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He wasn't sure what had brought him back to London after all this time. Something had drawn him across the wine-dark sea, guided his steps, hijacked his mind and he was back. Walking the streets of a city he hadn't visited in more than a hundred years. So long since he'd been in Europe, and he had forgotten the timeless quality of the cities. Forgotten how seamlessly new melded with old, although he was a walking, talking example of it, with his eighteenth century heart encased in clothes that were invisible in their modernity.

The obscure cemetery which was his final destination was shrouded in untimely night as the storm clouds rolled in up the Thames. His long leather coat snapped in the wind as he lengthened his stride, intent on his goal. The final graveyard to visit when he had visited too many.

And there. A simple headstone surmounted with a carved angel whose outspread wings had failed to shelter the man who had once lain beneath her.

"William Alexander Rayne." He repeated the name to himself, mentally adding it to the list of the others he had stored in his brain. His eyes traced the worn name for a little longer before he turned away, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.

*

His aimless steps took him through Kensington to the famous statue of J.M Barrie's Peter Pan.

"Second star to the left and straight on 'til morning," he murmured. He thought he detected a certain lonely wistfulness in the lost boy's expression, and his memory helpfully substituted other lost boys. He frowned and forced the memories back with practised ease.

While in the summer the park was still filled with tourists at the relatively early hour of six o'clock, in deepest, darkest November, it was quiet. The few people, joggers, a business man taking a short cut, a young couple with a dog, ignored him and kept their interest firmly in their own lives. He shook his head at the indifference.

Head down against the bitter wind which had whipped up in the trees and came whistling down the paths to tousle his hair, he didn't see the young woman until he knocked into her.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly, stepping back automatically.

"That's okay," she said impatiently and carried on walking.

Something in her voice triggered a memory. He stared after her. The slender build, the grace, the soft fair hair escaping from the hood she'd pulled up over her ears. It couldn't be.

Could it?

He watched her walk away and spoke her name.

She froze. Turned back. Her eyes were shadowed, but he was certain that there was no welcome in the brushed hazel. Her body language screamed 'leave me alone'. But she wasn't moving. Was looking at him.

He said her name again.

"Buffy."

She sighed, and the sound was shockingly loud in the stilled world.

"Angel."

*

They stood there as the wind arched around them having stolen all their lines. Finally, he took a breath.

"I didn't know you were..." alive, he nearly said. Instead, "in London."

She turned her face away and his eyes drank up the gentle curve of her cheek. "Why would I tell you?" She asked, and the distinctive burr of her accent jolted him more than her words. He looked at her. She was being deliberately difficult.

"Why would you," he pondered aloud. "We're not friends. We've never been friends. There's absolutely no reason for you to let me know that you're alive when I've spent the last five years thinking that you were dead. No reason at all." He knew that his anger and grief was beginning to break through. He grimaced at his thoughts. It was all her fault, he thought, the dead shouldn't come back to life.

"Don't start with me," she warned. "I have enough problems right now."

"Like the fact you let everyone think you'd died along with the others," his mind threw up their names and faces, but he ignored them.

"Angel," she started, her body tensing.

"I had to identify the bodies, Buffy," he hissed menacingly, the memory of those horrible days filling his brain. "I had to go down to the Sunnydale morgue and identify their bodies. Or what was left of them."

"Stop it," she begged.

"I had to kill him, did you know that? I had to take a stake to one of my blood because it sent him insane. I organised the funerals and kept Anya from opening her veins. And for the last five years, I've done YOUR job. I've kept the demons from the Hellmouth."

"No!" She screamed, putting her hands over her ears. "You don't know. You don't know," she chanted.

"I don't know?" He was furious now. "I don't know about pain? About torment? Open your eyes Buffy. Look who you're talking to." He grabbed her shoulders and shook her

She opened her eyes and glared at him. "And you look who you're talking to!" She snapped.

He looked.

Closer.

And let his hands fall away from her shoulders.

"Jeezus Christ," he groaned. "Dawn."

"Not quite," she said, sounding more calm. "But nearly."

*

The tiny cafe was busy for early evening, but they managed to find a reasonably secluded table.

"I think it's why I had so many problems," she said softly, wrapping her hands around the coffee he brought to the table. "I mean, I knew it. But not really." She sighed. "I'm not making any sense," she looked up at him. "The monks made Dawn out of Buffy. Out of Buffy's human side. All that was left was the Slayer but that's okay. I mean, it worked. But when, you know. Five years ago. Something happened. I came together again. I'm not just Buffy, not anymore. I'm Dawn as well. I have both their memories and it's," she shrugged, "a little disorientating." She gestured at herself. "This body is Dawn's. Not Buffy's and please don't ask me to explain."

"Oh my god," he breathed and impulsively reached his hand out to cover hers.

"Your hands are warm," she said absently, letting him lace his fingers with hers. She froze. "Your hands are warm," she repeated and her eyes went very wide.

He couldn't quite mask the smile. "Yeah. Well. You know."

"You're human," she said, sounding like she was about to burst into tears.

"More or less," he teased.

She gave no sign of having heard his words. She seemed to be lost in a world of her own.

"So, you're not a vampire anymore. And I'm not the Slayer," there wasn't the fragile golden shell of a barely expressed hope in her voice, just a bland statement of the facts.

"We neither of us are superheroes anymore," he replied.

She almost smiled. "How are you dealing with that?" She asked curiously.

"What? Humanity or normality?"

"Either. Both."

He leaned back in the booth, unconsciously giving her the opportunity to watch him, to see the differences between the vampire and the man. He was broader, he'd been working out to keep muscles trim that he'd never had to think about before. And his hair still retained some lighter streaks from the sun. There was the odd freckle across cheeks flushed from the cold. And the way he moved. Still graceful, but it was the grace of a fighter, not a vampire. A similar grace to the one that Riley had occasionally evidenced, and she kept that comparison tightly within her head.

"I didn't know at the time," he started, answering her question, "but I think the whole humanity thing started before I shanshued."

She was curious, but could see the far away look in his eyes and forbore to push. She could not help wondering what, or who he was seeing.

The room fell out of focus for a moment and he didn't see her, he saw instead Cordelia, eyes bright and laughing and just out of reach.

He shook himself, and she faded into the past. "Normality. Now, that takes some getting used to but I think I'm getting the hang of it. Just a normal, ordinary guy here," he said calmly.

She gave a laugh that sounded like it hurt. "God no Angel. You're like me. You're anything but ordinary."

He was a little hurt by this. "Because I wasn't human for so long, you don't think I can do it successfully now?" He asked.

She took a deep breath, pushing strands of hair which he realised now was dark brown streaked with blond. "No. I just mean. Human or not human. Vampire with a soul or without a soul, you've never been ordinary, Angel. It's not something you could be."

*

They talked for hours, meaningless small talk. They talked about the shocking massacre in India, the latest shower of terror from the IRA, the upcoming election in the United States. They didn't talk about friends dead and lovers lost. They didn't talk about the innocents whose blood stained their hands. She didn't know about Connor and would never mention Cordelia and he knew better than to throw Spike's name in her face.

At last, even the dingy little diner wanted to close up for the night and they finally took the hint from the increasingly hostile waitress. They gathered together their memories and their meagre belongings and found themselves outside in the shockingly cold night.

"So," he said, studying his feet.

"Yeah," she agreed absently.

They looked up at the same time and didn't, quite, smile.

"Where are you staying?" He asked, eventually.

She shrugged, "It's just this motel," she said casually. "Not far away."

He bit his lip. "I could. I could walk you there. You know. If you wanted," because he felt a little silly asking her. She'd always been the one to protect him. In the old days. But she wasn't the slayer anymore. Was just a fragile girl with too old eyes.

A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. "Sure. Why not."

They walked down the dusky streets in a silence which was just this side of uncomfortable.

He wanted to ask her so many questions, wanted to tell her all the news. That Angel Investigations was actually making money and he'd given his seer Zoe away when Lindsey finally made an honest woman of her. That he was godfather to Fred's youngest daughter, that it had been nearly three years since he'd had any news of his son and it was slowly killing him. That he was dating, finally, although he would never really be over the loss of Cordelia.

He wanted to tell her that seeing her was like the first time he saw a sunrise for over two hundred years. That it was better than the first time he kissed her and he didn't think anything could rival that.

But he'd never been good with words, and so he said nothing.

"This is me," she said, her voice shattering the silence.

Angel glanced up, startled. The bright lights of the motel were warm and friendly, but there was a coarseness to the place that made him wince inwardly. He could never see her in a place like this...

But she didn't seem to notice or just didn't care and it was at this point that he realised that the girl he had known, the girl that he had loved so desperately and the woman he had mourned, was dead. In her place, a stranger in a familiar body. It was a little unnerving.

"Right," he said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "I could, you know, come up," he suggested.

She bit her lip. "I don't think that's a good idea," she said gently. "We aren't the people we were ten years ago, Angel," she added softly.

He started. Ten years. It was. More. He knew it was. It had just gone so fast.

"You're right," he said, realising she was. "I could give you a card. You know, if you're ever in LA or you just want to talk or... or something," he added, fumbling through his coat for one of the business cards he'd carried for... so long.

But she just smiled, a little sadly and shook her head. "If I'm in LA, I'll look you up," she told him.

Their eyes met. They both knew she wouldn't.

"This is it then," Angel said quietly, understanding what this was. Closure. Finally. Somehow, for some reason, he and Buffy had been given a chance to say goodbye. Properly.

"Yeah. I think so," she agreed.

He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and wistfully stored up the memories of her face which would have to last him a lifetime.

"Take care," he said thickly.

A bitter sweet smile flickered over her face. "You too."

And when he cupped her face and leaned in, she let him kiss her briefly. Just the subtle brush of mouth on mouth and he could have cried because he felt something break between them in that moment.

"What will you do?" He asked curiously.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure," she said. "But now I can choose."

He gave her a half smile. "I get that," he told her.

She nodded once. "Goodnight Angel," she said softly.

"Goodbye Buffy," he replied.

This time, when she walked away from him, he let her go.

fin

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