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And now....read the finale
Part Nine: Farewell Old Friend
The flat had already begun to forget him. Not in any literal sense, not in a way that could be measured or observed directly, but in the subtle, almost imperceptible shift that occurs when a space loses the person who once gave it structure. The books remained exactly where they had been. The furniture held its shape. The light entered through the windows at the same angles it always had. And yet, something essential had withdrawn, leaving behind a stillness that felt newly settled and undeniably final.
“Careful with that,” a voice called from across the room, carrying without urgency but with enough weight to be followed.
A man stood near the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a clipboard tucked beneath one arm as he watched the slow dismantling of a life that had been built almost entirely out of paper and ink. Another worker glanced up briefly, adjusting his grip on a stack of books that looked older than anything else in the room.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “They’re not going anywhere.”
The first man gave a small nod, though his attention never left the objects being handled. “That’s not really the point,” he replied, his tone measured, as if the difference mattered more than the action itself.
The room was lined with books, stacked and shelved in a way that suggested purpose rather than decoration. Some had been handled so often their spines had softened, their pages worn at the edges by years of use. Others remained rigid and untouched, as if waiting for something that had either already happened or never would. There were no photographs and no visible markers of a personal life in the conventional sense. Everything in the flat had functioned as part of a larger system, and even now, that system seemed to persist in the way the space held itself together.
“Still weird,” the younger worker muttered as he crossed the room, lowering the books into an open box. He gestured vaguely around him, at the walls and shelves, at the accumulation of knowledge that had outlived its owner. “All of this just gets packed up and sent somewhere else like it’s nothing.”
“It’s more than nothing,” the older man replied, flipping a page on his clipboard as he scanned a list that felt more procedural than personal. “It just doesn’t stay where it was.”
The younger man frowned slightly, glancing back at the shelves. “Yeah, but who even wants all this?” he asked, the question lingering longer than it should have.
The older man hesitated, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he was choosing how to give it.
“Someone asked for it,” he said finally.
“Family?”
A pause stretched between them.
“Something like that.”
Across the room, a smaller box had been set aside on the desk, separate from the others. It had already been lined, its contents placed with a level of care that suggested it had been identified as significant long before anything else had been touched.
The younger worker noticed it as he passed. “Hey—what’s this one?” he asked, slowing slightly.
The older man stepped closer, glancing down. Inside the box, wrapped carefully in cloth, was a single book. It looked older than the rest, handled differently, as though it had been respected rather than simply used.
“That one’s already assigned,” the older man said.
The younger man leaned in, reading the label fixed to the side of the box. “Sunnydale, California,” he murmured, his brow furrowing slightly. “…Attention: Alexa Harris.”
The name settled into the space between them, unremarked upon but not unnoticed.
“That’s different,” the younger man said.
“Yeah,” the older man replied.
“Who’s Alexa?”
The older man shook his head once. “Doesn’t say.”
The younger worker straightened, glancing around the flat again as if the answer might be hidden somewhere among the stacks. “Everything else is going to the same place?” he asked.
“Most of it,” the older man said. “Some of it’s being archived. Some of it will be donated.” He tapped the edge of the smaller box lightly with his pen. “But that one was specifically requested.”
“By who?”
Another pause, quieter this time.
“Rupert Giles, the man who died,” he said, “He packed that one up before he passed.”
The younger worker, curious about the number of other boxes ready to be sent off, asked curiously, “ Is there someone overseeing the rest of the things in this estate?”
“A woman named Willow.”
The younger man nodded slowly. “His daughter?” he asked.
The older man gave a faint shake of his head. “No,” he said. “Not exactly.”
He looked down again at the book, at the care with which it had been wrapped, and at the name written on the label.
“But from what I was told,” he added quietly, “close enough.”
The younger worker didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for the tape, pulling a strip free and pressing it firmly across the top of the box. The sharp, deliberate sound cut through the quiet more cleanly than anything else in the room.
“So he just…” he started, then stopped, unable to finish the thought.
The older man didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said.
“No big story?”
“No one said.”
The younger worker nodded slowly, though the answer didn’t seem to settle. “Feels like there should be,” he said.
“Maybe there was,” the older man replied.
The box was sealed. The older man checked it once more, then wrote something small and precise along the edge of the label. He didn’t say what.
“Make sure that one goes out first,” he said.
The younger worker lifted it carefully this time, not because he had been told to, but because something about it suggested he should. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
He carried it toward the door, paused briefly as if considering something he couldn’t quite name, then stepped out into the hall.
Behind him, the flat remained ordered and silent, as if it had already accepted what had happened.
And somewhere far from that quiet room, in a town rebuilt on memory and omission, the recipient of the package had no idea what she was about to face.
Part Ten: The Cheerleader and The Avenged
The space between worlds did not feel like heaven.
It felt unfinished.
Light existed there, but not the kind people prayed for. It pulsed in endless currents across a horizon with no sky, threaded through shadows older than memory. It was a place where decisions lingered, where consequences waited, where things left unresolved gathered like dust no universe had bothered to sweep away.
Cordelia Chase stood at the center of it as though she had earned the right.
Because now, she had.
Her presence disturbed the stillness in small but deliberate ways. The glow around her sharpened when she focused, softened when she thought, bending to intention rather than command. She tilted her head, studying the figure slowly forming before her.
At first, it came in fragments. A flicker of yellow hair. The outline of crossed arms. The unmistakable energy of someone already irritated before fully existing.
Then the shape settled.
Anya Jenkins stood there, whole again.
Not radiant. Not transformed. Just Anya.
She blinked once, then twice, staring down at her hands. She flexed her fingers as if expecting sparks, blood, or a warranty pamphlet.
“Well,” she said flatly, “that’s new. Usually, there’s more screaming involved.”
Cordelia watched her for a moment before allowing herself a smile.
“It’s been a while.”
Anya looked up sharply. Recognition crossed her face in a flash.
“…Cordelia?”
A beat passed.
Then Anya squinted. “Wow. Okay. Did not expect this. Last time I saw you, you were significantly less glowing.”
Cordelia folded her arms. “Last time I saw you, you were significantly more vengeful.”
Anya considered that.
“Fair.”
They stood there in the strange light, two women connected by high school, apocalypse trauma, and quirky taste in men. For a moment, the absurdity of it all seemed to hang between them.
Then Anya narrowed her eyes.
“Wait,” she said. “High school.”
Cordelia let out a quiet laugh.
“Sunnydale High. Homecoming dresses. Social warfare. And one very ill-advised wish.”
Anya’s face brightened instantly.
“Oh! Yes. That one.” She pointed into empty air as though replaying the memory. “You wanted revenge for being dumped by you know who. What was his name? Tall, dark, emotionally disappointing—”
“I wasn't dumped by Xander,” Cordelia said dryly with annoyance.
Anya ignored her.
“I turned him into a vampire, he got dusted, chaos happened. Honestly, one of my better pieces of work.”
“You destroyed an entire reality.” Cordelia quipped.
“Details,” Anya stated matter of factly.
The exchange settled into something almost comforting. For a moment, they were not dead women, not supernatural anomalies, not remnants of a world that kept refusing to end. They were simply themselves again.
Cordelia’s expression softened.
“Do you ever think about it?” she asked. “What we set in motion?”
Anya answered immediately.
“No.”
Cordelia blinked.
“That was fast.”
“I had a very long career built on not thinking about consequences,” Anya replied. “It was practically a mission statement.”
Cordelia shook her head, smiling despite herself.
“Still consistent.”
Anya studied her more carefully now.
“You, on the other hand, changed.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow.
“I died.”
Anya nodded slowly.
“Yes. That does tend to shift perspective.”
She paused, then added with genuine curiosity.
“How?”
The glow around Cordelia dimmed slightly.
“Helping someone,” she said after a moment. “No grand speech. No dramatic score swelling in the background. Just… necessary.”
Anya accepted that, then straightened.
“I got filleted.”
Cordelia blinked.
“That tracks.”
“Very sudden,” Anya continued. “One minute I was fighting. The next minute, I was dead. Honestly, rude.”
Cordelia laughed softly.
Another silence followed, this one heavier than the others.
Then Cordelia stepped closer.
“I didn’t bring you back to reminisce.”
Anya’s posture sharpened at once.
“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”
Cordelia studied her before speaking.
“You were a vengeance demon. You granted wishes. You punished betrayal. You corrected what you thought was wrong.”
“I was very good at it.” Anya said with self-centered pride.
“I know.”
Cordelia’s voice remained calm, but gained weight.
“But that’s not what you are anymore.”
Anya frowned.
“…No?”
Cordelia held her gaze.
“You’re something new. Something that has never existed before.”
The air itself seemed to pause.
“You don’t grant vengeance anymore,” Cordelia said. “You grant justice.”
The word landed differently than vengeance ever had. It carried less satisfaction. More burden.
Anya’s face twisted.
“That sounds significantly less fun.”
“It’s also significantly harder.”
Anya sighed as if the universe had personally inconvenienced her.
“Of course it is. Does it come with a cool costume? Tights perhaps?”
The light around them shifted again, responding to some distant pull.
Cordelia’s expression changed.
“I need your help.”
Anya crossed her arms.
“With what?”
Cordelia did not hesitate.
“We have to go back.”
Anya stilled.
“…Back where?”
“Sunnydale.”
The name lingered in the strange open space between them.
Anya’s expression flickered with memory. Hallways. Friends. Losses. Fire. The crater where a town once stood.
“That’s never a good sign,” she said.
“No,” Cordelia replied. “It isn’t.”
Anya tilted her head.
“And you need me because…?”
“Because things are changing again,” Cordelia said. “And this time, it’s not only about what was lost.”
She paused.
“It’s about what’s coming back.”
Anya watched her for a long moment. Then she shrugged.
“Fine.”
Cordelia blinked.
“That was easier than expected.”
“I’ve been dead,” Anya said. “I’m open to new opportunities.”
Cordelia almost smiled.
She turned, and the space around them began to fold inward, forming a path of light through the dark.
Anya took a step, then stopped.
“Wait.”
Cordelia glanced back.
“What?”
Anya narrowed her eyes.
“If we’re going to Sunnydale, why do I feel like you’re leaving something out?”
For the first time since Anya arrived, Cordelia hesitated. Something heavier moved behind her eyes, then vanished. Telling her about Xander now just felt cruel. The time would come.
“There’s one thing we need to do first.”
Anya folded her arms tighter.
“…What thing?”
Cordelia turned fully now, the path ahead brightening.
“Before Sunnydale,” she said, her voice calm and certain, “we make a stop.”
“Where?”
Cordelia didn’t hesitate.
“Los Angeles.”
A beat passed.
Anya stared at her, then slowly understood.
“Ohhhhhh, not the boyfriend I pictured you canoodling with again” she said.
"He wasn't my boyfriend." Cordelia’s expression never changed.
"Well no he was Buffy's, he'll always be Buffy's." Anya was still superior in speaking unfiltered.
However, far below them, in a city of old wounds and unfinished stories, an ancient prophecy was about to be altered.
SURPRISE, it's not over! Read the EXTENDED ENDING: The Girl In Chains
The front doors of the mansion closed behind Lexi, Mason, and Sloane with a long wooden groan that seemed to travel through the entire space. Buffy remained in the foyer for a moment, listening to their footsteps fade down the path. Their voices carried faintly through the night, young and alive and full of confidence that only people who had not yet lost enough could possess.
Tomorrow, Lexi would return for her first real training session.
Buffy was not sure whether she dreaded it or needed it.
She watched until the darkness swallowed them, then turned back to the mansion just as the sound came again.
A sharp metallic rattle from somewhere below.
Then another.
Not the settling of old pipes. Not wind. Not imagination.
Buffy exhaled through her nose. “Needy tonight.”
The mansion halls were lined with moonlight and shadow. Dust floated in the air like ash disturbed by her passing. Every board beneath her boots answered with a creak. This place had once belonged to monsters. Then lovers. Then memories. Now it belonged to her, which somehow felt sadder than all three.
The noise came again, louder now....a deliberate jerk of chains against the stone.
She moved through a narrow corridor hidden behind rotted velvet drapes and pushed open a heavy wooden door.
Cold air rolled out first. Then the faint scent of candle wax and rust.
The chamber beyond was built of old stone, windowless and low-ceilinged. Lantern light flickered against walls marked with Willow’s glowing symbols, each rune pulsing softly in violet. At the center of the room sat Faith, chained to an iron chair bolted to the floor.
Her wrists were locked in place. Ankles secured. One thick chain crossed her waist. Dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she looked almost relaxed considering the circumstances.
Almost.
Faith glanced up and smirked. “Well, if it isn’t Martha Stewart of torture décor.”
Buffy leaned against the doorway. “You’re welcome. I was going for rustic menace.”
Faith tugged once at the chains. “You know, for someone who acts above drama, this is a lot of commitment.”
Buffy stepped closer, her expression calm. “Three teenagers just left here thinking I had a piece of the apocalypse chained in my basement.”
Faith’s grin widened. “Do ya?”
“No,” Buffy said. “But I do have you.”
Faith barked out a laugh.
Buffy circled her slowly, studying her like an opponent and an autopsy at the same time. “Still making noise for attention, I see.”
“Still pretending sarcasm is a personality.” Faith returned the banter.
“Still pretending you’re harmless,” Buffy replied with conviction.
Faith’s eyes narrowed.
Buffy stopped in front of her and tilted her head. “You know what’s weird? I always thought if you came back wrong, it’d be with more leather and less self-pity.”
Faith’s jaw tightened.
Buffy continued, voice almost casual. “Then again, maybe this is the upgraded version. Moody. Pale. Chained up. Kinda pathetic.”
Faith yanked against the restraints hard enough to scrape iron across stone.
“Careful,” Buffy said softly. “Wouldn’t want to chip a fang.”
That did it.
Faith’s face twisted with sudden rage. Her brow ridged. Veins surged beneath pale skin. Her eyes burned gold as her mouth opened in a feral snarl, sharp teeth catching the lantern light. Vampire!
For a second, the room felt smaller.
Buffy’s expression did not change.
“There it is.”
Faith breathed heavily through gritted fangs, then slowly forced the human mask back into place. The ridges receded. The gold dimmed. She leaned back in the chair, trying for casual and missing by miles.
“Happy now?”
“No,” Buffy said. “But validated.”
She folded her arms and let the silence sit between them. Seeing the face always helped. It cut through memory.
Through history. Through the temptation to pretend this was just Faith in one of her destructive moods.
This was Faith.
And something else wearing her bones.
“I found you three nights ago trying not to eat a jogger in Sunnydale Cemetery,” Buffy said. “You were covered in dirt and yelling at a squirrel.”
“He judged me.” Faith spewed.
“You had vampire face.” Buffy remained composed.
“You keep bringing that up.” Faith wasn't enjoying the exchange.
“I’m attached to details.” Buffy knew she had the upper hand here.
Buffy glanced toward the glowing runes around the room. “Willow’s spell is holding. It stripped your urge to feed on humans for now. Temporary being the keyword.”
Faith gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, I noticed. You smell annoying instead of edible.”
Buffy ignored it. “You crossed into Sunnydale, and I felt it immediately. Slayer instinct, vampire radar, trauma response. Pick one.”
Faith stared at the floor.
Buffy’s tone shifted, losing some of the bite. “How did this happen?”
Faith did not answer.
Buffy stepped closer. “Don’t make me guess. Because my first theory is you lost a bar fight with eternity.”
Still nothing.
Buffy crouched slightly so they were eye level. “Faith.”
That landed differently.
Faith looked up, and for the first time since Buffy entered, there was no performance in her face.
“I got sick.”
The room went still.
“What kind of sick?” Buffy asked quietly.
“The kind where doctors stop making eye contact.”
Faith swallowed once before continuing. “Started with exhaustion. Then bruising. Then tests. Then more tests. Then words like aggressive, progressing, and no known cure.”
Buffy straightened slowly.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Faith laughed without humor. “Why, so you could wear a ribbon to support me?”
“You know what I mean.” Buffy started to speak with more compassion.
“Yeah.” Faith looked away. “That’s why I didn’t.”
The lantern crackled.
“It moved fast,” Faith continued. “Slayer healing slowed it some, but not enough. Every week, I got weaker. Couldn’t train. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t climb stairs without seeing stars.” She paused. “I was dying, B. Really dying.”
Buffy’s face hardened, though not at Faith.
“So I went looking for Spike.”Faith glanced up, waiting for the reaction.
“He did this.” Buffy remained stoic.
Faith nodded once. “Took convincing. He said no. Repeatedly. Used several British insults. Then I told him the truth.”
“That you were dying.”
“That I was terrified.”
Buffy turned away for a moment, pacing once across the chamber. When she faced Faith again, the anger had returned.
“So let me understand. You fought your way back from every awful thing you ever did. You earned redemption. You stood with us when the world ended. YOU got to be one of the survivors.”
She pointed sharply at the chains.
“And then you chose to become the thing we kill.”
Faith’s voice rose to meet hers. “I chose not to disappear.”
“You chose wrong.”
“I chose life!”
“You chose undeath!”
“I chose something!”
The words echoed off stone walls.
Faith’s breathing steadied, but her eyes stayed bright with emotion.
“You think I don’t know this is bad?” she asked, quieter now. “You think I don’t wake up every night knowing exactly what I am?”
Buffy said nothing.
“I had redemption,” Faith continued. “I had a second chance. I fought evil with you. I was standing at the end.”
Her voice cracked with bitterness.
“But when death sat across from me and asked if I was ready… I wasn’t.”
Buffy stared at her, torn between fury and understanding.
Faith lowered her eyes.
“Trust me,” she said. “I know what I threw away.”
Buffy stepped forward until only inches separated them.
“No,” she said coldly. “You’re still leaving something out.”
Faith looked up.
Buffy’s eyes narrowed.
“You were never scared enough of dying to do this for no reason.”
A beat.
“I want the rest of the story.”
Faith held Buffy’s stare for a long moment, then gave a tired laugh that carried no humor.
“You always did hate the edited version.”
Buffy remained standing over her, arms folded, waiting.
Faith shifted in the chair, chains scraping softly against stone. The sound seemed louder now that the fight had drained out of her.
“This didn’t happen last week,” she said. “Or last month. Been a few years.”
Buffy’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"A few years?”
Faith nodded once.
“Right after the diagnosis got bad. Right after Spike…” She exhaled. “Did what I asked.”
Buffy took a slow step back, anger mixing now with something closer to disbelief.
“You’ve been like this for years, and no one knew?”
Faith smirked faintly. “Guess I finally got good at boundaries.”
Buffy did not return it.
Faith glanced toward the runes on the floor. “At first, I hid. Stayed off grid. Empty towns, industrial cities, places where nobody looks twice if you only come out at night.” She shrugged. “Turns out the world has plenty of dark corners.”
Her voice remained casual, but the emptiness beneath it showed through.
“I kept telling myself it was temporary, that I’d figure something out. Some loophole, some cure, some mystical coupon code.” She looked back at Buffy. “Nothing came.”
Buffy said nothing.
“I tried keeping in touch with Spike for a while,” Faith continued. “Thought maybe he could be my sponsor. Vampire mentor with a soul adjacent résumé.”
That earned the slightest flicker at the corner of Buffy’s mouth.
“Adjacently,” Buffy said.
Faith almost smiled.
“He meant well. In his own broody, cigarettes-and-regret kind of way. Gave me rules. Locations. Told me how to manage the hunger. How not to become…” She gestured at herself. “Full nightmare.”
“And?”
Faith leaned back against the chair.
“And I got bored.”
The honesty of it landed hard.
“He wanted discipline. Reflection. Long talks about morality. I wanted movement.” She shrugged against the chains.
“You know me.”
“Yes,” Buffy said quietly. “Unfortunately.”
Faith’s eyes darkened.
“So I did what I always do. I adapted. I survived.” She paused. “Alone.”
The last word lingered longer than the others.
Buffy studied her face. For all the swagger, all the barbed humor, there it was again—that thin layer of exhaustion underneath. The cost of years no one had witnessed.
“You could’ve called,” Buffy said.
Faith laughed once.
“And said what? Hey B, guess who’s undead but emotionally available now?”
“You could have tried.”
Faith’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
The room fell silent except for the low crackle of the lantern.
Faith looked toward the ceiling, as if seeing years play across it.
“I fed where I had to. On people who wouldn’t be missed. Predators. Monsters wearing human skin. Guys who thought women alone were easy targets.” She looked back at Buffy. “Call it community service.”
Buffy’s expression hardened.
“That’s not justice.”
“No,” Faith said. “It was survival.”
Buffy took a step closer.
“And after all those years surviving alone… why come here now?”
Faith’s eyes met hers, and for the first time since the conversation began, something like fear moved through them.
“Because something’s happening, B.”
The chains shifted as she leaned forward.
“And whatever crawled out of that lake?”
She swallowed.
“It knows me. It wants me.”
Faith held Buffy’s gaze after the mention of the lake. The bravado she wore like armor had thinned. Something more honest stood beneath it now.
Buffy took a slow breath and straightened.
“A couple of things need to happen,” she said.
Faith gave a weary smirk. “Love when meetings start like that.”
Buffy ignored it. “First, I need to know where things stand with you.”
Faith’s expression tightened.
“There has never been a Slayer turned,” Buffy continued. “Not like this. Not one of us. That changes everything. Rules, instincts, balance… maybe things we don’t even know yet.”
She stepped closer, voice quieter now.
“So I’m asking plain. Are you still on the same side?”
Faith didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the chains around her wrists, then back at Buffy.
“Yes.”
No joke. No edge. Just yes.
Buffy studied her face and seemed to accept the answer, at least for now.
“Good,” she said. “Because your current situation is a problem.”
Faith snorted. “Understatement queen.”
“Willow’s working on it.”
That got Faith’s attention.
“Working on what?”
“A possible soul transformation. Something to anchor what’s left of you and deal with what isn’t.” Buffy folded her arms. “But it’s Willow, not a microwave. It’s not happening overnight.”
Faith’s voice lowered.
“So what then?”
Buffy glanced around the stone chamber.
“I can’t keep you locked up here forever. Reforming vampires isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” She tilted her head slightly. “Killing them has always been more my gig.”
Faith’s jaw flexed.
“You saying I get a head start?”
“I’m saying you have to go away.”
Faith jerked against the chains.
“Go away?” she snapped. “Where?”
A voice answered from the darkness beyond the doorway.
“You’re coming with me.”
Both Slayers turned.
A figure stepped from the shadows at the far side of the chamber. Tall. Still. Familiar in the way old scars were familiar. Angel moved into the lantern light, coat hanging dark around him, expression unreadable.
Faith stared.
For the first time since Buffy had dragged her into the mansion in chains, something in Faith’s face broke open.
Hope.
“Well,” Faith said softly. “That’s annoyingly comforting.”
Angel’s eyes moved over the restraints, the runes, then settled on her.
“You look terrible.”
Faith laughed once. “Missed you too.”
Buffy stepped forward and unlocked the chain across Faith’s waist first.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Faith glanced between them. “So this is a rescue? Because I’m into dramatic entrances.”
“It’s transportation,” Buffy said.
Angel unhooked the wrist restraints while Buffy removed the ankle locks. Faith stood slowly, rubbing circulation back into her hands. Even weakened, there was power in the way she carried herself.
She looked at Angel again, something almost vulnerable flickering there.
“You really came.”
Angel gave a small shrug.
“You’re a mess. It seemed necessary.”
Faith smiled wider than she meant to.
Buffy pointed toward the hall.
“Walk. Slowly. No lunging at anything with a vein.”
Faith started for the door beside Angel. Before stepping out, she glanced back at Buffy.
“You trusting me now?”
“No,” Buffy said. “I’m outsourcing you.”
Faith laughed as Angel guided her into the corridor.
When their footsteps faded, Buffy moved into the adjoining library. A few seconds later, Angel entered alone, shutting the door behind him.
The room was quiet except for the wind brushing against the cracked windows.
Buffy did not turn right away.
“You took your time.”
“You asked me to wait until she talked.”
“She talked. But there's still something she's holding back. I'm going to need you to get it out of her.”
Angel nodded once. It was clear this conversation had begun long before tonight.
Buffy faced him now.
“You have to be the one to save her.”
Angel’s brow lifted slightly.
“Because I’m the expert?”
“Because you understand what she is, what she’s losing, and what she’ll pretend she doesn’t care about.”
Angel accepted that without comment.
Buffy continued.
“If The Assembled is as powerful as I think it is, we’re going to need Faith.”
Angel looked toward the hall where Faith had gone.
“She’ll be dangerous.”
Buffy gave him a joking look, “She always was.”
A faint ghost of a smile passed between them and vanished.
“I’m sending Willow to work closely with you,” Buffy said. “Whatever soul restoration, mystical rewrite, impossible thing she comes up with… you’ll help her do it.”
Angel nodded again.
“Done.”
Buffy’s expression changed.
“But I need a favor.”
Angel’s shoulders tensed slightly.
“That sounded like a trap.”
“You get Willow.”
She held his gaze.
“I need Cordelia. I assume you'll find some cosmic way to contact her?”
The room went still.
Angel looked away first.
After all these years, some silences still carried names.
“Why?” he asked carefully.
Buffy crossed her arms.
“Lexi told me she became the Slayer because Cordelia and the Powers That Be placed the essence of Dawn and the disappeared Potentials into her.”
Angel listened.
“But according to Faith, her turning happened around the same time Lexi awakened.”
She stepped closer.
“I need to know if Lexi truly carries Dawn and the Potentials…”
Her voice lowered.
“Or if she was activated because Faith the human Slayer died, and a new prophecy began.”
Angel’s face hardened with thought.
“If she was called when Faith died, then that changes things.”
“Exactly.”
Buffy’s eyes sharpened.
“Only Cordelia knows what really happened.”
Angel exhaled slowly.
“I’ll try.”
“Oh, you’ll do more than try.”
Another silence passed. Then Angel cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Um… Buffy, when you see Cordelia… maybe you should know…”
Buffy’s mouth curved faintly.
“I know.”
Angel blinked.
“You do?”
“Yup.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
“I’ll deal with that when she gets here.”
Angel stood there for a moment, realizing with dread that a conversation was coming which he wanted no part of.
"And, uh, you don't want to discuss any of that with me? I'm here now."
"Do you want Mansion Fight 2.0?" Buffy said sternly without looking at him.
“Nope,” he muttered.
"Didn't think so." Buffy opened the door and looked back once.
“Get Faith out before sunrise.”
Then she left him alone in the old mansion, with old feelings, new problems, and a war gathering again at the edge of Sunnydale.
Somewhere in the lake, The Assembled stirred.
Somewhere in Los Angeles, old friends would meet again.
And somewhere between what had ended and what might begin again...their new chapter of life was about to start.
