw only the restless energy of a crowd waiting to be fed their long anticipated finale. 

Tzarael's voice rolled out, deep and booming, magnified by some magic that vibrated through the air. “Ladies and Gentle demons, I hereby announce this has been the most successful Thunderdome in our recorded history!”

The crowd roared and stamped their feet on the stadium floor with such enthusiasm the entire structure appeared to rattle.

“And now,” the demon continued, “we welcome back our victorious champions from the winning team to claim their prize. Each fighter returning to us in the order they fell, to claim their reward.”

A circular carving in the arena floor split open, stone grinding on stone. Light shimmered within, shifting and alive like molten gold. 

The first figure rose out of it, standing atop a lifting platform like a pop star debuting at their own concert.

It was Reese. She stepped off the platform and stood blinking in the daylight, whole and unmarked. Her ceremonial robe looked much the same as Angel's, falling in neat lines over her shoulders. Her dark eyes found his, a brief smile tugging at her mouth. She didn’t really know him, but she knew they'd won. 

Once the crowd stopped cheering, the platform shifted again. This time Mira appeared, rising into view with a sharp grin. Reese’s face lit up, and the two teens closed the distance between them immediately, embracing in a tangle of arms and relieved laughter.

Faith was next. Her stance was confident as always, but her eyes darted quickly to the two younger slayers to check they were okay before sliding towards Angel. She strode over, looping an arm around his shoulders in a quick, tight hug.

“Yo, boss man. Can't say I'm not confused to see you here." she whispered fervently. "What the hell happened after I went down?" 

“I’ll fill you in later,” he murmured, the words almost lost under the crowd’s roar. Her brow furrowed, but she let it drop.

The fourth arrival drew a wave of whistles and hoots from somewhere in the stands. Spike stepped onto the stone with a swagger that was half for the crowd and half for Angel’s benefit.

"Look at you, Peaches. Didn’t think you had it in you.” he grinned. 

"Good to know." Angel said, his lips turning upward even in spite of himself. 

“Took your bloody time, though." Spike added, elbowing him playfully. "Thought you’d leave me rotting down there just to save face.”

 “Would’ve been tempting.” Angel replied.

Spike moved to trade a clasped-hand shake with Faith that quickly devolved into a hug and relieved laughter. 

The platform shifted for the final time. 

Buffy.

Whole. Perfectly whole.

The ceremonial robes fell around her like a halo, light catching the folds in a way that made the arena vanish around them. The crowd was a living thunder, but to him it was nothing. Only she existed.

Her eyes found his before he even knew to look. Relief, joy, love, and worry all pressed against him through the bond. It was a connection both invisible and undeniable.

He could feel it like heat in his chest, where no heat ought to have existed. It was tugging at him, burning under his ribs. He could hear her pulse, not in her body, but in the way the world moved through the bond. In the rhythm of thought and feeling.

Her steps were measured and purposeful as she removed the space between them. She stopped so close that he could feel the warmth of her, the quiet insistence of her presence.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, almost a sigh, almost a plea.

The simplicity of it should have been a balm. It should have grounded him. But it didn’t. Instead it shredded him.

Because he knew the truth. He knew what had been done. He knew who had held her in those final moments. Angelus’s hands, Buffy’s neck snapping, the surge of blood between them. The power, the terror, the intimacy. 

And now, she was alive, and here, and expecting him to stand tall, when inside he was still crumbling, still recoiling from the memory, from himself.

He wanted to lean in, wanted to wrap her in his arms and stay there, wanted to let the bond swallow them both until the arena, the crowd, the three demon overlords, the victory, all of it, ceased to matter.

Instead, he stepped back. Just slightly. Just enough to break the heat of proximity.

Her expression shifted instantly. The  warmth drawing in, retreating like a tide pulled by his own recoil. She sensed his hesitation, his shame. Her hands twitched, almost reaching, almost pressing closer, and then she froze, mirroring him, holding herself at bay.

The bond throbbed between them, taut and electric. Every heartbeat she sent, every thread of love and concern and unshakable belief in him, slammed into the raw, jagged truth of his guilt and fear. And still, he could feel her trying to anchor him. Soft tendrils of reassurance winding through him, pulling, holding, insisting.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to confess everything racing through his mind. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not with the eyes of thousands on them. Not with the overlords’ gazes like blades and the crowd howling for a spectacle.

So he stood, still and taut, pretending control, while the bond between them throbbed and burned and whispered all the truths neither could speak aloud.

She let her hands fall and she turned to embrace Spike and Faith instead.

But even as she moved away, as the world around them roared and shimmered, even as the triumphant magic of the arena pulsed beneath his feet, Angel could feel it: that she was the anchor he could never let go, and the storm inside him was hers to feel as well.

The crowd’s roar softened just slightly, the thrumming energy of the arena shifting as the Arbiter’s voice boomed once more.

“And now! The final act!" Tzarael boomed. "The prize, the ultimate reward of courage, of survival, of unbroken will.”

Angel’s gaze flicked past Buffy, past the others, toward the platform on the arena floor. Something moved there, something small and human. His stomach tightened.

A figure emerged. Slight, almost fragile against the ceremonial light. She was dressed in ceremonial robes similar to the others, except hers were a deep shade of navy and silver.

She stepped carefully, hesitantly, as if testing the world outside the darkness she had been kept in. 

The little slayer was everything he’d imagined and nothing at all. Her red-gold hair caught the light, tied back simply, her green eyes wide but fierce beneath their bright shock. She trembled with fear, angry sores embedded into her wrists where she'd obviously been shackled. 

Buffy’s breath caught, a sharp inhale that he felt through their bond before he saw it in her chest.

"Sadie!"

When the girl finally saw Buffy, something in her froze. Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and her green eyes went wide, disbelief and relief mingling.

“Buffy?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling, unsure.

She ran to the girl, closing the distance in an instant, and wrapped Sadie in her arms. Relief slammed into Buffy like a wave, warm and fierce.

Then Reese was their side in an instant, grinning and laughing, arms outstretched. “Sadie! You made it! We totally saved you. You're totally welcome."

Mira followed quickly, and the three girls closed the space in a tangle of arms and laughter, holding each other tight. Their joy at being reunited was unrestrained. They collapsed onto the ground, all still holding each other tightly. 

Buffy hovered close, her hands lightly on Sadie’s shoulders, guiding her into the warmth of the reunion. Faith stood beside her, arms crossed but eyes soft, taking in the scene with a quiet satisfaction that the girl had survived and that the team had endured.

“The battle is officially closed,” Tzarael declared. “The victors have been chosen, and the defeated have been discarded. All depart.”

The roar of the crowd dimmed slightly, the chanting fading into murmurs. Bodies began to move, the thousands of spectators slowly filing out. The great fire-pylons dimmed one by one, casting the arena into a softer glow.

Angel’s attention flicked from Buffy to the girls, catching the laughter and the relief in the air, but he remained stiff, bound by the invisible chains of memory and guilt.

Spike leaned against the stage edge, one eyebrow cocked, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “All's well that ends well." he murmured. "Though I must admit I am a little disappointed our prize was the ginger haired slayer and not the enchanted dagger you hyped me up about."

"Nah, this prize is better." Angel’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk, dry as ever. “You’d have lost the dagger anyway.”

Buffy never moved from Sadie's side, but her gaze kept flicking to Angel, reading him as only she could. She felt his bond, tight and raw, the layers of relief, guilt, and unspoken agony pressing against her own chest. 

Willow, Dawn, and Xander appeared at the edge of the Maw, pushing through the departing crowd. Their feet pounded across the dirt as they ran. Once they reached the group on the podium, the tears of happiness and hugging began all over again. 

Buffy wrapped her arms around her sister and squeezed tightly, but even then she could feel her bond to Angel throbbing quietly. She knew a storm still lingered for her personally, but seeing Willow, Dawn, and Xander brought a small, grounding clarity to the moment.

For Angel, the bond pulsed like a quiet drum, vibrating with everything Buffy wasn’t saying, everything he could not voice. Even in the midst of reunion, of laughter and celebration, there was a tension. it was the weight of what Angelus had done, the taste of what lingered between him and Buffy, the unspoken ache that neither could let go of entirely in the public gaze.

Despite it all, the arena felt almost peaceful now, the tension slowly easing, the edges of the battle’s terror fading into memory, leaving only the raw, layered emotions of reunion and survival.

For this moment, all of them were here. All of them were safe. All of them were together. And it was time to go home. 

Tzarael floated down from the dais, long fingers steepled, voice smooth as velvet.

"Congratulations, my champions." he grinned, showing entirely too many teeth. "And now the victory feast awaits."

Buffy scowled and crossed her arms.

"Oh. Um. Thanks but no thanks. We'll just pick up some takeout on the way home." she turned to look at the girls. "Tacos sound good? I could do tacos."

Tzarael’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes had that faint predatory gleam that always meant trouble.

"I’m afraid attendance at the feast is non-negotiable.” he said smugly. 

Buffy pivoted her feet towards the exit. "Again, thank you for the invite but I must respectfully decline. The whole ‘watching demons chew with their mouths open’ thing? Not our vibe. But you go ahead and have yourself some fun, okay?”

Tzarael conjured a shimmering parchment into existence with a little flick of his clawed fingers and held it aloft for all to see. 

“Clause fourteen, subsection three of the contract signed by your team captain states  ‘All victorious combatants shall attend the post-tournament feast to honor the glory of the event and the Thunderdome overlords.’”

Buffy’s head snapped toward Angel so fast it was almost audible. “Did you sign us up for dinner?”

"I didn't see that part." Angel huffed. "I signed it in a rush, okay?" 

Tzarael punctuated this announcement by stabbing at Angel's physical signature on the page.

"This is entrapment." Faith groaned. "What happens if we choose not to attend?"

"Noncompliance,” Tzarael replied cheerfully, “is punishable by forfeiture of winnings."

Sadie gasped in horror and Buffy immediately tucked the girl behind her torso. 

"Now come along." Tzarael continued, clearly deciding the debate was ended. "The tables groan under the weight of delicacies from a hundred realms. And several of them are still moving."

Spike made a face. "Yeah, that’s not the selling point you think it is."

But Faith threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll go. Free food is free food.”

Buffy gave her a flat look. “You just want to see what they do for dessert.”

Faith grinned. “Damn right I do.”

Tzarael’s teeth glinted. “Splendid. This way, my champions.”

The feast hall was all glittering obsidian tables, heavy goblets of something that steamed faintly, and music that vibrated right through the bones.

Clusters of demons moved like constellations. Each group its own orbit of hierarchy and whispered deals. Robes glittered with metals that weren’t found in human mines, and the occasional flash of a fang, claw, or too-wide smile reminded Buffy exactly what kind of party this was.

Buffy scanned the room nervously. It would not be hard to get lost here. The Slayerettes were already being pulled into conversation by wide-eyed younger warriors from other realms, with Dawn trailing them as a minder. Faith was at the drinks table looking like she was two seconds from challenging someone to a drinking contest, and Willow was cornered by a trio of demons who seemed fascinated by her hair.

Buffy moved slowly through the room. She kept catching flashes of Angel in the crowd. He was with Spike, answering the occasional question from some horned dignitary but otherwise nursing his drink like it had personally offended him.

The pull between them was still there. Thick, alive, running right down that invisible line their bond had knitted back together in the arena. She could feel it thrumming in her chest, the warmth of it undoing hours of her best mental barricade work.

She didn't quite understand how his face could remain so neutral while he felt the powerful emotions traveling through the bond at every moment. 

Before she could even stop herself, she approached him. 

“Hey,” she said softly.

He stiffened before turning, dark eyes guarded. “Buffy.”

"Oh 'ello, Love." Spike smiled at her, leaning around Angel's head to look her in the eye. "I'm off to get another drink. You want one?" 

"No, Spike." she said tightly, before adding. "But thank you."

The second Spike was gone, she turned to Angel pointedly then tilted her head toward the door.

“Can we talk?”

His mouth pressed into a line. “We’re talking now.”

She recognized that for the brush-off it was, but strategically chose to ignore it. 

“Not here,” she said, already stepping back toward the tunnel. “You’ve got that whole ‘brooding until my hair turns grey’ face on and I’m not doing this over canapés.”

He didn’t move at first, gaze flicking toward Spike's retreating back as if weighing whether it was worth leaving his table unguarded. Finally, with a slow exhale, he stood and followed her out.

The corridor outside was dimmer, quieter. The heavy doors muffled the party into a low, rhythmic hum. Buffy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him stop a few feet away.

“Alright,” he said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “What is it?”

She wanted to start with something small but the bond was buzzing between them, and she could see the cracks in his composure if she looked long enough.

“Tell me what you're thinking” she said. “And before you give me the ‘I’m fine’ routine, just don’t. I can feel you now, remember?”

That was when his jaw clenched, like he wished the bond could be scrubbed out of existence.

“Buffy I need to apologize." he said then. "For what happened in the arena. For Angelus. For re-igniting our connection."

Buffy blinked, disbelief flashing across her features. “Why would you even say that? He did that to save me. I know you hate him, but he saved my life Angel.”

Angel shook his head fervently. “He did it to hurt us, Buffy. To hurt me. He knows how hard I worked to sever our bond years ago.”

Buffy froze, her pulse skipping. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “What did you just say?”

“I said he was trying to hurt us,” Angel repeated, louder this time. “Not only did he reconnect us, he made that bond damn near unbreakable with the blood exchange.”

Buffy’s chest tightened, a mixture of shock, betrayal, and grief twisting through her. Her stomach felt hollow, and every heartbeat of the bond pressed into her ribs like fire.

“Angel, are you trying to say the reason I stopped feeling you after you moved to L.A. is because you deliberately cut our emotional bond?”

Angel’s head snapped up, eyes wide, as if he’d just realized for the first time they were angry about different things. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the weight of his own truth settling over him.

His eyes darkened, haunted, distant. “I had no choice. I couldn’t let it control us. You never could have moved on. I did what I had to do.”

The bond thrummed between them, alive and jagged, searing with every memory they had shared and every restraint he had forced on himself. Buffy could feel it all and it cut through her like molten steel.

“Buffy, look. I’m sorry, okay?” he said, desperate to stay in control of the conversation. “I’m not trying to say that I stopped loving you. The love and the bond are two different things. It’s not about love, Buffy.”

Buffy’s breath caught, her chest trembling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“I understand that.” she said, voice raw and breaking. “But it doesn’t change the fact you destroyed something that was ours alone. You took away my autonomy. All this time, I thought the bond disappearing was somehow my fault…”

Her voice cracked on her last word, trailing off as full, gut-wrenching sobs took over. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, breaking eye contact, shivering with the intensity of it.

Angel said nothing. He didn’t know if there even was an answer to give, or if any words could ever reach across the weight of what had been done and the pain it had caused. He simply held himself still, letting her grief settle around them both, the bond pulsing like a living, restless thing.

Buffy’s sobs shook her body. She could feel his guilt, his shame, the remnants of Angelus still clawing at him. She swallowed, fighting to steady her voice, to make herself heard through the storm.

“Angel,” she said, quiet at first, then firmer, deliberate, each word pressing against him like a dare. “I know you hate what he did. I know you hate yourself. I know you’re angry. And I know you've made mistakes."

He didn’t move. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, and every part of him seemed frozen under the pressure of the truth between them.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” she continued, taking a slow, careful step closer. “I’ve lived. I’ve bled. I’ve lost. I've been cookie dough. And now I've felt everything you feel through our bond."

He looked at her then, just slightly, and the pull of the bond tightened like a vice inside both his chest and her own. She could feel his reluctance, his fear, the way he was holding back even though every fiber of him ached toward her.

"Here's the thing, Angel." Buffy’s voice dropped lower, soft and heavy, almost a whisper, and yet it carried a deliberate, silent challenge. “I want my life to be with you.”

The words hung between them, daring him, testing him.

I want my life to be with you.

Suddenly she was eighteen again and they were back in the sewer under Sunnydale. 

Except this time she wasn't in high school and there were no parental figures interfering in their relationship. 

It was just the two of them. 

And this time there wasn't going to be another chance

Buffy held his gaze, letting him feel everything in the bond. The relief, the love, the ache, and the longing. She wanted him to reach for her, to fight for her, to acknowledge what they had. It was now or never.

Angel’s eyes darkened, heavy with sorrow and restraint.

His throat worked, but no words came out. Buffy was standing in front of him offering him everything he wanted, and yet all he could taste was ash, all he could see were the faces of his friends who would never look back at him again, all he could hear was the roar of the dragon in the alley. 

A thousand unspoken accusations pressed down on him. Choices she had made, choices he had made, the wreckage that trailed in their wake. Too much lost, too much broken. 

“I…I can’t,” he said finally.

Buffy’s chest tightened, the fight leaving her body as the words hit her. She blinked, tears spilling freely, and her voice trembled, raw and broken.

“You don’t get to say that." she sobbed. "I know what you feel. You love me. You always have."

He shook his head, the motion deliberate, unwavering. “Love isn’t always enough. You have to understand that, Buffy. You’re strong enough to see that."

"I'm not." she cried, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Maybe in another life we could be together" Angel said desperately. "A life where we haven't walked through so much hurt."

Buffy laughed, bitter and trembling, the sound echoing against the stone corridor. “Yeah, well, that sounds lovely. Except your life goes on indefinitely, so that next life will never come.”

Buffy turned sharply, storming back toward the feast, letting the anger, grief, and longing pour into every step.

The muffled noise of the party music became loud and intense, spilling out into the stone corridor and then abruptly stopped once again as the door slammed shut behind her.

Angel remained where he was, frozen in the corridor. He watched her go, unable to reach out, unable to stop her, weighed down by the truth of everything they had endured and the distance he still kept between them.

He couldn’t let it end like this. Every fiber of him screamed at him to chase her, to fix it, to say something, say anything that could bridge the chasm he’d once again opened between them.

He took a step forward, then another, his boots echoing hollowly on the stone floor. His mind raced, every scenario spinning faster than he could follow. By the time he reached the doorway to the grand hall, she had disappeared into the crowd. 

The hall glittered with demonic opulence. Velvet banners, golden chandeliers, tables groaning under platters of food. But to him it was a blur, nothing registering except the sharp pull of the bond and the desperate hope that Buffy was there somewhere.

He weaved through clusters of noble demons, forced polite nods at anyone who looked at him, but every time he paused, every time he thought he saw her, she wasn’t there. 

An hour passed, or maybe more. Time had twisted into something unrecognizable in his panic. He moved mechanically, calling her name under his breath, his voice swallowed by the chatter of the party, the laughter, the clinking of goblets. The hum of their bond kept him on edge, a constant reminder of what he’d lost, what he might never fix.

Eventually, with exhaustion dragging at his shoulders and his vision starting to blur, he turned back toward the holding cells. The corridors were quiet now, the revelry fading behind him. Relief and dread mingled in his chest. 

When he reached the holding cell, the room was empty except for one familiar figure leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Spike said, voice dripping with mock exasperation. 

“Where is everyone?” Angel asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Gone,” Spike said simply. 

Angel gritted his teeth and tried to remain calm. “Gone where?”

“Back to Slayer HQ." Spike replied. "The kiddies didn’t fancy another night in this lovely dimension, and your girl didn’t exactly seem to be in a fun mood.”

Instantly, regret pressed in on Angel from all sides. The truth settled like a stone in his gut. He’d pushed too hard, said too much, let his stubborn pigheadedness ruin things yet again. He could feel the failure in his bones, and it pulled him down onto the closest bench without a fight. 

The presence of Spike in the room was enough to make him nervous. Spike clearly knew more than he was letting on and Angel didn't have the strength to hear his mocking sarcasm.

Angel didn’t look at him. “Thought you’d have gone with them.”

“Could’ve.” Spike sauntered towards him. “Was invited.” He let it hang there for a beat, watching for any flicker of reaction. “Figured you’d make a bigger mess without me around, so here I am. Aren’t you lucky?”

Angel finally glanced up, expression unreadable. He briefly understood that Spike had chosen to remain behind with him, but he didn't have the mental energy to process why. 

Spike smirked, dropping onto the bench beside him. “Don’t thank me all at once.”

Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the faint buzz of magic in the now empty Thunderdome.

Angel didn’t answer, and Spike didn’t push. He leaned back, one arm slung over the bench’s backrest like he had all the time in the world.

“Looks like it’s just you and me again, mate,” he said eventually. “Back to the glamorous life in San Francisco. And guess what? We're stuck on the interdimensional bus again."

Angel huffed. Maybe a laugh or maybe just hollow sound. 

“Back to our charming little San Francisco apartment,” Spike went on. “Where the pipes rattle, the walls are thin and our neighbors think we're part of a biker gang.”

Angel looked at him then, really looked, but Spike just gave a crooked grin.

“Come on, Grandpa.” Spike said, pushing himself up and dragging Angel behind him. “Let’s go home.”

One week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty eight hours.

But who was counting?

From the outside, life looked the same. The apartment was unchanged. Their routines shuffled on. Spike hovered, throwing his usual barbs. Connor dropped in every couple of days with bursts of energy. The neighbor’s fat orange cat kept breaking into the kitchen to steal Spike’s croissants.

It should have felt normal. It didn’t.

For Angel, everything was different now. Every sound, every thought, every half formed plan was colored by the bond.

The first day, he locked himself in his room and let it consume him. He could feel her pain, sharp and raw, and knew he was the reason. He thought about pushing through the connection, sending her something that might remind her that he loved her. But what would that change? He had rejected her. He had no right. And she was no doubt surrounded by her friends. His intrusion would only make things worse.

So he lay there, unraveling every memory, replaying every string the puppet masters had pulled. Sadie stolen to lure Buffy. Caedric’s obsession with her soul. The invitation sent to him instead of her, because Angelus in the arena would sell tickets. All of them pawns. All of them trapped in a performance for profit, none of their choices truly their own.

The second day, he forced himself to think about solutions and finding a way to break the bond. He remembered how long it had taken last time. Months of compartmentalizing, months of mentally pushing her away. And that had been without the complication of the two-way blood exchange. This time, there was no easy escape. Twelve hours of searching texts and records gave him nothing. Only the certainty that he was stuck with her emotions bleeding into his veins.

By the third day, he emerged from his room. He moved like a shadow through the apartment. Reading headlines. Showering. Pouring coffee that tasted like nothing. Always carrying her despair inside his chest. He could feel her confusion. Her hidden fear. It was like walking with a stone pressing against his unbeating heart.

Spike lingered, pretending his presence was casual. Quips at the ready. But Angel knew he was watching, making sure he didn’t sink too far into the dark. 

The fourth day blurred. A flash of irritation that wasn’t his. A dull ache of grief that might have been hers. Or his. Or both. He lost track of where she ended and he began. Her sorrow became a weight he carried without pause, dragging at him in quiet, relentless ways.

The fifth day brought unexpected hope. There were a few moments, albeit fleeting and uncertain, where the bond shifted. A brief spark of irritation. A flicker of amusement. The kind of emotions that belonged to the Buffy he knew, the Buffy who always found a way to keep moving forward.

He let himself wonder if this was what the bond would become once she steadied. If she could pull herself together, if she could learn to live with their separation, maybe her emotions would level out and he could bear the constant undercurrent. Maybe they would find a grim kind of equilibrium, two lives brushing up against each other without colliding.

He told himself he could manage that. Keep to his routines. Read. Drink coffee. Pretend to focus when Connor visited. Pretend Spike’s needling was just that, and not a cover for concern.

But underneath it all, she was always there.

And he didn’t fight it. Not really. Because even with the guilt, even with the ache of rejection and the echo of every mistake between them, he clung to that tether. A connection no one else could ever reach.

It was both comfort and torment.

On the sixth day, the world tilted. What had been sadness and disappointment suddenly ruptured into something darker. A surge of despair, sharp rage, and blind panic tore through him without warning. It wasn’t a whisper or a pull. It was a violent flood.

The bond didn’t hum this time. It roared.

Angel staggered mid-step and hit the floor hard, clutching his chest as if he’d been stabbed. The pain was so raw, so consuming, that for one awful moment he thought he might actually die from it. He crawled back to his bed and curled there, shaking, every nerve ending lit with her anguish. There was no shutting it out. No walls strong enough to hold it back.

Buffy was breaking somewhere, and the bond made sure he broke with her.

By the seventh day, time no longer mattered. Hours slipped past in silence. Connor chattered about his classes, too loud in the stillness. Spike smirked, his eyes edged with concern. Angel made it out of bed at noon but only as far as the couch. He folded inward, arms tight around his stomach, eyes squeezed shut.

The television played cartoons in the background, colors and sound that barely registered. Noise to drown out the bond. Noise to fill the hollow place inside him.

“Seriously,” Connor groaned, flopping onto the opposite arm of the couch and waving at the TV, “anything would be better than this. Even paint drying.”

Angel didn’t answer. Buffy’s despair clung to him like smoke, stabbing at his chest with every flicker.

"I really think Buffy might have broken him." Connor squinted at Spike. “Uh…should I…maybe text Dawn?”

Angel snapped his head up. “No. Absolutely not.”

Connor froze. “Why not? Dawn’s cool. She'll tell me what's up with Buffy so you can stop this moping."

"Why do you even have Dawn's number?" Angel scowled deeply. "Lose it immediately."

Spike snorted. “Come on, Angel, don’t hate on Little Bit. She’s your girl’s sister. That basically makes her Connor’s aunt.”

Angel’s eyes blazed. “Spike. Do not start this aunt-and-uncle nonsense again.”

Spike’s grin widened. Angel realized too late he’d walked right into it. Spike had wanted a reaction and he'd definitely got one.

“Oh please Papa, can I text Aunt Dawn?” Connor teased, putting on a high pitched child-like voice.

Spike leaned in, mock solemn. “I think you should, Uncle Con.”

Angel pressed a hand to his forehead in exasperation. “I swear, one more word about this and I will—” He stopped, the weight of Buffy’s despair pressing against him again, cutting through his irritation. 

“Too late, mate." Spike announced gleefully. "The wheels are in motion. Besides, we all know you can’t stop the lad when he’s on a mission. Even if it’s just texting his auntie.”

Connor laughed and held up the phone like a trophy. “Sent!”

Angel exhaled slowly, sinking back onto the couch. Inside, the bond throbbed relentlessly. He had no idea what had driven her to this state in the past twenty-four hours. He only knew it was getting worse.

Spike leaned over, elbow on the couch. “Cheer up, Peaches. At least the kid’s trying."

Angel didn’t respond, eyes blank, mind tangled in her pain. He pressed his palms to his eyes, the despair from the bond clinging tighter. 

Connor’s phone buzzed lightly on the couch. He picked it up, squinting at the screen, his expression tightening. Spike’s brow rose.

Without a word, Connor tilted the phone toward Spike just enough for him to glimpse the reply message from Dawn. Their eyes met. A flash of concern passed between them. Connor pressed the phone slightly closer to his chest, shielding it from Angel.

Spike leaned down, voice barely a whisper so Angel wouldn’t catch it. “Right. I see.” A small, almost imperceptible nod followed. His eyes flicked toward Angel, a subtle warning: don’t let him know.

Connor’s hands fidgeted. He shifted on the couch, glancing at Angel, who sat motionless, fingers tapping absently, eyes distant.

Spike’s hand brushed Connor’s arm briefly, reassurance in the touch, before he moved toward the door.

“I’m just off for a tick. Might slay a demon, might do my taxes, possibly both. Back in a jiffy.”

He paused, eyes on Angel, then casually pulled his coat over his head to protect himself from the light outside and stepped out.

Connor exhaled softly, lowering his gaze. He didn’t speak; there was no need.

The apartment felt impossibly still. Every tick of the clock, every distant echo of Spike’s retreating steps, seemed magnified. Angel could feel Buffy’s despair sharpening, coiling around him, and he had no idea why.

The afternoon faded into early evening. Connor cooked himself noodles in the kitchen and watched a Terminator movie on the television. Angel remained slumped on the couch, the weight of Buffy’s despair pressing on him from all sides. 

Finally, the faint click of the front door made him jump. Spike reappeared, carrying his coat slung over one shoulder, his Nokia in his hand. 

“Evening,” Spike drawled, voice unusually calm. “Got someone on the line you need to hear from.”

Angel’s head lifted slowly, brow furrowed. “Who?”

Spike raised an eyebrow and pressed a button, holding the phone toward Angel. “Dawn. On speaker. And trust me, this is one of those ‘you really need to listen’ situations.”

The phone buzzed lightly, then Dawn’s voice filled the room. “Angel? Are you there?”

He swallowed, the bond flaring as Buffy’s emotions surged around him in sharp, stabbing pulses. He took the phone from Spike's outstretched hand and looked down at it like he was staring at an unsolvable puzzle. 

Spike's eyes narrowed at Angel. “Best pay attention, Chuckles." he said. "Little Bit’s got a lot to say, and it’s not all sugar and rainbows.”

Angel sighed and cleared his throat. "Dawn?" he asked tentatively. 

Dawn's voice rang clear through the room. "Hey Angel..." she seemed to be steadying herself. "There's some stuff I think you need to hear." 

"Just take things from the top, Pet." Spike advised, leaned towards the phone's speaker to guide her softly. 

"Buffy had a massive falling out with Giles and now she's gone missing." Dawn said. 

"Well that's not really the top, but hey, let's run with it." Spike gave a subtle shrug. 

Connor, still on the couch, tilted his head, eyes wide, as if he were watching a slow-motion train wreck.

"Apparently," Dawn started again. "Angelus said something to Buffy last week about Giles and a unanimous vote."

"Right." Angel nodded, all of a sudden seething with anger. "I phoned to request backup before the apocalypse in L.A and Giles told me the entire team unanimously voted against helping me. Buffy abandoned us."

“Hey! None of that until you hear Niblet out,” Spike cut in sharply.

Dawn’s voice hardened. “Buffy never knew you called. Giles never told us. There was no vote. He hid it because he didn’t trust you. The first she heard about that battle was after it happened. Do you understand?"

A cold weight settled over Angel. 

Dawn's words clawed at his mind, tearing away the walls he’d built over months of simmering anger. Every moment of frustration, every accusation he’d silently hurled at Buffy, every late-night bitterness. It had all been based on a lie. Not her fault, not her choice, not her failing.

“When Giles got back from Australia, they had a screaming match in her office,” Dawn said. “I’ve never heard them yell like that.”

Angel sank back into the couch. Anger and guilt warred inside him, twisting together so tightly he felt as though he might split in two. He briefly wondered what kind of crazy emotions he was currently sending to her through the bond.  

A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and sharp. “All this time. I’ve been angry at the wrong person. She was never even warned.”

Connor and Spike exchanged a look but kept quiet. Angel’s hands gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles white, and he allowed himself the quiet, raw ache of realization. 

“Angel? You still there?” Dawn seemed more tentative now. “There’s more.”

“I’m here,” he said, voice low.

“Xander barged in to break up the argument. Things, uh, spiraled. Some new information came to light." Dawn said. "Do you remember years ago when Angelus was trying to open that hell dimension, and Willow restored your soul?”

“The time I clocked you on the back of the head with that metal statue,” Spike added helpfully.

Angel rolled his eyes. “Acathla. Yes, I remember.”

“Well,” Dawn said tightly, “It turns out Xander was supposed to tell Buffy about the soul restoration spell before Willow cast it. But he didn’t. He chose not to. He wanted you to die.”

Angel felt the shock seep through him. Xander had deliberately left Buffy in the dark, knowing she would have fought to delay Angelus rather than kill him that day. 

So many things could have turned out so differently for them both, had she never been forced to send him to hell. He could feel Buffy’s fury and anguish spill into his mind, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment he understood the depths of her wrath.

“When Buffy found out she punched him. Hard.” Dawn continued. “She broke his nose.”

Spike let out a low whistle and leaned against the doorway, a grin tugging at his lips. “Always a silver lining, eh Peaches? Bet you're glad she gave that numbskull a proper wallop."

Angel blinked at him, torn between disbelief, grim satisfaction, and the gnawing ache of everything else that had been hidden from him. 

Dawn’s voice softened, almost fragile. “Angel, this happened yesterday morning. Then she packed a bag and left. We don’t know where she is. She didn’t take her phone and when Willow tries a locator spell it always leads to you instead of Buffy. We don’t understand it.”

Angel frowned, just as confused as everyone else. A locator spell should have swept across the world and anchored on Buffy’s heartbeat, her presence. Not him. Never him. Unless...

Angel suddenly went still. The realization sweeping across him. 

The tether of their bond had pulled the magic off course. Either because it was raw and unshielded, or because Buffy herself had leaned into it, turning it into a veil. Whether by accident or intent, she’d made herself invisible to everyone but him.

The bond stretched between them, a thread that spanned oceans, crossing time zones and skies. It wasn’t a wall. It wasn’t manipulation. It was a whisper, a pull, a quiet insistence that threaded through his chest and wrapped around him like a memory he could almost touch. She was somewhere far away, yet the bond made her close.

“Angel, I’m scared she’s dead.” Dawn’s voice broke, a strangled cry.

“I’d know if she was,” he murmured, low and steady, pressing a hand to the spot where the bond throbbed beneath his skin. “I can feel her. She’s alive. And I’ll find her.”

There was a pause on the line. Soft, shaky breathing from the other end.

"I’ll find her, Dawn," he promised, low but certain. "No matter where she’s gone, I’ll find her."

"I believe you." she whispered. "Call me as soon as you do."

The line went dead. The room fell silent. 

Spike leaned in, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his lips. "So are we off to rescue Goldilocks now, or do we all hold hands and chant kumbaya first?"

Angel stood, rushed to his bedroom and started throwing clothes into a bag. When Spike appeared questioningly in the doorway, Angel glanced at him over his shoulder.

"You’ve got five minutes to pack."

Spike scoffed. "Five minutes? But I’ve got hair gel, eyeliner, leather care, and at least three different black shirts to coordinate."

"You’ll manage." Angel deadpanned. 

"I'm kidding, you ninny." Spike smirked, holding a bag aloft. "Already packed." 

Angel growled at him and rolled his eyes. "Then why are you standing there looking at me like that?"

"I just wanted to remind you we have no idea where Buffy actually is." Spike added, mock serious. “Rescuing someone blindfolded is exhilaratingly stupid. Thrillingly dangerous. Mostly stupid, though.”

Angel shot him a glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just being realistic.” Spike raised his hands. “Can’t you use that spiffy little connection of yours to, you know, locate her?”

“It’s not a GPS tracker,” Angel scowled. “It’s feelings. Very sharp, very persistent, very messy.”

“Try, though,” Spike said, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

Angel paused, closing his eyes, letting the bond ripple through him. Buffy’s panic, anger and fear all coiled around him like a living thing. He sank into it, threading through the chaos, following the faintest, most stubborn tug.

Step by step, pulse by pulse, he let the bond guide him. Slowly, the storm of emotions began to form a single, coherent thread.

The vision rose unbidden before him. Emerald hills rolling into the distance, mist clinging to jagged cliffs. Cobbled streets wound tightly through a quiet town, slate roofs dark against the soft gray of an overcast sky. The tang of salt and rain lingered in the air, carried on gusts that twisted through narrow lanes.

Amid the beauty, he could feel her. Somewhere beyond the hills, through winding alleys and along the edge of the restless water, Buffy’s pain pulsed, tethering him to her.

He opened his eyes sharply.

"I know where she is." he whispered. "She's in Ireland." 

Connor appeared in the doorway next to Spike. Hands stuffed in his pockets, eyebrows raised. 

“Need a ride? I can drive you to the airport.” he said. 

Angel hesitated, then nodded. “That would be helpful.”

The drive to the airport was quiet, the engine’s low hum filling the car as Angel sank deeper into the bond, threading through Buffy’s chaos. 

Spike sat in the back, eyes scanning the streets, though his attention seemed more on Angel than traffic.

“You know why Giles didn’t tell her, right?” Spike’s voice was calm, measured.

Angel shrugged. “I can guess.”

“No, really listen,” Spike said, leaning forward slightly. “If you’d been Angelus, she’d have gone. Delayed you if she had to. Stopped you from hurting anyone. If you were you but… turned bad? She’d have gone to talk sense into you. And if you were still the Angel she knows, she’d have fought right alongside you. Always.”

Angel turned his gaze to the window, watching the city blur past. “So you're saying she would have come no matter what?”

“Exactly,” Spike said, voice softening. “There’s no version of you she wouldn’t have helped. No scenario where she wouldn’t have gone. That’s Buffy. That’s just who she is.”

Angel let the words sink in, each one uncoiling the tight knot of guilt and anger he’d carried for months. He relaxed into his seat, if only a fraction, as the road stretched ahead.

Connor pulled up to the terminal, the tires crunching over the asphalt. At the curb, Connor killed the engine. 

“Here we are,” he announced, then turned to his father with hopeful eyes. "Do you need me to come with you? I can skip classes."

Angel shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. But thanks, Connor.”

Angel opened the car door, stepping out into the chill evening air. He stretched and hauled his backpack onto his back, every movement taut with anticipation and dread. 

Spike followed, swinging his own bag over one shoulder with the practiced ease of someone who always traveled heavy, even if it meant looking ridiculous.

"Call me when you find her?" Connor called through the car window. 

"I will." Angel confirmed.

Together, he and Spike headed inside. 

The terminal buzzed with the low murmur of travelers and the shuffle of rolling luggage. Angel and Spike moved through it, each step measured, the weight of what lay ahead pressing on them both.

"We'll need to get tickets." Angel stated. "Probably fly into Dublin. Maybe Belfast. What do you think?" 

"I think." Spike said. "That this is a mission you need to do alone." 

Angel stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing, a flicker of disbelief in his gaze. “Alone?”

Spike swung his bag higher on his shoulder, then let it settle, voice quieter, more serious. 

“Alone." he confirmed. "I’ve been hanging off your coattails for months, haven’t I? Time you faced this one on your own.”

Angel’s chest tightened. “You’re leaving me here? Now?”

Spike met his gaze, expression softened, though his trademark grin lingered faintly. “Not forever. Just for a while. Faith's invited me to Cleveland."

Angel’s brow furrowed, a mix of disbelief and something heavier settling in his chest. “Cleveland?”

"Why should she be the only one enjoying herself on an active Hellmouth?" Spike smirked. "I like punching things, she's offered to share."

"Spike." Angel’s voice cracked slightly. “These past few months you've really been there for me."

Spike gave a small, sharp laugh, shaking his head. “I know, mate."

Angel’s hands clenched at his sides, raw emotion flickering behind his eyes. “I don't think I've ever told you this before, but you're a really good friend, Spike."

Spike's face softened and a rare flicker of sincerity surfaced beneath his usual cocky mask. "I know that too."

Angel shook his head slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in hours. “I just...thank you. For everything. Even when I didn’t want it.”

Spike tilted his head, letting a small, almost shy grin tug at the corner of his lips. “That’s what family do for each other, Peaches. And we're family forever. Even when you're being a royal pain.”

"So I'll see you soon?" 

Spike clapped him on the shoulder. "When you need me, come find me in Cleveland. I'll be the one in the sexy leather jacket wreaking havoc." 

With that, he turned and disappeared into the bustle of the terminal, leaving Angel staring after him, the echo of Spike’s presence lingering like a strange, grounding tether.

Angel, now traveling solo, approached the counter, handed over his ID, and requested the next flight to Dublin. The clerk typed efficiently, slid a boarding pass across, and Angel took it without a word of thanks. 

He walked past the crowd, the buzz of travelers fading around him, each step measured and purposeful. Security was routine, almost invisible. He completed visa paperwork in silence and soon he was moving toward the gate. He handed over his pass, nodded to the attendant, and stepped onto the jet bridge.

He stowed his bag, found his seat and closed his eyes for just a moment. No distractions, no indulgence, only focus. 

The engines roared to life, the plane taxiing down the runway. Angel’s gaze stayed fixed out the window, eyes cold and steady, scanning the world below in his mind even as the jet climbed into the sky. 

Every pulse of the bond pulled him forward, an invisible thread tethering him to Buffy’s presence somewhere across the sea.

Hours passed in silence. He didn’t read, didn’t watch the in-flight screen, didn’t speak. All his attention went to the subtle tug of her emotions. The anger, sadness, frustration all locked in a pattern he followed with unwavering precision.

When the plane finally descended toward the emerald landscape of the coast, Angel was grateful it was dark outside. The time difference and length of the flight meant he'd left L.A in the early evening and also arrived in Dublin in the early evening, albeit on different days. He was grateful for the amount of time he had to locate her before sunrise. 

The wheels hit the tarmac, and the moment the plane slowed to taxi, Angel was already upright, collecting his bag. No hesitation. No lingering. 

Angel’s first steps onto Irish soil in over two hundred years were quiet, almost reverent, but there was an undercurrent of tension.

There was a strange mix of nostalgia and alienation. The place was his, and yet it wasn’t. Time had passed, faces had changed, and history had moved on without him. 

He was not the man who walked these streets centuries ago, yet the land seemed to remember him. Every crooked alley, every misty cliff, stirred fragments of old life: the laughter of a sister long gone, the weight of youthful mistakes, the first brush of love, the cruelty of loss.

But there was no indulgence in memory now. No longing, no melancholy. It was a sharp, clean focus: Buffy was here somewhere, and that was all that mattered. The past was a shadow at his back but the present demanded action.

Angel moved with purpose, leaving the terminal behind. He found a small car rental desk and within minutes was handed the keys to a modest vehicle. 

The roads stretched before him, slick with rain and illuminated by street lamps, but Angel barely noticed the scenery. His focus was entirely on the bond, its subtle tugs and pulses threading through him like a compass he hadn’t realized he still possessed.

It didn't take him long to discover that Buffy’s emotions were drawing him somewhere specific, somewhere unmistakable. 

He turned the car towards Galway. 

Towards home. 

He had expected the bond to pull him somewhere near, but the realization that it was leading him home felt both inevitable and shocking. 

He gripped the wheel tighter, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Homecoming had never been part of his plan, but then, neither had Buffy and all that came with her.

 The roads wound beneath him, and with every ripple of the bond, every whisper of her presence, he knew he was getting closer. 

The car came to a stop at the edge of an old cemetery, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. 

Angel slipped out of the vehicle, the evening chill brushing against his face, and let the bond pull him forward. 

Every pulse led him, inexorably, to a patch of ground he knew intimately. Weathered stones, mossed and crumbling, names etched with time and loss.

This place, this consecrated ground, was the place where Liam had been put to rest. 

Memories surged unrelentingly. Mud-streaked hands scrambling, the sound of dirt tumbling, the shock of a life abruptly ended, a life left behind. Every inch of the graveyard screamed history, pain, and inevitability.

And there she was. 

Buffy was kneeling at his grave, hands brushing the cold stone. 

She didn’t need to look up; through the bond, she could feel him there, could feel him wrestling with the ghosts of his own past.

Angel stepped closer, gravel whispering under his boots, and stopped a few feet behind her. The air seemed to thrum with tension, with everything he had buried and everything that had buried him. 

A light misting of rain started descending upon them from the dark clouds above. 

“He’s not in there,” he said, voice low but threaded with the weight of centuries, carrying the ache of everything he had been. "Liam isn't in there." 

Buffy didn’t turn. “Yes, I know,” she murmured, fragile but firm. “But it’s still the place he was put to rest.”

Angel let the words settle between them. 

His eyes followed her hands as she gently laid a single white rose atop Liam’s grave, the petals trembling slightly in the evening breeze. He could feel every ounce of care and grief in her movements.

"I know he's not you and you're not him." she continued. "But he's as much a part of you as Angelus is." 

The words unspoken hung heavy in the night air: Liam and Angelus were parts of Angel, and Buffy accepted them all. Loved them all. 

She reached into the bag beside her and drew out a matching pink flower, holding it toward him. Angel hesitated, then understood.

Beside Liam's grave lay his sister Kathy's. 

He stepped forward, accepting the small bloom. 

The moment was heavy with all he had lost and all that had survived in memory. Kneeling beside her, he placed the rose carefully atop Kathy’s grave, the petals resting against the cold stone as if he could somehow bridge the centuries that had passed.

“She would have liked this,” he murmured, voice husky with long-buried emotion. "She would have liked you."

"Are you mad at me for coming here?" she asked apprehensively, voice suddenly small. 

"No." he replied instantly. “You felt the pull of the bond, didn’t you? That need to be close. Yet you respected the space you thought I needed. If being here brought you any type of peace then I'm glad."

He straightened slowly, eyes sweeping the quiet cemetery, then met Buffy’s gaze. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint rustle of wind through the headstones and the distant call of a night bird.

Finally, Buffy’s voice broke the silence, soft and tremulous. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her hands trembled slightly, clutching the strap of her bag as though it anchored her to the present. “I didn’t know. I never knew you needed backup in L.A. I failed you.”

Angel lifted his gaze to hers, and for a moment, the centuries fell away. 

“No, Buffy,” he said. “You didn't fail. I’m so sorry. For everything. For assuming. For letting my anger take the place of trust. This is my fault."

He stopped, swallowed, and let the raw emotion settle like a tide breaking over him. Every beat of silence spoke volumes: regret, relief, love, and the recognition that they had survived this, together.

Buffy stepped closer, hesitating only a breath away. The bond between them pulsed, strong and insistent. She raised a hand, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, her touch trembling, reverent.

Angel lowered his head, pressing his forehead to hers. So still and yet so steady. “I’ve missed you. Every moment apart has cut into me like a blade.”

Buffy’s eyes stung as she pressed closer. “I’ve missed you too. More than I can ever explain.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, fierce and certain. “I love you."

Angel closed his eyes, the words hitting him like salvation. He tilted his head, brushing the barest edge of his lips against hers, reverent, unhurried. 

“I love you,” he whispered back, and the words felt carved into eternity. “Always. Forever. Nothing could change that.”

Buffy let out a choked, trembling laugh, clinging to him. “We’ve always made it harder than it needed to be, haven’t we?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “We’ve never been good at the easy way.”

And then, finally, he kissed her. Gentle, aching, endless. 

The air between them snapped taut, the bond humming like a live wire under their skin. For a moment, neither of them moved, suspended in the fragile, perfect ache of finally speaking truths that had been dammed up for years.

When Angel kissed her, it wasn't a clash or a claim. It was reverence. A slow, searching kiss. Her fingers fisted in his shirt as if she could pull him deeper into the moment, as if sheer will might collapse time itself and erase the years apart.

He held her like something sacred, hands braced against her back, steady and unyielding, but tender too. Like he’d finally found the thing he’d been afraid to touch for fear it would dissolve into ash.

The kiss stretched, softened, deepened.

Buffy pulled back just enough to breathe. Her laugh was a shaky little exhale. “God, Angel. Why are we always so dramatic?”

His lips curved into a genuine smile. “Maybe it’s the only way we know how."

Angel kissed her again. Longer this time, lips parting, the kind of kiss that felt like it was writing whole novels against her soul. Her knees went weak and she clung tighter, half afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

Around them, the night pressed close, graveyard silent as the rain started to fall heavier. But inside their bubble, the world didn’t exist. 

For the first time in years, there was no war, no guilt, no watchers, no vampires, no apocalypse. Just two people finally daring to say aloud what had never stopped being true.

When they finally broke apart, Angel pressed his forehead to hers again. 

“We’ll figure it out this time,” he said, quiet but certain, as though promising it to the stars. “I won’t let us waste it.”

Buffy searched his face, eyes wet but fierce. “We don’t have to be perfect. Just together. That’s enough.”

Angel held her gaze, the rain plastering strands of hair to her face, her eyes shining like the stormy sky above. The bond was insistent, alive, carrying every fragment of longing, every missed moment, every word that had gone unsaid.

“Buffy,” he breathed, voice low, rough with centuries of withheld emotion.

She tilted her head, waiting, letting the world shrink to the space between them.

“I want my life to be with you.” he said. "Not just here, not just now. Every day, every fight, every everything."

Deliberately, he let the words land like stones on water, each one rippling through the quiet night. Her lips parted, a tremor in her hands as she reached up, pressing her palm against his chest. 

“Angel, I want that too,” she whispered, voice breaking with the weight of relief and love. 

He let himself sink into the moment. The rain was now drenching them, but it was irrelevant. Nothing mattered except the steady, unyielding pulse of their bond and the truth they were finally saying aloud.

Angel allowed himself a rare, full smile, the tension of centuries unraveling in that one fragile, perfect moment. “Then it’s us. Together. Always.”

Angel’s hand lingered in hers, their bond pulsing steady and sure now, no longer frayed with anger. 

"Hey look." Buffy grinned. "It's stopped raining."

The night air was cool, scented faintly of damp earth and roses, and for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like a cemetery was closing in on him. It felt like it was letting him go.

Buffy finally pulled back just enough to glance around, eyes narrowing. “You know we're on a whole new continent but still somehow hanging out romantically in graveyards. What if a local wanders past and thinks we're trying to start a seance?" 

Angel’s mouth twitched. “Better than a local wandering past and finding out I was once buried in that grave just over there."

She gave him a sidelong look. “Creepy.”

“You say that like you haven't also clawed your way out of a grave.” he countered, the faintest glimmer of a smile breaking through the weight of the moment.

She smirked. “Fair. Still, I think this officially makes us the world’s most depressing couple.”

Angel’s voice softened, but his reply carried warmth. “Being here with you is the least depressing thing I've done in a long time.”

Buffy’s breath caught for a moment at the quiet honesty in his tone, but before she could reply, a rustling broke the fragile silence. The sound was faint at first, then sharper. It was the scrape of something heavy against stone.

Buffy straightened instantly. “You've got to be kidding me."

Angel’s gaze shifted, and the low growl in his chest answered for him. 

Shadows peeled away from the far end of the row, and two vampires stumbled forward, fangs gleaming under the moonlight. One hissed, the other chuckled, clearly underestimating the pair before them.

Buffy rolled her eyes skyward. “Unbelievable. Can’t even have one cathartic heart-to-heart with the love of my life in a graveyard without company.”

Angel stepped instinctively closer, shoulders squaring as he fell into battle position beside her. 

Buffy reached into her bag, drawing out two stakes with a flourish and passed one to him. 

"Hey, excuse me?" she addressed the vampires in mock annoyance. "You've just interrupted a really important conversation."

The vampires lunged. Buffy ducked, spun, and drove her stake home in one fluid motion. Angel met the second with brutal precision, a blur of strength and rage ending in a pile of dust at his feet. The fight was over in seconds, the night settling once more into stillness.

Buffy brushed vampire ash from her jeans and shot Angel a look, equal parts exasperated and amused. “See? This is why we can never do normal. The universe literally won’t allow it.”

Angel smiled a smile that was reserved only for her. “I thought we'd agreed that normal is overrated.”

She tilted her head at him, the weight of their reconciliation still shimmering between them, and for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like a door.

"We can pretend to be normal." Buffy slipped her stake back into her bag, looping the strap over her shoulder. “Should we go get a coffee. Together?”

"Yes." His answer was immediate, steady, certain. “Together.”

"Maybe we should go back to my hotel and change out of these wet clothes first." she laughed.

“Lead the way,” he said, almost teasing. “I’ll follow. Rain or shine, wet clothes or not.”

The wind settled, the graveyard returning to its quiet rhythm. Stones stood like sentinels in the moonlight, shadows stretching long over moss and gravel. 

Angel and Buffy lingered a moment longer, hands entwined, taking in the weight of the place, the history, the losses, and the survival that had brought them here. Slowly they moved down the narrow path that led out of the cemetery and back towards the parking lot, each step deliberate, grounding, affirming.

Angel paused at the wrought-iron gate, glancing back once more. The graves of Liam and Kathy remained still and peaceful. Silent witnesses to the reconciliation that had taken months (or, really, years) of fear, anger, and longing to achieve. 

He felt the bond calmly settle between them, a steady hum rather than the storm it had been.

“So...” she said. “Are we calling this a truce or a do-over?”

“Do-over,” he replied happily, dropping her hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “A truce sounds temporary.”

She smirked. “Good answer.”

They kept walking, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between them wasn’t a wound. It was a thread. Stronger for being stretched, binding them without force.

Across the street, a faint magical iridescence wavered above a blacked out car, invisible to passing eyes. Inside, two robed figures sat in stillness, candlelight flickering in the cramped space despite there being no candles at all.

“They’ve chosen each other again,” one intoned, voice thick with awe.

The other’s eyes glowed faintly violet, reflecting the sight of Buffy and Angel. “The bond reforms. Slayer and vampire, life and death. The convergence begins anew.”

The first figure clutched a leather-bound tome against their chest. “If they are allowed to deepen this connection, the balance will tilt. Worlds could break.”

“Then the Council was right to fear them,” the second whispered. “And others will come. Hunters. Worshippers. Enemies. All drawn to the bond.”

As Buffy laughed softly at something Angel said, the sound carried faintly on the night air. 

In the dark car, the robed figures froze, as though the sound itself was a ripple of power.

“Do you feel it?”

“Yes. The bond already radiates. It has begun.”

The shimmer folded inward, and the car vanished into the night without moving, leaving the cemetery road empty once more.

FIN.