Overnight had never been the problem, of course. He knew what they would be doing overnight – fighting for their lives, and for the lives of everyone else. The problem would be overday. Ten to one, or even a hundred to one, the coming morning would find them dead, but there was just that one chance it might not. Sometimes, even if you won, you were so badly hurt that you needed to go away and regroup. Hide. Recover your strength. And that was best-case scenario.

He’d been pretty sure that the Hyperion would be just so much rubble come the next morning, and so he’d set up an escape plan for survivors. A private hire plane. He’d paid up front, and told the pilot that if they weren’t there by sunrise, they wouldn’t be coming.

He had money, which would have come as a surprise to anyone who hadn’t thought about it. For a year, Wolfram and Hart had paid for everything, including his taxes, while he still drew his hefty CEO’s salary. Also, near the end, he’d skimmed a little – or a lot – whenever he could. It helped convince those who needed to know that he had well and truly fallen from the path of grace, but it had only been forethought. Just before close of business on the afternoon of his assassination of the Black Thorn, he’d transferred the lot to a new account held jointly by himself and Buffy, although she didn’t know it, and the bank had instructions to contact her if they didn’t hear from him for a year and a day. He’d got several million dollars socked away. Good getaway money.

In the end, it was only him thanks, no doubt, to the power of Hamilton’s blood. Without that, he’d have been as dead as the others.

The taxi driver hadn’t wanted to pick up the bloodied and stumbling fare, but a fistful of bills had overcome his scruples. Now he was on the plane, wrapped in a blanket, with the window blinds pulled down, wondering why he wasn’t mourning his friends. The first numbness of grief, he thought. He hoped he’d have time to get through the rest of the stages.

He knew his first destination, but where to find shelter after that? Well, it wouldn’t be sewers any more. He found that he’d quite got out of the habit of those. He and Darla had never had more money than they’d found in the pockets of their last kill, but they’d always stayed in the very best hotels, eating the management as well as the help, so they’d never had to worry about paying for those overnight meal breaks. Now, he could afford a room, even if he had no one to share it with.

First, though, he had something to do, if his strength held out that long. He wasn’t entirely sure that it would. He’d used the plane’s first aid kit to bandage the worst of his wounds, but the reddening seat he was in would never be the same again.

When he reached his destination, a taxi from the airport brought him to the Burkle’s front door. It might not have been their daughter who had been torn to pieces the night before, but they didn’t know that. He told them that she’d died saving the world, and it was true enough.

There were tears and hugs, and he’d stood up to go, although he’d no idea where to, now. Fatigue, and pain, and blood loss wrapped him around, and he staggered as he walked to the door, almost fell to his knees. As he straightened, he felt Mrs Burkle’s hand warm on his arm.

“You’re hurt. Let us help you. Stay here for a while.”

(Not too long. They’ll be in danger if I stay too long.)

He smiled gratefully.

“Well, just overnight, then.”

THE END
August 2005

Rating: For anyone
Summary:Overnight isn’t going to be the problem for Angel…
A rosebud fic, written for the Blood Roses Forum’s second birthday. It’s supposed to be 500 words or less, but it’s got a few extra petals – my muse is hard to corral…

Feedback: Pretty please. Send it to Jo
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