Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel.

"Hello?"

"This is Mr. Spencer of Spencer, Faulkner, and Spencer," announced a very proper, dry British voice. "I am calling to speak with Ms. Faith Lehane about the will of the late Rupert Edmund Giles."

"This is her."

The man on the other end of the line sighed at her reprehensible grammar. "Ms. Lehane, as I am sure you are aware, among the properties left to you by Mr. Giles there is an old family farm in Shropshire and half a dozen horses who are stabled there."

"Yeah?"

"While Mr. Giles was out of the country and since his regrettable death, the farm and the horses have been looked after by a Mr. Caruthers. I received a telephone call from Mr. Caruthers yesterday, in the course of which he informed me that he has yet to hear from you. Ms. Lehane, I must impress upon you the importance of communicating with Mr. Caruthers. The farm and the horses are worth a considerable amount, and as your solicitor, I can assist you in selling them, if that is what you wish. However, I strongly advise visiting the property before you make your decision. I know that Mr. Giles was deeply attached to both the farm and the animals."

"Mr. Spencer, that's a lot to think about. Can I call you back?"

"Of course." Mr. Spencer was vaguely surprised, as much as it is possible for a London solicitor of seventy-odd to be surprised. At the reading of the will, Ms. Lehane had not come across as the thinking type. And she had had over two weeks since then to make up her mind about the farm. Spencer, Faulkner, and Spencer made a point of never rushing clients, however. "Take all the time you need."

"Thanks, Mr. Spence. 'Bye."

"Goodbye." Slightly disgruntled, the elderly solicitor hung up the phone. Mr. Spence indeed? What was the world coming to?

Halfway across London, Faith Lehane sank into an armchair in the study of the flat that had once belonged to Rupert Giles. "Damn," said Faith, dropping her face into her hands. Just what she needed. One more stupid bloody thing she couldn't handle.

Given that the majority of Faith's prior knowledge about Britain came from Spike's favorite cusswords and those Harry Potter movies, adapting to London had been much easier than she'd feared. No, London wasn't the reason Faith felt so overwhelmed. It was a lot more personal than that.

Exhaling, the young women got up from her chair. She left the study and walked down the short hallway to the spare bedroom. With only the tiniest flicker of hope, she turned on the light. "Angel?"

No response. Really, you'd think that by now she'd have resigned herself to that. But Faith knew she probably never would. She knelt in front of the figure sitting stone-like on the edge of the twin bed. Reaching one hand up to touch his shoulder, Faith shook it gently. "Hey. Angel. You hungry?"

Faith could never keep the optimism out of her voice, the unspoken prayer that this time – please, God, let it be this time! – that this time things would be different. That Angel would look at her with something other than that blank dead stare. That he might even smile or talk. It had been two weeks. Two weeks since all the magic went out of the world. Two weeks since Faith lost both of the men who meant something to her in the same awful trick of fate. Two weeks of trying to do whatever she could to bring one of them back to her. So far her only success was that she had kept Xander from dusting him.

This time, just like all the others, her prayer went unheeded. Sighing, Faith stood up. After fetching a thermos of pig's blood from the kitchen, she returned to the vampire's side. "Come on, Angel." She held the thermos up to his lips, which were dry and cracking again. Hell. "Open up. Look, it's one of those dorky bendy straws you like so much."

He moved automatically to obey her, lips parting just enough for her to slip the straw between them. Angel drank in quick little sips. His Adam's apple bobbed gently as he swallowed, and his dead eyes never left Faith's face.

"The lawyer guy called," she told him, mostly to have something to fill the silence. "About the horses. Why did G leave me the horses? I don't know jack about horses. I never even had those My Little Pony things as a kid."

Some days Faith felt like she was playing babysitter to an empty shell. Angel obeyed direct commands. He could take showers and get dressed and stay in the flat by himself while she went grocery shopping, but that was about it. Maybe that was why Faith babbled on to him all the time. She talked to him about anything and everything: how weird it still was to be sleeping in Giles' bed; the way the solicitor's voice reminded her of the head Watcher guy who'd arbited her Tento di Cruciamentum; how much she missed Giles; and most of all how much she missed him, Angel, and needed him back. Faith kept babbling, partially in the hope that someday he'd have had enough of it and tell her to be quiet. She was desperate for something, anything, even monosyllables.

Three days after moving into the flat, Faith had begun going through Giles' library in search of something that might help. B had the Vampyr book, but there were several hundred more lying around. Faith read the Watchers' diaries and all of Giles' notes on Angel, a giant mug of tea on the desk at her elbow. Gradually her vocabulary improved until she knew words like 'arbited' and 'monosyllable'. G-d, she was turning into Giles!

Spike had dropped by once with a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He'd taken one look at Angel, said "poor bugger," then smoked and drank with Faith until an hour before dawn. It was nice to have somebody else around, just for the night. But then he'd left.

As a rule, Faith kept emotion to a minimum. She'd only lost it twice – okay, three times – since the funeral. The night they'd moved into the flat, trying to sleep in Giles' room had just felt so wrong. Faith ended up on the couch with a pile of blankets and a huge lump in her throat. A few days after that, she'd found the journal Giles had kept Buffy's senior year of high school. More unwanted emotion. The third time occurred fifteen minutes after the lawyer called. It was finally sinking in that she had no idea what she was doing. Faith had done everything she could think of to save Angel, and nothing was working. So she sat on the floor in Angel's room, leaned her head against his knee, and cried. And then something happened.

He stroked her hair. The touch was so gentle, so fleeting, that Faith feared she had imagined it. She turned her head slowly to look up into his face. While his eyes still held that same lifeless stare, his hand was just inches from where her head had rested moments previous.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Suddenly, the Slayer had a new plan. Angel had mentioned horses once, that first time he visited her in jail. She might not know anything about them, but he did. And maybe she could use that to help him.

Filled with purpose, Faith leapt to her feet. Hurrying to the library, she dug the phone out of the armchair and hit the "call back" button. It rang five times before someone picked up.

"Mr. Spencer?"

"Yes?"

"It's Faith Lehane. I was wondering if you could give me Mr. Caruthers' number. I'd like to go see the farm tomorrow."

Faith couldn't get out to the farm until late the next afternoon. Moving Angel outside in daylight took some thought, but she figured if they left late enough, it would be sunset before they reached the farm. She had spoken to Mr. Caruthers, and early evening actually worked better for him. Hearing his voice had been rough. It was thickly accented, difficult to understand, and nothing like Giles' polished tones, but somehow it reminded her of him.

After wrapping the vampire from head to toe in an old blanket, Faith hustled him outside and into the waiting car. Hey, this was London. Somewhere in this town, homeless chic was in. The Slayer made certain the heavily tinted windows were rolled all the way up but forgot to put on her own seatbelt. Pulling out onto the street, she narrowly avoided two minor collisions before remembering to drive on the left side. With the afternoon traffic, it should take about three hours to reach the farm. And of course Giles would never have paid for a car with a working radio. Sighing, Faith resigned herself to the silence.

Angel's level of consciousness was continually changing. At the moment, all he could feel was the old blanket against his face and arms. The material was rough, prickly, poking him through his shirt. Scratchy, yes, that was the word for it. Scratchy. Good. Now Angel could relax.

Only he didn't. His mind jumped to one of its rare moments of pure lucidity, and all of Angel's memories of the last few weeks resurfaced with a vengeance. The vampire struggled free of the blanket. He felt vaguely relieved that Faith was too focused on her driving to notice.

Life was hell. Hell, he'd killed before, but this time there were no excuses. No "my lack of soul made me do it". No Angelus to blame. No one would believe that Twilight had controlled him, that the dimension that he and Buffy had created had taken over his mind. And to be honest, there were times Angel did not believe it himself. He had killed Giles. There was no forgiveness for that.

Not that Faith wasn't trying. G-d alone knew how messed up she felt – Angel remembered that she and Giles had been getting pretty close. As a matter of fact, Faith had told him exactly how she felt, repeatedly. How sometimes she wished it had been her job to give Buffy the scythe. Then she would be dead, and Giles would still be alive. Buffy would be able to look at Angel again. Everyone could just go back to the way they were before.

Angel had heard none of this. There were days, moments, when Faith spoke to him and he understood it all perfectly. Most of the time, however, he just sat there and let her words wash over him, like a tide sweeping him out to sea. Occasionally he followed the tone. Angel wanted to talk to her, he really did, but he couldn't bring himself to break the silence and speak. Every day he delayed made speech harder. It was just easier not to try.

Having arrived at this conclusion, Angel started slipping away again. Within seconds, he was back to rough and prickly, hunting mindlessly for scratchy. And then he wasn't thinking of anything at all.

Around six o'clock that evening, the little Triumph Spitfire turned off a bumpy country lane onto an even bumpier dirt driveway. The car's passengers bounced up and down as Faith did her best to steer around the bumps and potholes. They pulled up outside a small, one-story farmhouse with pristine whitewashed walls and a red brick chimney. An old barn, its weather-beaten boards painted green, surrounded by a white clapboard fence, sat just behind the house.

Faith blinked several times, trying to take it in. This place was like something out of a storybook. She grabbed Angel's arm and shook it. "Look, Angel, look!"

Her enthusiasm pulled Angel out of the morass of his mind. The vampire lifted his head, squinting against what little light was left, and almost smiled.

A severely beat-up pick-up drove up beside them. Like Giles' Spitfire, the pickup had been nice several decades ago, but now its paint was peeling and the engine sounded like an elderly lion with whooping cough. The engine cut suddenly, and Mr. Caruthers climbed down from the cab. Careful not to let the sunlight touch Angel, Faith jumped out of the Spitfire.

They met halfway between the two old cars and surveyed one another. Faith saw an elderly man, slightly stooped at the shoulders but still tall, his hands worn and arthritic from a lifetime of hard work. Bright blue eyes peered out at her from beneath a scant covering of white hair. A thick plaid shirt and blue denim coveralls provided ample protection against the chill of the evening.

For his part, Ben Caruthers was not suitably impressed. He had a good idea what the missus would have said about this girl (any woman under the age of forty was a girl to Ben). She was trying too hard to look the part in worn jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt. It was the boots that gave her away, really. Farm girls didn't own boots that shiny. Ben glanced at Mr. Giles' reliable Spitfire and noticed the figure in the passenger seat. So she had a boyfriend, did she? Sponging off poor Mr. Giles' money, no doubt.

He shifted his weight slightly, his stance becoming hostile. The girl was probably looking to sell the farm and the animals so she could indulge in more of her riotous living. Though American, her voice had sounded fine over the phone. Funny how people could deceive you.

Faith broke the silence first. "Mr. Caruthers? I'm Faith Lehane. I believe we spoke on the phone earlier?" She extended her hand, aware that the old man was regarding her with suspicion. Please let him take it.

Reluctantly, Ben shook her hand. "You're here to see the horses." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"You don't know anything about them." Another non-question.

"Sorry, no." She smiled weakly.

"Hmph. So what are you planning on doing with them." Mr. Caruthers needed to know. Then he could best decide how to introduce her to the farm.

She might as well tell him. Who knew? Maybe the old man might be able to help. "My older brother was in a bad accident a few weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't talked. Not a word. He used to like horses once. So I thought why not try?"

Unbending just a bit, Ben frowned at her. "If you're looking for one of those places that does horseback riding therapy, I am sure there are several closer to London."

Faith struggled to explain better. "He has problems with people and crowds. And I was kind of hoping that maybe, since these are Giles' horses, that maybe he'd get more attached to them."

Mr. Caruthers marked her use of the present tense and liked her for it in spite of himself. "All right," he said gruffly. "Sun's almost set, so let's go see the animals before it gets any darker. Follow me."

He led her down a footpath to the barn. Pushing the heavy wooden doors open with ease, the old man stepped onto the thickly packed layer of hay, dirt, and straw covering the cement floor. First he showed her to the tack room.

"Used to be a foaling stall," he explained. "Here's where Mr. Giles kept all the tack –that'd be saddles, bridles, halters, and the like – and where we store feed sacks for the winter. The beasts are usually out in pasture all summer, but I had my grandson put 'em in the stalls for you tonight."

"Thank you." Faith was trying to get used to the air. Even with the doors open, in the tack room it felt thick and heavy. It smelled, too. Sweet and stale with a hint of something nasty behind it. Mr. Caruthers would have identified that as manure. The best that city girl Faith could say about it was that it smelled better than blood. "So there are how many horses?"

"Six," he answered wryly, watching her try to take it all in. "Ready to meet them?"

Faith swallowed. Animals had never really been her thing. But this was for Angel. "That's what I'm here for."

He introduced them to her one at a time. First was a silvery gray Andalusian mare named Arabesque. She regarded the humans warily from the furthest reaches of her stall. Next they stopped outside another foaling stall, this one containing Ginger and Lucinda, two shaggy Welsh ponies. Across the aisle from these two was an older black gelding, Napoleon. The gelding actually stuck his nose out to sniff Faith's outstretched hand. In the stall next to Napoleon stood a piebald mare with bright eyes. Her name was Firefly. Last of all was Brutus, a huge Percheron gelding. Faith's eyes went wide at the sight of him.

"Here's my advice to you; take it for what it's worth," said Mr. Caruthers, walking over to a box on the wall and flipping a switch. Light flooded the stable, fending off the encroaching darkness. "If I were you, not used to horses, I'd sell Arabesque and Brutus. Had some people out the other day asking about them. Won't be hard to find a buyer who'll give you a good price."

The young woman nodded. She seriously doubted her ability to handle Brutus. Animals simply shouldn't be that big. "And the others?"

He met her eyes squarely. "Napoleon was Mr. Giles' favorite for years."

"Then he stays."

Somehow, he was actually starting to like this girl. "Firefly is smart, you ken? Can't pull anything over on her. But if you're honest with her, she'll do you good."

How could you be honest with a horse? Hell, Faith had a hard enough time being honest with herself.

Ben went on, "The ponies are silly beasts, but good-hearted. And not too far of a fall for a beginner."

"You think I'll fall? Is that a challenge?"

"Just the truth."

Faith grinned. "Thanks for your help."

"If you and your brother are planning to stay the night, I'd better get a key to the house for you. What'd you say happened to him again?" He led the way back to his ancient pickup.

"Bad accident."

"Don't like talking about it much, eh? The missus's nephew was in a motor accident a few years ago. Tore him up pretty badly. Well, here's the key. I'll be up later tomorrow to feed the horses and to check on you, if you're still here. You have a safe night now, miss."

And with that, Mr. Caruthers shut the door of his truck and backed out of the long driveway.

Whew. Faith exhaled slowly. Part one of her plan was over. Part two, the really difficult part, was about to begin.

The sun had completely set now. She strode to the passenger side door and opened it. Angel was still sitting there, wrapped in the scratchy blanket, staring forward blankly. Right. Well, it was way past time to do something about that.

Thankfully, it didn't take too much physical effort to coax the vampire out of the car. He really needed to stretch his legs. They walked along the footpath, Faith holding on to Angel's hand. Not because she loved him – although she did, deeply, in an utterly non-romantic way – but to make sure he came.

The lights were still on in the barn, a sharp contrast to the gentle twilight outside. Angel followed Faith, still in a half-dreaming state. As he walked through the stable, however, something happened; his eyes met Napoleon's.

The old gelding stared at the old vampire. Then he came forward, extending his neck as far out into the aisle as it would reach. Never breaking eye contact, Angel took a step forward in return. Cautiously, he raised one hand and placed it on the horse's nose. Hardly daring to breathe, Faith waited, wondering.

Since he was a young man, Angel had always known that there was something special about horses. That knowledge had never completely left him, even without his soul. Angelus liked horses well enough. Now . . . now at last he could finally identify what that specialness was. Acceptance. Total acceptance. Angel had never seen this horse before, but looking into the gelding's eyes, he felt accepted, loved, absolved. Napoleon seemed to being saying, I know. I know what you did. And it's all right. It's going to be okay. I'm here now.

The vampire broke away and stumbled towards the tack room, returning moments later with an old saddle in his arms. With jerky, automatic movements, Angel stepped into the stall and saddled the old gelding. Napoleon just stood there complacently. Faith held perfectly still. Angel was finally doing something on his own initiative. There was no way she was going to interrupt this.

The saddle on, Angel returned to the tack room to fetch a bridle. Napoleon wasn't too impressed by the bit, but he put up with it anyway. Throwing the stall door wide open, Angel led Napoleon out into the aisle. The vampire mounted easily. Some things are muscle memory and can never be forgotten.

Once seated, he gathered the reins in his hands. Clucking softly, Angel squeezed the gelding's barrel with his legs. Napoleon took a few hesitant steps. It had been a long while since he had been ridden. Then the gelding gathered speed and trotted out of the stable into the darkness.

Crap. Faith stared after horse and rider. Should she go after them? Before she could come to a conclusion, however, Angel and Napoleon were back.

They rode right up to her, stopping less than a foot away. Napoleon held his head high. He wasn't even breathing hard. And even better, Angel was looking at her – directly at her – with recognition and intelligence and something resembling life in his eyes. He extended his hand to her. "Come."

Faith had never ridden a horse before in her life. Being a city kid, she'd never even thought about riding a horse. Not to mention that the idea of trusting herself and her safety to some big wild animal kinda terrified her. But there was no power on Earth that could have kept her from taking Angel's hand.

His fingers closed around her wrist, and the vampire pulled her up behind him. There was no room on the old saddle, so Faith found herself sitting directly on the gelding's shiny black back. Nervous, Faith wrapped her arms around Angel's stomach and held on tight. She did not trust this horse, not yet, but trusting Angel was a visceral response.

Mumbling something to the horse, Angel touched her arm gently. "Hold on." Then he tapped Napoleon's sides with his heels smartly.

This time, Napoleon exploded into a canter. Hindquarters rising and falling, the gelding raced into the night. Once in the pasture, he ran faster, seemingly oblivious of his heavy burden. Faith couldn't open her eyes. The motion of the horse beneath her was weird, alien. Even as her body accustomed itself to the rhythm, she buried her face in Angel's shoulder. She could only take so much weirdness in one night.

Gradually, the breakneck pace slowed. It felt more like a rocking horse and less like Death on four legs. Faith steeled herself, lifted her head away from Angel, and opened her eyes. They adjusted in no time at all. The night was nearly as dark as the space behind her eyelids. A vast sky full of stars glittered above her. The Slayer stared up in wonder. She didn't think she'd ever seen so many stars. You couldn't really see them in London, or L.A., or Boston, for that matter.

Loping easily, Napoleon finished his circuit around the paddock. He responded to the gentle pressure on his bit and shifted into a trot and then to a walk. Satisfied, Angel let the reins drop onto the saddle's pommel, giving the gelding his head. Napoleon swiveled one ear backwards as his rider spoke.

"Can you teach me how to do that? To ride, I mean?"

Faith's voice broke through Angel's reverie, reminding him that he had spoken, had acted, and couldn't hide in silence anymore. He couldn't just enjoy the peace of having a good horse under him and being physically close to what was probably his only friend in the world. Bright hot anger flashed through him. How dare she? How dare she ruin his moment, his peace, his acceptance by bringing back the past? But then the anger faded as he realized she hadn't asked about the past at all. He should answer her, he really should, but those earlier words had just sprung out. This was going to be harder.

Behind him, Faith's face fell. She had spoken her thoughts impulsively, forgetting for a moment how things had changed. Resigning herself to no answer, the young woman loosened her grip on Angel. She sat back and let her arms fall to her sides. Balance. Don't think. Just balance.

"I can teach you, if you like." The words were halting. Angel stumbled slightly over the phrasing. How odd. Apparently even with centuries of talking, two weeks' cessation did make a difference. "It is not that difficult."

He spoke! Faith forced herself to act normally. Freaking out would just drive him back into his shell. "Thanks. His name's Napoleon, by the way," the young woman said casually with a tentative pat on the gelding's rear.

"Napoleon, eh? Good boy, Napoleon."

The horse's ears twitched backwards at hearing his name. When no command followed, they pricked forwards again as Napoleon continued slowly around the pasture.

"You can pet him, you know," Angel added after another silent interlude.

"Pet him?"

"What, you don't want to? I thought all girls loved ponies." The vampire glanced over his shoulder just long enough to flash her a smile. His teeth gleamed white in the dark.

She couldn't believe they were actually having a conversation. How was this possible? Angel looked and sounded like his old self. The young woman did not understand how he could go from being so traumatized he was catatonic to acting almost normal, just like that, no intermediate stages in between.

"Horses just aren't my thing." Oh, how she wanted to add a "G" to that sentence. Faith remembered having a conversation almost exactly like this with Giles once, driving through Kentucky. "Grew up in Boston, remember?"

"Then I guess you'll have to learn." Angel was clinging to this normalcy with every fiber of his being, and he was incredibly grateful to Faith for letting him do so. "Here." He halted Napoleon and hopped off. "Sit forward."

Nonplussed, Faith scooted up into the saddle. Angel then remounted behind her.

"The lesson begins. Take your hand – palm flat – and just pet him. His neck, his shoulders, you can even scratch his withers if you want."

"With – what?"

"This." Angel reached around her to scratch Napoleon's withers just in front of the saddle.

"Oh. That." Still somewhat apprehensive, the Slayer began to pet the gelding's neck.

The vampire laughed softly in the darkness. "Napoleon, meet Faith. She's very new to this. Faith, meet Napoleon. He can do anything."

Tossing his head, Napoleon flicked an ear towards his riders in token that he'd heard. The old horse snorted, his own version of laughter.

After five minutes of petting, Faith was ready to move on to other things. "So how do I ride?"

Angel chuckled again. "Like this." He picked up the reins. 'You hold the reins here and here." Faith did as directed and placed her hands in front of his. "Good. All right, now squeeze with your legs – gently – and he should go."

Holding in many a ribald comment, Faith squeezed, and Napoleon moved forward at a brisk walk. "I did it! It worked!"

"That it did. Now here's how to steer . . ."

It was nearing dawn by the time Angel and Faith left the stable. They had ridden for a few hours and then pampered Napoleon like his emperor namesake. After Faith introduced Angel to the other animals, they let them out into the pasture. Hours passed in the hayloft as they talked horses and farms and Angel's childhood. Faith figured they were safe as long as she avoided the B-word and the G-word, and she stuck to that.

As the black sky slowly changed to slate grey, the friends meandered back up the path to the car and the farmhouse. Faith paused to collect their two duffle bags and a hefty lunchbox packed to the brim with snacks for her and blood for Angel. Fishing the farmhouse keys out of her pocket, she unlocked the faded blue front door and invited Angel inside.

Luckily, the farmhouse did not scream Giles! quite as loudly as the flat did. Faith was charmed by every inch of it, from the two attic bedrooms to the ancient yet functional refrigerator to the little front parlor with its immaculate furniture. While she explored, she made sure to close all the blinds. Angel had promised at least half an hour until sunrise, but this was one case where Faith would much rather be safe than sorry.

Her inspection complete, Slayer and vampire set up in the somewhat larger bedroom downstairs. Angel perched on the edge of the bed. He did not feel entirely comfortable in this place. Hampered by no such feelings, Faith sprawled out next to him. Determined not to fall asleep, she opened a pack of Jammie Dodgers and snacked away. The young woman had to stay awake. If she didn't, what was to keep Angel's bizarrely miraculous recovery from being nothing more than a dream?

Despite having the best of intentions, Faith passed out halfway through her Jammie Dodgers. Angel pried the package of biscuits out of her hand, then draped the itchy wool blanket from the car over the sleeping girl. He'd put up with it for far too long; now it was her turn. Cookies in hand, the vampire leaned against the wall and watched Faith sleep and thought.

He was aware now, fully aware. He had been ever since his eyes met Napoleon's. One of the things Angel was most aware of was that there was no going back to his mindlessness. While he had enjoyed this night of pretending to be innocent, he knew that it wouldn't last. Faith would wake up in the morning, realize that it hadn't been a dream, and call him out on his b.s. He could no longer pretend it had never happened.

It. It. He had killed Giles. Angel's skin crawled with horror as he remembered his hands on the old man's neck and the awful, terrible, satisfying snap when he had broken it. At least it had been quick. At least it was quick. He repeated that thought like a mantra.

Faith rolled over in her sleep, mumbling in gibberish. "Ya should have been there, G," she said quite clearly before flopping back over onto her stomach.

She was right. Giles should have been there. And it was all Angel's fault that he was not. Facing at last the full extent of his actions, Angel slid down the wall on the floor. The Jammie Dodger tasted like ash in his mouth. Utterly horrified by the destruction his foolishness, his hubris, and ultimately his hands had caused, the vampire wept. Salty tears trailed down his face, dripping off his chin and soaking his shirt. After what he had done, redemption felt impossible. Napoleon had forgiven him, but no one else ever would. No one else ever could.

Desperate, he stared at the mellow wood walls and the cheery patchwork quilt on the bed as if they could assuage his conscience, answer his questions, or absolve him of his guilt. Nothing happened. As the sun slowly peeked over the horizon, as dawn changed to day and still Faith slept, Angel gradually came to realize that all he could do was live with it.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Faith woke to find Angel sitting on the floor staring at her intently.

"What? I don't snore that badly. Wait, don't tell me. I drool." The Slayer's hand flew to her mouth and chin. Finding no drool residue, she let it fall back on the blankets, relieved. Okay, so no drool. Must be something else. Nope, she still had her clothes on – rather more clothes than she usually slept in, too. And there was no burny, stuffy headachy feeling that meant she'd gotten way too drunk last night. Wait . . . last night . . .

Shaking her head to clear it, the Slayer sat up and returned Angel's intense gaze. "Angel, do you want to talk?" she asked gently, perhaps noticing the fading evidence of tears on the vampire's face.

"I don't want to," he replied stiffly, "but, Faith, I think I need to. And . . ." His voice caught slightly. The look in Faith's brown eyes was the same look he had seen in Napoleon's. Suddenly Angel knew that Faith would forgive him. In fact, she already had. And that no matter what he said next, she would stay by him, stand by him, fight for him. It was all there in her eyes, her voice, her face, in everything she had been doing the past few weeks.

Angel had had a certain amount of mortal friends in the last few years. Wes, Gunn, Fred, Cordy, Nina . . . They'd gotten each other in and out of plenty of sticky situations, so the vampire was pretty sure that he knew the definition of 'friend'. And looking up at Faith, seeing the uncharacteristic patience in her eyes, Angel remembered again how far she had been willing to go to save him. He sighed and picked back up the threads of their conversation. "And I wish I didn't have to, but I think I'm ready to."

"Okay." She continued to look at him steadily, waiting for him to begin.

"Faith" – he had to make this clear – "Are you sure you want to talk about this? It's . . . not pretty."

"Of course." It was said without the slightest hesitation. "Partners in redemption, remember?"

Angel smiled wistfully, and somewhere out in the pasture behind the house a horse neighed. "Always."

Fin.

Author's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read this. Reviews and constructive criticism are especially appreciated.