"Thanks," Buffy said. "For being here tonight, I mean. I wanted you to be a part of all this."

Angel blinked, trying to clear his eyes; the golden shimmer of the world around him faded to reveal Buffy's pale hair, the sheen of her dress.

Oh, God, Angel thought. I'm at the prom.

"I wanted to come," he said, filling in the gap as quickly as he could. "I know it was important to you."

If Buffy had noticed the shift in his mood - from the lacerating heartbreak Angel still remembered vividly to his current confusion - she gave no sign. Probably she was too caught up in her own misery to do much more than struggle to keep her composure. "Did you see me get the award?"

He remembered this. Good. "Class Protector." Angel gave her a little smile. "All this time, you thought they didn't notice - but they did."

Buffy nodded, but he knew the tears weren't tears of pride. "It's late," she whispered. "I should go."

It's prom night. Your mother won't expect you until sunrise. Angel knew that was what he'd said the first time; as a result, he and Buffy had remained together, talking and crying and wanting to kiss and not kissing for hours. He couldn't recapture that feeling - the desperation that made even such anguish a joy - and the cruelest thing he could do to Buffy would be to fake it. "Yeah. You should."

She hesitated. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so." He wished he didn't know for an absolute fact that answer was a lie. "Will you?"

"I think so too." Buffy smiled through watery eyes, and Angel hated knowing her answer was as false as his. She just didn't realize it yet. "I'm catching a ride with Xander. So - good night, Angel."

As many years as it had been - as sure as Angel now was that he had lost her forever even before the first time he'd attended the Sunnydale prom - it still cut him open to see her raise her hand and wave goodbye. "Good night, Buffy," he whispered, backing away until he could finally turn and walk out of the auditorium.

He walked slowly, reluctant even now to leave the last place he and Buffy had ever truly been together. Putting his hands in his tuxedo jacket's pockets, he felt the spherical device in one and his car keys in the other: two means of escape.

So. 1999. The battle against the Mayor was still brewing - and he'd have to remain in Sunnydale for that - but afterward, he could change everything. He didn't have to open a PI shop; hell, he didn't even have to go to Los Angeles. Alternate plans he'd had years before but disregarded reoccurred to him now: Chicago, Tokyo, maybe even Ireland once more - any place but Los Angeles, where he'd hurt so many of the people he came to love -

--but what about Connor?

Angel froze in place, ignoring the giggling, drunk teenagers nearby, as he realized how caught he really was. If he didn't go to Los Angeles, it was highly unlikely he'd run afoul of Wolfram & Hart. If he didn't run afoul of Wolfram & Hart, they wouldn't feel the need to bring Darla back from hell. And if Darla never returned, Connor could never be born.

And that was not acceptable.

At least he could avoid dragging the others down with him. He'd rescue Cordy from Russell Winters, but when Doyle showed up with his little song and dance, Angel would just say no. No doubt he could piss off Wolfram & Hart all on his own. But as soon as Vocah showed his maggoty face, as soon as Darla was back, Angel would -

--hell, he'd figure that out when he got there. None of the above sounded all that appealing, but there wasn't any way around it. No matter how lonely it became, Angel would just deal with it, rather than drag down his friends.

Come to think of it, it seemed as though he could hear those friends right now -

"You're a really good dancer!" Cordelia said brightly. Angel turned the corner to see her there in a coppery dress that hugged every one of her curves. That didn't attract his attention as much as the adoring gaze she was giving her companion.

"Really?" Wesley blushed so deeply that even a human could've seen it at night. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he said, "I thought - I mean, I'm quite sure I stepped on your foot a time or two. Or three. Or a dozen."

Cordelia's smile dimmed, but only for a moment. "I'm sure it's just because they dance all weird in England. Like - like driving on the other side of the street, right?"

He'd forgotten those two had a crush on each other, once upon a time. Angel began laughing before he could stop himself.

"Angel?" Cordelia stared at him. "What's so funny?"

He gave her the only explanation he could. "You two look - so - cute."

Wesley obviously didn't know what to make of having the Scourge of Europe tell him he was cute. Cordelia tossed her hair, basking in male admiration, even if she didn't quite understand the reason.

"Sorry to interrupt," Angel said, shaking his head. "I'll leave you guys to it." The sooner he got away from them, the better their lives would be.

"Leave us to - oh, no, no, no." Wesley stepped away, straightening his jacket. "Nothing of an improper - informal - nothing of any nature was happening. Not at all. No."

Cordelia looked stricken as Wesley got further from her. "Not yet! That's all."

"So, must be off. We have quite a bit of research yet to do before the Mayor's Ascension. Angel - Cordelia - farewell." And Wesley hurried away, both yearning and embarrassment warming his face as he left them behind.

"Excuse me, but what were you thinking?" She put her hands on her hips as she wheeled around toward Angel. "Are you, like, so bitter about the Buffy breakup that you have to go around wrecking other people's love lives?"

"It's a thought," Angel said heavily. Maybe he could spend a century or two that way. The Anti-Cupid. He'd need some arrows. "Sorry, Cordy."

"My parents dropped me off," she said, folding her arms. "Now I have no ride. You know what this means?"

"I'm driving you home," Angel said. As though he'd let her go off in the killing fields of Sunnydale without an escort. This Cordelia didn't know how to defend herself, though he remembered that she was pretty good at screaming.

"And how." They walked side-by-side, silently, for a few steps until Angel stopped in his tracks and groaned. Cordelia said, "What is it?"

He squinted as he studied the nearby streets and lots. "I don't remember where I parked."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Great. Now I get to finish the night of my senior prom by doing 80 laps around a parking lot."

**

They found the Plymouth fairly quickly, in Angel's opinion, though Cordelia didn't stop griping. Then again, to be comfortable, Angel didn't have to do anything besides unfasten his bow tie; Cordelia was wearing three-inch heels.

"I never understood why you wore those shoes," Angel said as they drove down the street. "I always thought they had to hurt your feet."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Since when do you worry about my shoes? Or, for that matter, anything remotely connected to me?"

Whoops. Well, the slip didn't matter much. After leaving Doyle and Los Angeles - now that he was so far back in time he wasn't sure how to get back again - Angel was finding it increasingly difficult to care. "I sometimes look around to see if anything in the room could be used as a deadly weapon. Your spike heels definitely qualify."

"That's either really comforting or really creepy. Which is pretty much you in a nutshell, come to think of it." Cordelia tried to smooth her hair despite the inevitable breeze in the convertible, then sighed and let it blow. "You're leaving town soon, right? What with the whole eternal-Buffy-love not being so eternal anymore?"

"I still love Buffy," he said - and it wasn't just a matter of maintaining the pretense, though he wasn't going to dwell on that too much now. "I thought you never learned anything about tact, but I was wrong. There was definitely progress."

"What are you on?" Cordelia didn't pay too much attention to what he'd said, though; there was a faraway look in her eyes. "Well, my point is, I'm leaving Sunnydale too. And I can't wait to get out of this hole. Can you? I mean, you've actually lived some interesting places in your life. You have to totally hate it here."

"I don't hate it," Angel replied. Something about the traffic seemed odd to him, about the shapes of the cars - ah, he thought, not so many SUVs yet. He realized, with a start, that they were very near the mansion - his home, for a brief time. Before he could stop himself, he said, "Listen, do you want to have a drink?"

"What? Like, a date? Wow, you redefine the rebound."

"Not a date. Just - two soon-to-be Sunnydale escapees. Toasting farewell to this place."

Maybe it was stupid, torturing himself with a pale imitation of the relationship that would never happen. He already knew that letting go of Cordelia, sooner rather than later, was the kindest thing he could do for her.

But it was just one hour, just one night. And he was almost positive he had a bottle of wine at the mansion. He remembered having a drink after he'd told Buffy goodbye.

"You know I'm only 18, right? Which makes me not legal?"

"Since when do you care?"

"You are so weird tonight." But either Cordelia's exasperation for everything in Sunnydale or her desire for a drink overcame her discomfort with Angel. "What the hell. It's not like you're really big on age limits anyway, huh? With the whole Buffy-underage-sex thing."

Angel started to laugh as he pulled up to the mansion. "You know, when I grew up, people drank wine or ale by the time they were ten. Most girls were married by the time they were 15."

"All this tells me is that you're from an entire race of creepy people."

"All it tells me," Angel said, stopping the Plymouth, "is that you're old enough."

**

"You don't think I'd look good as a blonde?" One of Cordelia's dress shoes slipped off her foot to the floor.

"You would look beautiful with any color hair," Angel replied, pouring himself a bit more wine. "But brunette is your shade. Stick with it."

"You're so savvy about hair for a straight man."

"I try."

"Hey, if I tell you something, will you not laugh?" Cordelia sat on his sofa, leaning on her hand, already a bit tipsy. Angel had not tried to warn her nor to get closer to her - it was enough just to have a few hours to watch her.

"I promise not to laugh." Angel thumped his unbeating heart. "Scout's honor."

"Remind me not to join your Scout troop." She straightened up - unevenly, her hair a strangely attractive mess - and whispered, "I want to be an actress."

"You would be an amazing actress."

Her smile was so unbelievably bright. "You mean it? Really? I mean, duh, but you agree?"

"One hundred percent." He took another deep swallow of wine.

Cordelia wriggled happily, her usual sophisticated pose completely obliterated by the wine and her excitement. "I was thinking I might move to Hollywood. Get a little place in Bel Air, maybe."

Angel thought back to her first apartment in the city, and the fact that its squalor had managed to shock even Doyle - a man who changed his shirts approximately twice a week. "What you should do is - you should go to New York."

"New York?" She wrinkled her nose. "You have to ride subways there."

"There are subways in Los Angeles."

"That NO ONE goes on, ever."

"Manhattan is glamorous," Angel said. Most of his time there had been anything but glamorous, but he understood things were a lot better after Giuliani. "And you could take the stage. All the big stars train on the stage."

"Manhattan," Cordelia said, more thoughtfully.

Maybe it would all be that simple. Maybe it was that easy to let Cordelia go. It hurt, knowing she'd never even become his friend - but the thought of her, safe and sound, leading a life somewhere else, was consolation enough.

He heard something scraping around outside and wondered if he should check on it. The wine - and his reluctance to leave Cordelia on what would undoubtedly be the last evening they'd ever spend together - made him move slowly. "Be right back," he said, as he got to his feet.

"Sure." She shook off her big-city dreams and gave him another million-dollar smile. "You know, for a dead guy who's evil sometimes, you're surprisingly easy to talk to."

"I appreciate that," he said, rolling up the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt as he walked toward the door. "Means a lot."

Angel took a couple more steps toward the door - but then it swung open to reveal an old friend. He smiled. "Hey, Faith."

"Faith!" Cordelia yelped, jumping to her feet. Faith gave her a wicked smile.

Oh, shit, Angel thought. EVIL now.

"Well, well, well." Faith didn't try to walk inside, but Angel could see the stake in her hand. "I thought the best view I was gonna get of the Sunnydale prom was Willow getting some werewolf action in the backseat. But then I see Angel here ditching B to hang out with Queen C. Did they change the definition of 'soulmates' without telling me?"

"This is completely innocent!" Cordelia said. "Kick her ass, Angel! Kick it!"

"Easier said than done," Angel said. He tried to remember how Faith fought, how he'd managed to beat her before.

Then he remembered: The best thing he'd ever done for Faith was refuse to fight.

"She's still got her dress on, Angel," Faith said, taking one step inside the threshold. "You move slow these days."

"Faith, I want you to listen to me." He held out his hands, which had the twin advantages of being non-threatening while putting him in a good position for a quick defensive block. "Right now you think the Mayor's the only person who cares about you. You think that makes it okay to follow him, no matter what he's going to do. But he's using you."

"He cares about me more than any of you punks."

"That's not true," Angel said, his voice steady. "It may not seem like it now, but I am ready to fight for you. Even Buffy is ready to fight for you. You just have to give us the chance."

"So that's why you and B played your little mind game on me? Out of love?" Faith sucked on her lower lip, dulling the sheen of her dark-glossed lips. "Makes sense. Because ever since then, I've been thinking about the way your tongue felt in my mouth. Didn't seem a whole lot like hate to me."

That stupid masquerade - Wesley's stupid kidnapping attempt - why couldn't he just have jumped back a couple more weeks? Faith was possibly the only person whose worst experiences Angel felt sure he could have prevented. "Think about it. Why do you care that Cordelia's here? Because you think I'm cheating on Buffy."

"Which he is not," Cordelia hastily added. "Not only because we aren't doing anything - eww, dead much? - and also because he dumped Buffy yesterday."

Faith's eyes changed, though it was hard to say whether the situation was better or worse. Angel, hazarding a guess, said, "You're upset because Buffy's hurt. That means you still care about her. That means you don't belong to the Mayor - and deep down, I swear to you, you never will."

"I ain't doing B any favors," Faith spat. "Because I'm betting when you're dust? She's gonna cry."

She lunged at him, Slayer-fast, and Angel barely had time for a block, and no time to brace himself against the knee that slammed into his side. "Cordy!" he yelled, stumbling backwards until he could find a fighting position. "Run!"

"I'm getting Buffy!" Cordelia cried as she fled for the back courtyard.

Now he didn't have to worry about her - now he could just fight. Feint right, hit left, hit left again, duck and DAMN -

"You're getting slow, lover," Faith panted, giving the stake a pivot in her hand. "Wonder how slow you're gonna get?"

Angel didn't talk. He knew Faith's capabilities, how strong she was and how fast. The plan would be to keep her fighting - hopefully to tire her out - until Buffy could arrive. If they could apprehend Faith now, at least the poisoning and the blood drinking could be avoided; after that, they could get through to Faith eventually. That he knew for a fact.

So he  dodged her next blow, ducked the one after that, hit her as hard as he could in the gut - Faith could take it - and grabbed her arm to -

Faith jerked back, far too hard, an amateur's error. The force of it whiplashed her body back toward him, just as she tugged back with her hand -

"No!" Angel shouted, but the stake was already in her gut.

She fell back, first to a seated position, then flat on her back. Angel knelt on the tile, trying to ignore the crazed instincts that rose up in him at the sight and smell of so much fresh hot blood. "Hang on," he said. "Buffy's coming. We'll call an ambulance." Why the hell hadn't he ever gotten a phone put into this place? Or even a cell phone? They had cell phones by this point, didn't they?

"You killed me," she gasped.

Technically, Faith had staked herself, but Angel knew that wasn't much of a distinction. Why had he forgotten that Faith wasn't yet as polished and controlled a fighter as she later became? Why had he forgotten how much she fought on instinct that first year?

"We're going to save you," Angel said. "I promise you."

Faith coughed, them smiled at him weakly through bloody lips. "Last time - you pretended to care - you did - a better job." Then her head lolled to one side, and the light in her eyes died.

She was gone.

Angel felt her blood soaking through the knees of his tuxedo slacks. He remembered the woman and the warrior Faith had become - her courage, and the purity of her strength. None of that would ever happen now. He hadn't just taken Faith's life from her; he'd taken her salvation.

His tux's jacket was just a few feet away; in his pocket was the time-turning device. He should just grab it, give it a turn, go back yet again and give Faith another chance.

But Angel hesitated. He's already gone back so far - years farther than he'd ever intended to go. The sheer number of variables he had to deal with was beginning to overwhelm him; as he went back, his responsibilities grew greater, not less. And above all, he would still have to make sure Connor was born - he couldn't give up his son, couldn't deny his son a chance at life -

Then he looked down at Faith's dead body, lying in its own gore on the tile of his mansion. Faith deserved her life no less than Connor deserved his.

Not again, something in him insisted. Not again.

Still, Angel walked to the jacket, took out the device and spun it once more, closing his eyes against the now-familiar swirl. "Again."

**

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