Fred's got her arm around my waist, and I'm half-draped over her shoulders. "Hang on, Cordy," she says as we make our way through Union Station. The grubby, very unwashed people waiting for their trains stare at us -- and I realize that, with bruises on our faces and blood on our clothes, we are actually the scariest-looking people around, even in this crowd. This is not going in the life album of great moments, that's for sure. Fred whispers, "Almost there. Once we get to the train, we can rest. The Council sprang for a couple of sleeper cars."

"Sleep sounds great," I say. Two days on a train do NOT sound great, but they beat the alternative, which involves nailing Angel into a shipping crate, which would bring up some mega-awful memories. I'm making my own mega-awful memories here, of course. My ears are still ringing, and my face hurts, and my mouth still tastes like blood. I know Faith's got Gunn under her spell, but I don't care. That guy is in some serious trouble, just as soon as I can stand without assistance. So, might be a while.

As a general rule, I try not to have regrets. They're totally useless, they weigh you down, and I personally believe they have a lot to do with wrinkles. But it's moments like this that I have to wonder:

I gave up heaven for this?

"That's the test, isn't it?" I stared at Skip, frozen in time, surrounded by light. He nodded, and I knew. I had a really simple choice. The Powers, and my mission, and a celestial reward that involved heaven and redemption and calorie-free chocolate-chip ice cream. (You see God your way, I see Him mine.)

Or: Angel. Obstinate and secretive and brave and hopeful, the man I knew and the man I didn't know. Staying by his side, no matter what. Loving him.

At first it looked like a pretty clear-cut choice, you know? Love is selfish, and a mission is selfless, and I hadn't spent three years in Los Angeles working and fighting and going without sleep or money or new clothes just to go back to being selfish. I'd spent a lot of time and energy making myself into the brand-new, better-person Cordelia Chase -- someone as different from the selfish, materialistic, old-style Cordelia Chase as possible. The Powers were trusting me to give the right answer -- and there might not be anybody else, on heaven or earth, who'd trust me to do that.

But just as I was opening my mouth to say it -- to give up this world, this life and Angel forever -- I thought about Angel. About the way he was standing at the seashore, waiting for me. I knew what he felt, what he hoped. And I imagined him standing there, waiting and waiting for me, and the way he would feel the moment he realized I would never come.

And I couldn't do it. The one time in my life I needed to be bigger than myself -- I couldn't do it.

"No," I said. "I'm sorry, Skip. But the Powers -- we do enough for them already, okay? I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving Angel."

Skip looked at me very strangely. "I'm sorry, I mighta zoned out there, but did you say no?"

"Right," I said. "No. I can't do it. I'm sorry, but I --"

"You're sorry?" Skip stood up straight, and those weird blades in his back scraped against each other, and all of a sudden I remembered how scary he looked the first time I saw him. "The Powers give you abilities the average DC Comics hero would envy, save your butt on average of about once a month, and explain your chance to be a fundamental part of the good of the entire world, and all you've got to say is, Sorry, I've got a date?"

"See, it sounds all shallow if you say 'date,'" I protested weakly. "How about, um, umm -- true love!" I brightened up and smiled. "I can't be destined to leave my true love, right?"

Skip stepped forward and glared down at me. His eyes were flashing this weird color. Angel said he met Skip in hell, and really, you do have to wonder how somebody gets a job in hell in the first place --

"You don't know anything about destiny, Cordelia Chase," Skip said. "And if you think Angel would like you better as the clingy girlfriend than he did as the hero, you don't know anything about true love, either."

"Harsh much?" I wanted to be mad at Skip. But the fact is, he was starting to scare the shit out of me. He spoke for the Powers, and he was so angry --

"Have it your way," Skip said. "Don't get me wrong, Cordelia. I like you. You've still got a lot to offer. But you let the team down."

"I'm sorry," I repeated. Then I winced; what if that just made Skip blow up again?

But it didn't. He just smiled at me a little sadly. Then he said, "You aren't yet. But you will be."

And then time snapped back into place, and I saw my jeep get dashed into a jillion pieces. Which told me something about the Powers then and there.

"Where are Gunn and Faith?" I ask as we stumble through the passenger car. Surely they're not gonna drive that armored car all the way to L.A.

"They've got them locked up in a freight car," Fred says. "Apparently it's not real hard to bribe the folks at Amtrak."

"Bureaucrats take kickbacks? My faith in the world is shot. Please tell me we're almost to the sleeper car. Hurling is still not out of the question."

"We're there right now." Fred steers me through a door, and we're in a little sleeper compartment. It's about the size of a file cabinet, but it's got a closet, a shower, a pull-out bed, even a teeny wet bar. I find a washcloth, find the ice, and make myself an oh-so-attractive nose pack while Fred pulls out the bed and shuts the curtains good and tight.

I tug off my coat and lie down on the bunk. It's not what you'd call a feather mattress, but it feels like heaven right now. "Thanks, Fred." I look at her as squarely as I can, with one eye swollen. "Are you okay? Seeing Gunn -- it wasn't too tough for you, was it?"

"Yeah," she says. She hesitates at the door. "I mean, yeah, I'm okay, and no, it wasn't too bad. I'm just so glad nobody got hurt." Then she stares at my face, and I stare at hers, and we both start laughing. "You know what I mean. Do you need anything else?"

"Nah. Go get yourself comfortable," I tell her. "As comfy as possible, anyway."

"There's nothing wrong with me that some aspirin wouldn't fix. Some aspirin and a good night's rest. Plus maybe some wine coolers." Fred shakes her head. "I'll drop by later."

I raise my free hand and wave as she goes out. Then I go back to holding the ice pack on my nose and staring at the ceiling.

It feels so weird. We've been after them for almost a year; sometimes it seemed like that was all our lives were about. Chasing Faith and Gunn. Chasing Faith, really; Gunn was just the sucker along for the ride. But we weren't gonna rest, not for a day, not for a second, until we caught them. Angel and the Council let Faith get away with a hell of a lot, but there was no way they'd let her walk away from this --

For a moment I remember Buffy's body, lying limp on those steps. She hadn't been dead long when I knelt down by her. I touched her hair, and when I pulled back there was warm blood on my fingers --

Well, I guess it's time to stop brooding about it. We did what we set out to do. We caught Faith. Maybe now we can all rest. Maybe Angel can rest.

I hear quick, heavy footsteps in the hallway, and I look toward the door. Angel comes dashing in, blanket wrapped around him. The other passengers know where to find the freaks, that's for sure. As he shuts the door behind us, he lets the blanket drop. It's kinda dark in here, but I know he can see me. "Cordy," he says. "You're hurt."

"Nothing major," I say. I sound all stuffy. "So how were the Chicago sewers?"

"Those are pretty much the same wherever you go." He strips off his coat, his hat, his gloves; Angel doesn't need protection from the cold, but they probably helped him with the light. Gingerly he lifts the ice pack from my face, checks out my nose. "I don't think it's broken," he says softly. "But I know it has to hurt."

"Really, it's not so bad." I feel myself softening as he looks down at me, so concerned, so focused. Then I get kinda worried that it seems worthwhile, getting smacked in the face, for him to look at me this way. But it doesn't seem to matter as he leans over and gently, so gently, kisses me. I'm so chilled from the Chicago winter that his lips don't feel cold against mine, for once. It's nice. Better than nice.

The train starts moving with a jerk, then begins to rattle slightly as we pick up speed. Angel sits beside me on the bunk, rubbing my shoulder. He's still being kind and attentive, but I can already feel that focus slipping away, being reclaimed by old ghosts. My heart sinks. I thought this was going to get us past that. I thought now, maybe, he could let the guilt go, start to get over it.

I say, "We did it. We caught them."

"I never thought we would," Angel says quietly.

Way to believe in the team. But I answer only, "We got the person responsible for Buffy's death. The one who's REALLY responsible." Meaning, not the ex-boyfriend whose only failing was not holding her hand 24/7. "Angel, if Buffy knew, I think she'd be proud of you."

"If Buffy knew." Angel looks more distant than before; he says her name so rarely, but in my heart, I know how often he thinks of her. He shakes it off quickly, though, and smiles down at me again. "Let's get to bed," he says.

He strips off his own clothes quickly, until he's down to boxer shorts. Then he starts undressing me, but he's still moving fast. Just being efficient. I couldn't really have a wild erotic encounter right now, what with the fact that my head weighs 8000 pounds. But I just wish he were tempted. Because then I'd know that this errand did its job. Besides the whole justice thing, of course. I haven't lost sight of that. I just -- don't want to be lost sight of either.

Our little cabin is so dark, and it's rocking back and forth gently as we travel over the tracks; there's no sound in the room except the rickety-rack of the wheels. Angel unbuttons my shirt, slips it off my shoulders. Then his hands move to my bra, big fingers that still know how to snap the clasp free in an instant. I watch his face as his hands brush against my bare breasts. I can feel how gentle he's being, and I see the love in his eyes. But it's -- calm. He doesn't want anything from me. And I don't remember how to get what I want from him.

We used to have so much passion. So much need. But that was before Buffy died. Since then, it's like something in him died too.

Angel and I get tucked in together, and he throws one arm across me. As screwed up as we both have to be after this morning, really, we do both just want to crash; I rest my head against his shoulder and let myself relax. It feels good, just to lie this close to him. Maybe I ought to just be grateful for what I've got.

Even if I do remember when I had so much more.

A month, I thought in despair. He's been down there a month. I got to the seashore in time to see Connor and Justine taking off with him, figured out what they were doing in no time flat, and it still took a month to find him. Dredging the ocean floor just isn't quick.

I'd insisted that Gunn and Fred let me do this alone. I knew Angel -- or what was left of Angel -- wouldn't be strong enough to do me harm. And Angel's pride affects him so much; I knew he'd want as few people to see him like this -- like whatever he was now -- as possible. That's what I told them, anyway. In reality, I felt like I had to be the one to save Angel. Because if I saved him, saved the Powers' champion, that would prove I'd done the right thing. And they wouldn't be angry and punish me -- or the people I loved.

The basement was cold and dark, and even though I'd spent jillions of hours down there, right then it seemed forbidding. And how much worse had it been for Angel? So much colder. So much darker. I cleared my throat and called to him. "Angel. Angel?"

No response, yet again. I'd called to him ever since the moment we hauled him up, and he'd never spoken. The box thumped once, but it had been doing that -- rocking back and forth, with the hollow echo of the body inside -- ever since we pulled it up. It lay in the center of the basement, still gleaming wetly in the faint light. There was a dark square that might have been a window, before it was gummed over with sludge and seaweed. I picked up the crowbar, which was comforting and heavy, ideal for breaking open the box, and if necessary, for other things.

I stepped forward, holding my breath -- Powers, I thought, please let him be all right. Don't punish me through him. Anything else, but not this.

Carefully, I wedged the crowbar between the lid and the box and started to pry. As the wood creaked in protest, the thumping inside got stronger. "That's right," I whispered. "See, it's over. All over. I'm here." Very reassuring words from a lady with a crowbar.

The lid finally split -- not fully, but partly -- and that's when he howled. I don't mean yelled, I mean howled. Like, Oz howling. I started doing the one thing I'd promised myself I wouldn't do: I started to cry. Angel was like an animal in there, like something not human -- or even less human --

Then the thrashing inside the box got stronger, and I heard something give way with a twang of metal. And through the sludge-darkened glass smashed Angel's hand.

I clapped my own hand to my mouth not to scream. Angel's hand was thin and bony, and he had fingernails like talons. But that wasn't the worst. The worst was that he cut his hand on the glass, and blood started streaming down his arm, and he yanked his hand back in and then I could hear this desperate sucking sound.

All at once I couldn't take it anymore. I started going crazy on that lid, prying and hacking and pulling; I didn't give a rat's ass what happened after the lid came off, even what happened to me. I wanted Angel out of there, that instant.

I got to the last corner before the lid exploded off the box with a crash. I looked down and saw --

Mud. Sand. Shells. Seaweed. And pulling himself out of the sludge -- this skinny, ghostly creature. His clothes were sodden rags that fell away from his thin body. His hands were like claws. His face was a vampire's, and he stared with yellow eyes that didn't know me at all.

Angel was the monster he'd always believed himself to be. And that was the moment I knew I loved him beyond any doubt, beyond any help. Because I didn't want to run away. It took all my strength not to run to him and take him in my arms.

Well, strength and good ol' fashioned will-to-live. Hopelessly in love, but still not stupid, thanks for asking.

He lurched at me, sensing only a living creature with blood he could drink. But he was weak and slow, and I dodged him easily as he stumbled out of the box. Quickly, I went to the Igloo cooler Fred had prepared; I pulled out the first of plenty of Tupperware containers of blood and tossed it to him. "Drink," I said. Somehow I thought he might remember that word longer than any other. "Angel, drink that."

So very unnecessary. He scrabbled at the lid, tugged it open and started gulping it down desperately. Blood ran down his chin, and I could see his tongue flick out to wash the container clean. Then he ran his fingers along his cheeks and throat, scooping up the blood he'd spilled and sucking it off.

I tossed him another one. Then another. Then another. He grew a little less desperate as he went, but not much; he just got calm enough to stop spilling as much. The weirdest part? Watching his body change before my eyes; I swear to God, the guy gained 30 pounds back in about ten minutes. Muscles pulsed and swelled beneath slack skin, filling out, taking shape. His skin went from really, really pale to just regular pale. His hands started looking like hands again as the talons sank back into his flesh.

And I could tell just by the way he stood, the way he caught the containers -- Angel was getting his strength back. Which was why I was getting kinda anxious for him to recognize me.

After pint eight -- that's one person -- he finally paused. He looked at me unsteadily, squinting in the darkness; I held my breath, hoping for some sign that he knew who I was. Failing that, I'd settle for a sign that he knew who he was.

He tried to speak, but just made this weird croak. Then he coughed and said, in a weak, raspy voice, "Water."

I hesitated. "That's right. You were trapped underwater. But that's over now."

He shook his head and repeated, "Water." Oh, now I know he's gone crazy, I thought. He had nothing but water for a solid month, and the first thing he does is ask for more?

Wait. No. Angel had salt water. He wants water to drink. "Water," I whispered. "Okay, Angel. Hang on." I grabbed one of the Tupperware containers and went to the little sink in the corner. My hands were almost shaking too much to turn the faucet on, but I managed it. "Here you --"

I turned around and ran smack into Angel. I nearly did scream that time, but he just grabbed the water and drank it as desperately as he did the blood. I should have backed away, but I couldn't. His vampire face was finally fading, and even if he still looked wretched -- for the first time, I could look at him and really see Angel. I'd thought I would never see him again.

He emptied the container, and I took it from him. "Do you want more?" I sked.

He looked down at me. Really looked, I mean. It seemed like his eyes were focusing, and I saw what looked like -- oh, please let it be -- recognition.

Hesitantly, he whispered, "Cordelia?"

"Yes! Yes, Angel, it's me, it's Cordy, I'm here." I could feel the biggest smile spreading across my face. I knew I wasn't making any sense, but it didn't matter. Angel was okay. He was going to be okay. "We found you. We looked and we looked and we finally found you, and now you're safe --"

Angel grabbed me and kissed me. Hard.

I opened my mouth -- maybe to gasp in shock, because it was that surprising. But Angel slid his tongue between my lips, kissed me deep and long. He tasted like salt. He tasted like blood. And I didn't care, because it was Angel, in my arms, here with me. I grabbed him tight, hugged him to me, hoped the warmth of my body would sink into his skin. It was just like every dream I'd had for a month now, just the way I wanted him to come home.

Just when I felt myself getting swoony, Angel pulled away a little and looked down at me. "Cordelia?" he whispered again.

"That's right," I said, running my hands through his wet hair. "It's Cordelia. I'm here. And --" I'd finally get the chance to do what I stayed on Earth to do. To say what I told the Powers I had to say. "Angel, I love you."

"I love you too," he said, so simply that I felt my chest ache. Like he'd split me in two, opened me up. "But -- but --"

"But what?"

"Is this another dream?" Angel's face was uncertain and frightened. "I had dreams -- dreams inside dreams -- bad ones and worse ones and good ones that would turn bad when I knew they weren't real. And they wouldn't stop. They never stopped."

"Listen to me," I said, taking his chin in my hands. "They stopped. They're done. It's over, Angel. This is real." I kissed him again, quickly. "I'm real."

"I dreamed of you." His hands were roaming over my body now, like he was trying to memorize the way I felt, in case he never got to feel it again. I started trembling as he caressed my breasts, my belly, my back. "I dreamed of you, telling you that I loved you. And in the dreams you loved me too."

"I do. I do love you. I love you so much, Angel. The Powers --" I don't know what I was thinking, telling him right then, when he could hardly understand what was real and what wasn't. But I'd been carrying it around for a month, alone, and I was so desperate to lay the weight down. "The Powers asked me to leave you. They wanted me to go up and help them. I swear to God. They must have some serious staffing shortages, huh?" I was trembling, my words spilling out until they hardly made any sense even to me, but I couldn't stop. "But I wouldn't leave you, Angel. I told them that I would never leave you. Not even for the Powers. Not even to go to heaven."

We started kissing again, more gently now. Angel's body was shaking, and I realized he was either laughing or crying. Maybe both. "It's not a dream," he whispered. "It's not a dream."

Thank you, Powers, I thought. Thank you for letting me go. Thank you for not punishing me.

At the time, I was too happy to wonder if the punishment came later.

I wake up, startled by some noise; I lift my head from the pillow to listen, but there's nothing else. Maybe it was a dream.

No. Somebody's knocking on the door. "Just a minute!" I call. I glance over at Angel, who is only now opening his eyes. "What happened to super vamp hearing?" I ask him.

"I guess I was sleeping really deeply," he says, sitting up. He tosses me his undershirt as he takes up his own sweater.

"You were sleeping well," I say proudly, like he got a merit badge or something. "No wonder you can finally rest easy." See, I just knew catching Faith would help! Even if Angel hasn't subconsciously let go of his bags of Buffy guilt, it must be better deep inside.

"Are you not decent yet?" Wesley's voice is dryer than usual, no kidding. But he's kinda making a joke with Angel, which is a good sign. Better sign: Angel's the one who goes to the door and lets Wesley in. I think we have actual civility here.

"So, how's it going out there?" I ask. "Are we talking pleasant cross-country journey or murder on the Orient Express?"

"It's as pleasant as being a jailer gets," Wesley says. He would obviously like to sit down, but there's no place except the little bunk Angel and I just crawled out of. "Faith's actually being fairly calm and cooperative --"

"Did they drug her?" Angel interjects.

"Fair assumption, but no," Wesley says. "I'm inclined to think she's biding her time until she has a better opportunity for escape than she has at present."

"And it's our job to make sure she doesn't get one," I add.

Wesley nods. "However, not everyone's behaving as well as Faith."

"Connor -- is he acting up?" Angel says, like Connor would be stealing from the snack cart or something.

"Believe it or not, Fred somehow talked him into playing I Spy," Wesley said. "Apparently it's new to him."

"Makes sense," I said with a shrug. "I mean, how do you play that in hell? 'I spy -- fire!' 'I spy -- more fire!'"

"Cordelia," Angel says firmly. Whoops. Gotta watch the hell jokes. "What is the problem, then?"

"It's Gunn." Wesley was the first of us to call him Charles, but he hasn't done that in years. "He's venting his rather considerable temper on anyone who comes near the cell car. Faith's making little effort to calm him. They've not been able to get any food through."

"It's only been, what, a couple of hours?" I say. "Faith and Gunn aren't starving yet. Give 'em time to get hungry, and he'll simmer down."

"He's locked up back in there with her?" Angel says. He shifts on his feet. "Is that necessary?"

"Are you serious?" Wesley says, staring at him.

"Gunn didn't kill -- I mean, Gunn didn't do it," Angel says. "He's been helping Faith hide but that's just because he loves her."

"How very understanding you are when it suits you," Wesley says, voice silky. Uh-oh. Civility over.

But Angel, for once, doesn't fly off the handle or go into forbidding sulk mode. He just meets Wesley's eyes. "I try to learn from my mistakes."

Holy shit -- did we just get an apology here?

My eyes are wide as I stare at them both. It wasn't quite an apology, but it's as close as Wesley's likely to get. And it looks like Wesley might -- just -- accept. He's relaxing a little, nodding at Angel. "Gunn can't be set entirely free. There's no saying what he might do to rescue Faith. But perhaps we could -- mitigate things for him."

"How do we do that?" I ask. I'm trying not to grin at both of them. But I can't resist slipping my arm through Angel's, giving his hand a little squeeze. He doesn't acknowledge it.

"We've plenty of skilled magic-users on board," Wesley says, referring to the kajillion Watchers who helped us track down Faith and Gunn. "Perhaps there's a means of magically handcuffing him -- preventing him from violence. I shall speak to the Watchers."

"Thanks," Angel says. Wesley just gives him a quick nod and goes. I turn to Angel; I want to hug him, start talking about what just happened -- I mean, this is huge. But Angel's not really looking at me. He's kinda looking into the distance, not that there is any distance, seeing as how we're in a train car.

I know the look, though. He's worn it just about every day for the year since Buffy died.

It's too soon to expect it all to change, I tell myself as I close my eyes and try to gather my composure. Healing is going to take time. And doesn't that sound all confident and wise? It's almost like I knew what the hell I was talking about.

"I'm gonna walk around the train some," I tell him. "Get some snacks, maybe do the I Spy game with Fred and Connor."

Angel manages a little smile for me. "Watch him, will you?"

"Of course." We kiss each other before I go out the door, but that's just a matter of habit, at this point.

I shouldn't think that way. I mean, I know Angel loves me. I know that as deeply as I know anything in the world. He's never been anything but gentle and good to me. He doesn't open up to me much, but that's still more than he opens up to anyone else, and anytime I need to talk, he's ready to listen. And the sex -- okay, it's not SEX sex, what with the cursage, but trust me, it's close enough -- is just unimaginable. I spent a lot of time imagining, and I had dreamed up a pretty impressive skill set for Angel, and I didn't even come close to realizing how good it was gonna be.

And the thing is, it didn't change when Buffy moved to L.A. That is, when we moved her to L.A.

"Okay," I said, looking around the bare bones of what was still -- for another five minutes or so -- Buffy's room. "You're sure that's everything?"

She nodded absently. She was looking at a patch on the wall that was less faded from the sun; I thought that was where her bulletin board used to be. I couldn't quite remember.

Buffy waited forever to call us after -- after it all happened. Angel had been out of the box for about two months, and Faith had been living with us for about a month. Wesley was working as Faith's Watcher again, and I was pretty sure the whole sitch was going to blow up in everybody's face pretty soon, but it hadn't. Not yet.

Then Buffy called. Told us that virtually everybody I knew in high school was dead, and Willow did it. Willow. Sweet, geeky little Willow, who could hack into the Pentagon but never figure out what to do with her hair. I couldn't believe it. Still can't, I guess.

It's not like I had missed them all that much, to tell you the truth. I mean, I feel pretty sorry for anybody who'd have to look back on Sunnydale High as the golden years. But knowing that they were gone ripped something out of me all the same. I liked knowing that if something really serious was going down, Giles was on the case. Or being able to call Willow and ask her just what the hell 'defragging' was, anyway. And Xander -- it was like all the stupid, jerky stuff he ever did or said to me melted away, and all I could think about was the boy who'd been my first love.

They were my past, and they were gone, and they'd done as much for the Powers as I ever did, and if the Powers would let them all get killed while they were trying to do the right thing -- what would they do to someone who'd done the wrong thing?

Nothing seemed safe anymore, after Buffy called us. Nothing will ever really seem safe again.

Buffy didn't call us until three months later. What did she do in Sunnydale, all alone, for three months, with that kind of devastation? I knew she had to be hurting so badly. Maybe that was why -- if you're hurting badly enough, sometimes you feel like you can't make decisions. Like you can't even move.

But when she was ready, she telephoned and announced that she needed someplace to go, and in a hurry, since they were foreclosing on the house. Los Angeles was the only possible port of call. Back at the Hyperion, Fred was getting a room ready. Wesley and Faith were patrolling, and probably panicking over which one of them Buffy would have snarkier comments for. And Angel and I were moving Buffy out. Together.

"The new people are moving in day after tomorrow," Buffy said. "I really ought to clean up more."

"It's plenty clean!" I said, smiling brightly at her through the thin haze of dust. "You've done a great job."

She looked over at me tiredly, and I realized how I had to look to her -- this grinning idiot who was so gosh-darned happy that Buffy was moving out of her home forever. The bitch she remembered from high school, the one who never took anything seriously enough, the girl who could get through a werewolf attack and just gripe about the damage to her car. Who'd want that person hanging around anytime, much less a moment like this? And Buffy didn't know the worst of it yet.

Gunn poked his head through the door. Poor man. When he sold his soul for a truck, did he not realize it would just result in a purgatory of helping people move? "We gotcha loaded up. Any other boxes?"

"Nah," Buffy said. "The Goodwill people will pick up the rest tomorrow." She picked up her duffel bag and took a deep breath. She didn't even move like herself, anymore; her body was slightly hunched over, like she'd just got punched. Or maybe like she was trying to protect herself from another blow. "Let's go."

Angel was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up. Buffy's chin lifted a little as she saw him and their eyes met. I could feel my rib cage contract with jealousy and fear. Buffy and Angel. Major love story. Was I being crazy to think it would end with me?

Buffy went out the front door, but Angel hung back. I hung back with him. As soon as she was a few steps away, I whispered, "We have to tell her." Because once we told her, that would make it real, official. That would prove Angel loved me, and not her anymore, and the very fact that I could think like that when Buffy was hurting like hell made me know that the old Queen C of Sunnydale High was still alive and well in my heart, despite my many attempts to evict.

Angel didn't have to ask what it was we had to tell her. "I just don't want to upset her," he said. "Upset her more, I mean."

"I know. I know. It's just that -- if we lie to her, Angel, that's the worst of all." Lying to me would also be bad. That was kinda the unspoken corollary.

"We won't lie," Angel promised. He took my hands in his, gave me That Look, the one that always makes me melt like chocolate in sunshine.

I stepped closer to him. "Whenever you're ready," I said. "If you need some time -- I mean, if you want to think about things --" I hated saying that, hated even thinking it, but I wasn't trying to get him on a leash. You know? If he still loved Buffy, I was better off finding out ASAP, the sooner to begin the weeping-and-Oreo binge. Maybe that was going to be the Powers' punishment for throwing them aside for love -- letting me be thrown aside for love in return.

"Cordy," Angel whispered. He touched the side of my face with his fingertips -- so gentle -- and of course, that was the moment Buffy walked back in the door.

She stared at us. We stared at her.

"You," Buffy said. She meant it in the plural.

"Us," Angel said. "It's --" He looked at me as if he expected me to come up with the words. I couldn't do anything but stare back at him, because the only words I had handy were, Oh, crap, which didn't quite seem like the thing. Finally he said, "It's been leading up to this for a while now."

"Figures," Buffy said. She laughed -- one short sound. I didn't like it. But what the hell was I gonna say? Because even though Angel was NOT Buffy's property, and he fell for me fair and square, right then I felt guilty as hell. Buffy had lost so much, and we just told her she'd lost one more thing. She didn't look at us long; instead, she glanced around her house. I mean, the house. It wasn't really hers any longer.

Angel spoke to her gently. "Do you want a minute alone?"

"I've been alone enough," she said. Angel's hand felt cold in mine as we walked out.

As I buy some M&Ms from the snack cart, I think about how that first night at Sunnydale really kinda set the stage for everything that came after. That's how we always acted toward each other, the six months she was in Los Angeles. Buffy was in pain. Angel was desperate to reassure me but still take care of her. And I was the one running around trying to make everything okay. Want to go clothes shopping, Buffy? Want me to make you some tea? Basically, I did everything except give her a pedicure to show just how gosh-darned guilty I felt for taking Angel away from her. He was the last person she had left, and he was mine.

I tried really hard to be good. I didn't always make it.

Fred and Connor are hanging out in one of the restaurant cars. Fred gives me a big grin when I walk up, but Connor doesn't pay much attention -- that is, until I hold out the M&Ms. His eyes light up. (Turns out there wasn't any chocolate in the hell dimension. I'm not surprised.) "Thanks, Cordelia," he says, holding out his hand. Technically, he's off; I haven't given him any yet. But I encourage the manners where I can.

"You're welcome," I say. "And the green ones are lucky." Connor frowns down at them as I smile at Fred. Her face still looks a little scary, but she's covered up the worst of it with makeup. "How's it going?"

"So far, so good," Fred said. "I'm worried about Charles."

"We're gonna let him out," I tell her, and she beams. God, that girl still loves him so much. How could he have been so stupid as to throw her away -- and for a skank like Faith? Once you work through Faith's obvious charms, which would have to take a couple of weeks, max, I don't think there's a whole lot left there.

"I'm so relieved," Fred sighs. "I knew you guys wouldn't stay mad at him forever."

"He helped Faith," Connor says. He's glowering at us with a scowl that's so perfectly, 100% Angel that it has the opposite effect than the one he's going for: I have to fight not to smile. "How can you let him go?"

"He's gonna be monitored," I reassure him. It sounds really convincing. Maybe I'll start believing it myself. "He won't be able to do anything violent. Gunn's probably going to do a lot of yelling, but that's it."

"It is not a question of what he will do," Connor says. "It is what he has already done."

"Charles doesn't think Faith did it," Fred says quietly. "When people are in -- when they care about somebody, they don't always see straight."

"That is not an excuse."

God, Connor is such a hard-ass. I exhale, count to five inside my head and then say, "Connor, we have enough crimes to punish here. Seven members of the Brotherhood of Amesace are dead, and they may have been weirdo cult loonies, but they were humans, so their lives matter. And Buffy's dead, and she was the Slayer and -- and her life mattered a lot. Compared to that, Gunn driving the getaway car for his girlfriend is pretty small potatoes."

Connor stares. Fred adds, "'Small potatoes' means 'not important.' Or sometimes it means 'new potatoes,' but not here."

"Then I don't agree," Connor says. "But I'll obey the rule."

He slouches off, all teenage put-upon, to get himself a soda. Fred smiles after him and shakes her head. "He's giving us attitude," she says, "but you got through to him. I can tell."

I didn't see any sign of it, but then again, Fred's sometimes better at reading those kind of clues than I am. "Connor might be right to give us some 'tude," I say. "Gunn might go seriously feral on us, you know?"

"Then we'll just sic you on him," Fred says.

"You're siccing me on people? What, am I Lassie again?" It feels good to laugh.

Fred's laughing with me. "It's true. You are. You're the glue, Cordy."

Glue gets invisible as it dries. All of a sudden, I don't feel much like laughing anymore. "I'm gonna go back to Angel," I tell her. "I want to make sure he's dealing okay."

Fred nods like she understands as I get up and go. I have to resist the urge to ask her to explain it to me.

Angel loves me. He didn't love Buffy anymore, at least not romantically. He let Faith back into our lives, which he shouldn't have done, but still, he couldn't have known that decision would wind up getting Buffy killed. The blame belongs to Faith. Nobody else. And now that we've caught Faith -- now that he can get some justice for Buffy -- he should be okay again. That's how I've told myself it would work for a whole year now.

Yet when I go back into our cabin, Angel's back in bed. Alone in the dark. I don't have to ask what he's thinking.

He looks up at me, his eyes dark, and I can tell that he wants to talk to me. He wants so bad to tell me everything, and I need to hear it -- no matter what it is, I could take it. But I know by now that he won't tell me.

What he does do is lift up the blanket, inviting me back to bed. I'm not at all tired, but I slip off my clothes and climb in beside him. I wrap my arms around Angel's chest, and he nestles his face into the curve of my neck.

I should fight for him. If I felt like I deserved to be happy, I would fight for him. But that feeling's been draining out of me ever since the day I turned down heaven. To think I spent so long being scared that the Powers were going to punish me with some big apocalypse, some big thunder-and-lightning catastrophe. They're more efficient than that. They know how to wear someone down, until she's just a shadow.

I stayed here to be with Angel, and the Powers fixed it so that I can lie in bed with him and we can still be a million miles apart.

"I love you," Angel says, his lips brushing against my neck, and it still has the power to bring tears to my eyes.

"I love you too," I say. The first time we told each other that, it was because I had brought him back to life, back into the light.

Now we tell each other that as we lie alone together, shut off from the world, enclosed in the dark.