I own nothing of this. That wonderful man Joss Whedon owns it all...at least I think so.

First time writing slash. So sorry.

As soon as the last sliver of sunlight dipped below the horizon, Angel opened his eyes. He studied the ceiling, slowly coming to awareness, fighting it every step of the way. He had no reason to get out of bed. All that was there was an empty hotel. No noise no smells, no people…no friends. They were all gone. Every one. Even Spike.

Angel choked back a sob. 'Oh, god.' Tears swirled in his eyes at the thought of his favorite Childe being nothing more than dust in the wind. The final advance against the Senior Partners' army was met with as much enthusiasm as a boot crushing a bug. They had no hope of winning and both sides knew it. One by one, they were picked off. At the sight of the bane of his existence disintegrating at the swing of an axe, Angel gave up. He fell to his knees, dropped his sword and waited for death.

He could feel the army closing in on him from all sides and he prayed to whatever god would listen to a former sadist turned force-for-good turned failure, to let his death be quick.

A faint smile crossed his lips.

At least he wouldn't spend the next 300 years in hell again.

That made him think of the letters he sent the day before. He said good-bye to Buffy, regretting that they couldn't make it work. Besides the obviously reasons, he realized that he wasn't in love with her so much as the hope she represented. If a slayer saw him as a man and not a beast, then perhaps redemption would be his one day.

There were letters for them all: Buffy, Willow, Dawn, Giles and Faith. He said his good-byes to them all…even Xander. Although, letter might be too much to call the one sentence he wrote to the Scooby. The shortest of all the missives and probably the one he meant the most.

Xander,

Thank you for the lie.

-Angel

Simple, short, and guaranteed to fuck with Xander's head, no matter how sincere. He'd pay to see Xander's face when he realized that Angel knew about his little lie to Buffy that got him sent to hell after Angelus' attempt to end the world. The look of righteous indignation that would cross his face as he figured out that Angel got the last word in would be worth all of Angel's possessions.

With that thought, on his knees, in a dirty alley, surrounded by legion of warriors who were poised to kill him, Angel let a rare smile light up his face.

He would die a happy man.

It's very unclear what happened next. He woke u in the lobby of the Hyperion hotel, still covered in blood and ichor with his discarded sword at his side. It took him a few days to gather some useful information. The battle happened. All of his team were dead. He was no longer affiliated with Wolfram & Hart and the day he woke up, it was almost a full week after the alley battle. The blood in the fridge hadn't even gone bad yet.

He lost everyone but the world kept moving. Angel just stopped. He stops leaving the hotel for any reason. He only ate when he happened to pass the kitchen on one of his aimless walks through the hotel. He began to resemble the undead of monster movie fame. He ignored everything outside his hotel.

He doesn't look for Connor. He doesn't want to interrupt his life if he lives, and he doesn't want to deal with more loss if he isn't.

During these weeks of self-imposed exile, Angel get real acquainted with his bedroom ceiling. He knows where every mark, scuff, paint chip, and stain is. He stares at it for so long, when he closes his eyes, he can see it behind his eyelids.

So as he woke to a semi-conscious state at the start of this particular day, he realized that the ceiling above him is definitely Not the ceiling of his suite.

Angel quickly shuffles through his memory for something to identify where the hell he was. He doesn't move during the few seconds it takes him so as not to claim his captors. He does a quick head-to-toe check of his body to figure out what was done to him so he could be moved. Because he definitely have been moved. That was not his ceiling…

Except it was.

It was an old ceiling. It was familiar. The last time he had seen it was back when he was living in…

Sunnydale.

Sunnydale, that was nothing more than a crater for over a year.

With a somewhat renewed sense of vigor, Angel rolled out of bed. He grabbed the axe he knew was stored under the bed for just such occasions and strolled to the door.

Time to meet his hosts.