In case you’re really wondering, Angel and Buffy going back in time had to do with averting the apocalypse (as it often did, with Buffy). There was a magical morning star, or something; it was all kind of a blur for Buffy after the magical hatchet thingy. And said magical morning glory was in a Hell dimension (as it often was, with Buffy).
The Hell dimension happened to have an portal entrance in L.A. (as Hell dimensions often did), and it happened that this Hell dimension had been permanently sealed away by Buffy (as they often were).
So retrieving said magical mourning dove, or whatever it was, required time travel (as . . . never happened, actually. This was a first. But then again, it often was, with Buffy). She needed to go back to a time when that Hell dimension was accessible in this reality.
Angel had been following her (as he often . . . you get the picture), and suggested using some former god or other to help them harness time, she didn’t know. Buffy had gotten used to help from beyond, ever since Willow went astral, ever since Spike burned down in a crater and came back, ever since she died.
Anyway, this is not about how and why Angel and Buffy went back in time. It’s not even about Buffy’s magical morning time or whatever, and the apocalypse they averted when they got back.
It’s about a brief period of time when the past, future, and eternity collided and became one.
Buffy’s younger self, who was calling herself Anne these days, was looking at Angel in disbelief.
Buffy remembered how it had felt, believing Angel dead, believing she had killed him.
Which was why she took Angel’s hand, and then her own, younger one, and gave them to each other.
Then their other hands joined, and they were complete.
That Buffy had never been quite whole without Angel, hadn’t felt whole again until she plunged herself in the hole of a hell dimension to save her sister, echoing the thrust of a sword into another hell dimension to condemn her lover. Then, in Heaven, she’d been whole, but dug herself out of a hole two months of summer later and was never quite the same.
She was another person by then, black earth under her nails, the brown earth coloring her hair, hungry death clinging to her bones while she tried to crawl up toward life. It wasn’t Angel she needed back from the dead then; it wasn’t Spike taking on a new kind of life.
Sometimes she had thought, that final year in Sunnydale, what she needed was herself, and the closest she was getting was the First Evil, who could wear her body, be her, be that evil and that death and dark that kept tugging her back towards the ground.
But here she was, and Buffy saw now that for this younger, newer Buffy, she was the First. She was the mirror image, and the one who could take on dead forms.
She did not belong in that circle of life.
Looking away, she said, “Kiss her, already. God, Angel, you’re not feral this time, and you know you’re not going to lose your soul.”
And you haven’t left her yet.
Get it over with already.
Then Angel was kissing Anne.
This is the closest she would ever get, Buffy thought. To getting Angel back.
To getting herself back.
Angel pulled back from Anne’s mouth a fraction.
“God,” Anne was saying, echoing Buffy. “God, I miss you. I’ve missed you.” She was clutching, clinging to Angel like life, as if he was actually alive.
Angel bent his head, tucked it as if in prayer, brow resting on her hair. “I didn’t,” he said softly.
“Wh—what?” Anne pulled back a fraction.
Angel looked at her, barely moving, hand still in her yellow hair. “I can’t miss you,” he said. “You’re right there.”
And he gestured at Buffy.
“Oh, right,” Anne said, at the same time as Buffy.
“Enough with the technicalities. Or tautologies?” Buffy scrunched her nose. “Both, whatever. There’s a lot of duplication going around. I’m not her, by the way.”
Angel’s hand slipped down Anne’s rounder shoulder, down the arm to grasp her hand.
He pulled her, then took Buffy’s hand too, and gave them to each other.
“Kiss her,” Angel said to Anne, duplicating Buffy’s words from earlier.
Buffy’s breath caught.
“Uh.” Anne looked up at Angel, then back to Buffy. “She’s me. You know?”
“She says she’s not,” Angel said. Then, lower, “I think she misses you too.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Buffy said with a smile, then flinched when she realized she sounded like Faith, and that it wasn’t a smile but a sneer.
She wondered if this was how Faith had felt, something she thought was so much older and wiser, so sullied, inside this somehow more innocent body. She would’ve been looking at a jaded exterior she thought she recognized, thought she knew from the mirror, just as Buffy thought she knew her own reflection. But inside was something she could never understand, something pure that still had hope.
Buffy wondered when it was that she felt that younger, pre-redemption Faith was more like her now than her own younger self.
Maybe it was the same with pre-redemption Spike. Maybe she had been drawn to him after she died because he was more like herself, more like that death and hopelessness that wearied her deep in a bloody knot inside. Maybe that was why when he got a soul she could watch him burn, be plunged into his own Hell dimension, without feeling like she herself had been split in two. Maybe that’s how she’d been able to live on without him.
“Well, how exactly am I supposed to think about it?” Anne had her head tilted, looking at her reproachfully. “It’s not like I exactly imagined I’d be facing like a future version of myself, or anything.”
“Or of Angel.” Buffy felt the need to point it out. This wasn’t, after all, Anne’s Angel.
Perhaps hearing the bitterness still lingering in Buffy’s voice, Anne crossed her arms. “Angel doesn’t change.”
“Yes,” Angel said. “I do.”
Anne looked doubtfully from Angel to Buffy. She hesitantly stepped forward and laid her lips on Buffy’s, only for a moment.
And then Buffy was kissing her, a mash of warm, soft mouths. Her teeth closed lightly on Anne’s lower lip, tugging until Anne’s mouth dripped open, and then Buffy’s tongue was sweeping inside.
Anne pulled away.
“It’s alright,” Buffy said. “It’s just me, remember?” It was meant to be a joke, but there was a depth echoing in Buffy’s tone, something pleading.
She wasn’t sure it was just her.
She wasn’t the same.
Anne snorted. “Like I really need reminding. That would be why this is so weird.”
Anne looked over at Angel for help, but unnoticeably, he had backed away. He was watching them from the shadows, his face blank and inscrutable. After a period of Anne looking at him with her hungry gaze, he finally stirred. His own eyes, looking hard and bright, turned from her melting ones. His neck was a pale flag of surrender in the dark.
“It’s better than always fighting yourself,” he said quietly.
Before Anne could respond, Buffy was kissing her again. Her hand was in the Anne’s hair, the other hand drifting down to find Anne’s breast.
“It’s just a little freaky,” Anne said, starting out of the kiss at the touch.
“It’s nothing we haven’t done to ourselves.” Buffy jerked her head over at Angel. “Thinking of him.”
Angel made a noise somewhere in his throat, but didn’t move toward them at all.
“Well, sure,” Anne said. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s a little different than—”
“It’s a lot different than.” Buffy pushed her thumb into Anne’s nipple through her bra and shirt. Her hand skated down, over the ribs and belly, over the navel and between Anne’s legs. “You’re sweeter.”
“Okay,” said the younger, pulling back, “but when did I become Faith?”
When Faith became Buffy. Not the first time, when they’d just switched bodies, but the second time, when what had been switched was infinitely less discernable and infinitely more precious: their hope.
“I mean,” Anne went on, “she’s the only one I know who’d try to seduce herself.”
“That’s because you don’t know me.” Buffy lifted the hem of Anne’s top, the cute, flimsy fabric revealing smooth skin underneath.
“Do too,” Anne said. Buffy was pulling up her shirt farther, hands moving to the soft swell of breasts through her bra. “You—you’re me.”
“You might be me.” Buffy was whispering into Anne’s lips, their warm, wet breath mingling, the same. “I’m just not you.”
Buffy kissed her again, and then Anne was backing up as Buffy pressed forward. She pulled away from Anne’s lips in order to also pull off her shirt, and then was backing her up some more, until Anne was sitting on the dingy bed. Buffy stood above her, kissing her, while Anne tilted her head up and made confused mewing sounds.
“This is wrong,” Anne gasped wetly, as Buffy’s hands went for the back clasp of her bra.
“It isn’t.” Buffy unhooked the clasp and pulled the scrap of fabric away.
Anne’s chest was bare, and Buffy got to her knees.
Her lips closed around one of Anne’s brass colored nipples.
Anne threw her head back, and to the side, frantically scanning the dark parts of the room. Her hand slid into Buffy’s hair, but the word she said as Buffy sucked was, “Angel?”
“Let her,” came Angel’s dark voice from the corner.
Buffy’s hands went to Anne's pants, her button and her zipper, while Buffy’s mouth switched to the other nipple.
Anne’s legs widened obviously involuntarily, because her hands were still unsure in Buffy’s hair, and she looked down for a moment at Buffy, then at Angel, and muttered, “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
But she was not stopping Buffy, either out of the pleasure of sensation or a wealth of pity, Buffy didn’t care.
Angel was silent for a moment, letting the sound of Anne’s zipper, the teeth separating, fill the room.
“Sometimes I wish I’d never met you,” Angel said.
Buffy paused, just about to tug down Anne’s jeans. Then she grit her teeth and began the tugging.
Anne’s face poised on the edge of breaking.
“And I wish you hadn’t been Chosen, either,” Angel went on. “I wish you could have had a normal life, happy, with normal love.”
“And sunshine,” Buffy muttered bitterly. “Up,” she told Anne.
Anne stood and Buffy pulled her jeans off, pushing her back down to remove them from her legs. But Anne was looking at Angel, compliant in confusion and doubt and something like resignation, like she had lost something dear.
“But then we really wouldn’t have met.” Anne’s voice was low, almost accusing. “You really want that?” She looked down at Buffy. “You want this?”
Buffy tried to figure out whether Anne meant what she was doing or just her, and then decided it was both. She supposed it made sense her younger self wouldn’t know why Buffy needed to do this, would feel something like revulsion at the need. It made Buffy herself feel disgusted, too, and more than ever like she wanted to bury her face in the wiry curls of Anne’s cunt and not come up for air. She steeled herself, her resolve, and pushed a warm tongue into Anne’s navel.
Anne’s hands were like steel, too, holding her head, as if uncertain as to whether she wanted to pull her down and in or away forever, not even back into her own future but out of existence completely.
“You want it too,” Angel said. “You want to be normal. You always did.”
“Not without you,” Anne said, appalled that Angel didn’t seem to understand.
But Buffy did. In kissing Anne, touching Anne, she wasn’t going back to a time when she was more normal, more complete. If anything, she was going back to a stranger time, a time when she understood less about herself. Anne was more damaged, more raw, because she needed someone.
And these days, Buffy needed no one, and she wondered how on earth that could be better. How being herself, knowing herself, keeping to herself could be better than the kind of innocence that made you lean on someone.
She just got so tired.
Of standing up.
It felt good to be on her knees before someone.
She tucked two fingers in the strip of fabric between Anne’s legs, and dipped her head down further.
Anne was like butter, yellow with freshness and new.
Buffy was that same golden color, but from the glare of too many days, the barren glitter of too many truths. She wondered why she’d ever thought she’d better know who she was and what she wanted if she was baked. Burning bright until you burned out just made you hard on the outside, brittle. You could break her now and she’d crumble into bits.
Above her, Anne was gasping to the feel of Buffy’s tongue on her cunt. Grasping Anne’s hips, pushing down until the Anne lay back on the bed, her legs over the side wide and spread for Buffy’s head, Buffy pushed deeper. The strong muscle of her tongue pushed between the folds; one of her hands came down to spread the lips of Anne’s cunt wider to move in deeper. Buffy’s nose pressed in Anne’s curls, her mouth below sucking and nipping and hungry.
“Angel,” Anne said again. One hand was in Buffy’s hair and another was stretched in his direction.
Angel came until his legs were touching the bed, and his hand slipped into the Anne’s.
“This—this isn’t normal.”
“Yeah, got that right,” Buffy mumbled sarcastically, into the warm wet. “What did you expect?”
“I mean, it’s not what you said,” Anne persisted, her words still directed at Angel. “This isn’t . . . what I was like before I met you . . . This is what I was like when I had you . . . this isn’t what I would be if you were here . . .”
“It’s just me,” Buffy said. She pulled away, licked her lips. “It’s you she wants,” she told Angel.
“It’s not me.”
“Let’s not go all semantical.” She stood, grabbed Angel’s hand away from the Anne’s. “She’d prefer some form of you, so you . . .” She gestured at the younger now. “You, scoot back on the bed.”
“Don’t,” Angel began.
“You don’t have any idea of how much I needed you, back then,” Buffy said, looking at Anne spread out: wet, trembling, vulnerable. “Look at m—her.” She gestured. “I’m not even—she wasn’t even . . .” Her jaw hardened as she looked around the room. She saw it sitting on the dilapidated nightstand, the plastic tag with the black A-N-N-E shapes. “I couldn’t be me, back then, without you. I wasn’t whole; I couldn’t live; I had to be . . .”
“She’s exaggerating,” Anne said, but it was only a feeble attempt at a joke. Anne was shamed by her nakedness, perhaps, but not nearly enough to hide it.
“You’re fine,” Angel told her. “You’ll be fine. You make it, without me.”
“Of course I do,” Buffy snapped. “I always do. You just never stop to ask whether I wanted to.”
Anne came up on her elbows, looking sexed and disheveled, her yellow hair in disarray around her. “What’s she talking about, Angel?”
“When he gets back from Hell, I’d gotten over him. I’d gone back to being me.” She turned to Angel. “You never did see, not what I really went through. And it’s because of this you could leave when you did, after graduation. Because here, now, this summer, I became someone different. Someone who could live without you.”
“Stop it,” Anne said. “Stop; I don’t want to.”
“Neither did I.” Buffy looked at her, without much pity.
“I’m sorry,” Angel said, looking from one to the other.
Buffy didn’t know whom he was apologizing to. She guessed it didn’t matter. “Fine,” she said. “Just . . . make it better. Not for me, for her.”
She gestured again.
Anne looked at Angel with a mixture of hope and defiance.
Angel looked at both of them.
“Take off your shirt,” Buffy told him.
His eyes locked on Anne, and he obeyed. “Good. Now the rest.”
Angel frowned, still looking at Anne. He sat down beside her on the bed, took of his shoes, then began unbuttoning his pants. He stood to lower them and his boxers, and then was out of them. Then he was back on the bed and kissing Anne.
“That’s right,” Buffy said.
Anne pulled back a fraction. “Is it just because she . . .” Anne gestured vaguely at Buffy. “Because that one says so?”
“No,” Angel said, and kissed her again.
Buffy watched his mouth move over her, watched the tendons in his neck move fluidly beneath the milky skin. She watched Anne melt, spilling open like leaves falling and branches baring in autumn, embracing that cool touch as if she’d been waiting all year long.
Which of course, she had been. Anne hadn’t seen Angel since her seventeenth birthday, in January. Spring that year had come to a choir of dead things Angelus left on her doorstep, not little birdies.
“Touch her,” Buffy said, remembering that need, wishing she could be that person who needed him like this again. She sat down on the bed and pulled his hand from Anne’s hair. “Touch her,” she repeated, and drew Angel’s hand down between Anne’s legs.
“Angel,” Anne breathed. “Angel, oh God.”
“She’s wet,” Buffy said. “She’s so wet.”
“Because you made her.” Angel played with Anne’s folds, fingers slipping and exploring along her cunt, around her clit, inside of her and deeper, until and gasped.
“No.” Buffy shook her head. “No, she made me. Taste.” She pulled Angel to her, so Angel could taste Anne on her, taste herself on her.
Anne propped herself on her elbows again, even as her legs stayed splayed for Angel’s hand. She watched as Angel kissed Buffy. She licked her lips, obviously turned on by it, but a little confused, a little hurt by it. “Please,” she said.
Buffy pulled away to watch Angel slip another finger inside Anne’s pink flesh, so wet her cunt made sucking sounds as Angel stroked her mons with his thumb.
“Please,” Anne said again. “Angel, I need you.”
Angel looked at Buffy.
“She needs you,” Buffy said steadily, and pushed Angel down.
Angel kissed Anne again, moved on top of her, positioning himself.
Buffy realized she’d never seen his ass like this before, at least not as he fucked—made love—whatever. She touched the spot where the skin over his spine split into the cleft of his buttocks, then pressed down. “She wants you to make love to her,” she said.
Angel pushed into her and Anne gave a little cry, gold hands clenching like locket clasps around his shoulders, encasing something precious. “Angel,” she whispered. “God, Angel. I want . . .”
Buffy sat beside them, hand still on Angel’s back, light but firm. “I want you to fuck her,” she said, breath puffing into the hairs near the back of Angel’s ear.
“Buffy,” Angel said, “Buffy,” but he was talking to Anne. His hands cupped her face, strong and capable, so he could look into her eyes.
“Kiss her on the neck,” Buffy said, while Angel kissed her on the mouth instead. “Don’t you know she likes that? Don’t you know I used to want that? Used to need that?”
“God,” Anne said. “God, Angel, do it.” Her hands moved up to bury in Angel’s hair, bury in the brown color of earth, and Buffy remembered Riley for some reason.
Riley being sucked to the edge of death, because he’d wanted to feel needed.
It had seemed so wrong at the time, but seeing her younger self, seeing the self that had needed Angel so, she thought she understood Riley better, now.
But Angel only said, “Buffy,” again, and kissed her mouth.
“You want him like that too,” Buffy said, sneering at Anne. Anne wanted him at her throat, wanted him licking her, biting her, inside of her and a part of her. “You wished he would, sometimes, even when he didn’t have a soul. I know; I know you; I know you could never tell him.”
“You never needed to tell me,” Angel told Anne.
“He knows,” Buffy said. “He knows how much you need him.”
And yet he left her anyway.
“Tell me,” Buffy said instead. “Tell me what she’s like.”
Anne arched her back and Angel made a sound, something desperate. “Beautiful,” Angel grunted, a distorted sound between the smooth movement of his body inside and out of Anne’s, thrusting into her fluidly while his voice came in guttered gasped. “You’re beautiful.”
“No,” Anne said. “Tell her how it feels.”
How you never want to leave me, she didn’t say, but Buffy heard.
“Warm,” Angel said, voice still awkward. “God, you’re so hot—wet—Buffy—”
“Oh, that’s it, tell her how you like her cunt.” There was something bitter in Buffy’s tone. She put her hand on Angel’s ass, then slipped her fingers in the cleft, searching for the hole.
Something Spike had liked, from time to time.
“God,” Angel muttered. “Oh, God.”
He gave a sudden, hard thrust and Anne came, her voice choked and desperate and hungry and just so very happy. It was a sound of joy.
Angel kissed her as she came back down, all over her face, her nose, her cheeks, her drooping eye lids, never on her neck.
Buffy took her fingers from Angel’s ask and looked away.
“You didn’t . . .” Anne began, when she could finally catch her breath and look at Angel.
Angel mutely shook his head.
“Let me.” Anne laboriously got up, trying to solidify her liquid muscles, reaching for Angel’s wet and still hard cock.
She licked her lips, and Angel shook his head. “No. Don’t.”
“But I want to,” Anne said.
“Don’t look at me,” Buffy told Angel, disgruntled by his stare.
“He wants you.” Anne’s tone was a slow, deflating realization, even as she uncurled her hand from around Angel’s cock. “It’s you he wants,” she said again.
Buffy got up. She was still fully clothed, the one that didn’t belong in the nakedness on the bed, the openness, the honesty. She crossed her arms and held herself. “No,” she said.
“Buffy,” Angel said slowly, and Buffy could tell he was talking to her now and not Anne, because it was a completely different tone. There wasn’t that worship there, any more, that feeling that she was special somehow, holy almost, with her halo of yellow hair. It was just her name, just her, just all that she was. “Buffy.”
“He’s not mine any more,” Anne said.
“I hate to break it to you.” Buffy turned around to look at Anne, still glowing in a post-orgasmic haze. She kept her gaze away from Angel. “But he’s not mine either. He’s not anyone’s, these days.”
Anne looked stricken, head turning from one to the other, but Angel said, “Neither are you. You don’t need me any more, Buffy. And I don’t need you.”
“Right.” Buffy uncrossed her arms, pushed her hair back, and became the Slayer. Someone who could look at Angel, naked and erect and hungry for her, and only see an ally. “So, now we’ve got the do-hickey and passed our human relations quizzes—” She glanced briefly at Anne—“we can go back to the future. Like Marty McFly. And—”
“We don’t need each other,” Angel went on. “Which makes me want you even more.”
“No,” Buffy said again.
“Yes,” Anne said suddenly, and sat up. She pulled her knees to her chest, hiding her breasts and sex, but did not appear to be embarrassed any longer. She looked at Buffy. “Look, I don’t know what you remember, but a broken heart isn’t all buckets of roses.”
Buffy quelled the sudden, wild need to tell her to shut up, she knew better than her, she was older. Just like she would have told Dawn.
“I wish I didn’t need you,” Anne went on steadily, looking at Angel. “I wish I hadn’t needed you so goddamn much. Then I could have loved you more, loved you better. And if you hadn’t needed me like you did . . .” Her voice was slow, as if with realization. “You wouldn’t have lost your soul.”
Angel bowed his head.
“It’s not what you think it is,” Buffy said harshly to Anne. “You think you’ll grow up, get all baked. Then you can know yourself, you can decide, right? But it’s not true. Just . . . things are more fucked up than ever, and you can’t—”
“Go to her,” Anne ordered, sounding a lot more like how she sounded now than how Buffy thought she had sounded when she was younger. She’d forgotten how many things she knew and knew how to do, so long ago.
Angel came to her, and Buffy looked up at him.
“Kiss her,” Anne ordered, just as Buffy had ordered him earlier.
Angel did and Buffy felt herself unwinding. She pushed him back, hard, until he hit the bed and had to sit from the force of her hands.
Buffy was kissing him back though, now, and Anne was scrambling up on the bed, making room for them, for Angel as he laid himself out for her and for Buffy on top of him.
At last Buffy tore her lips away. “I don’t need you,” she hissed in Angel’s mouth.
“I don’t want you to,” Angel told her.
“I—well, good then. That’s good.” Buffy cast about for a moment. Her eyes settled on the sheet.
She got off the bed and tugged at the sheet.
Anne got off the bed too, as if she knew what Buffy wanted sheet for, which made Buffy wonder how different she really was. She liked to blame these thing on death and Spike and Slayerhood. But for the first time she wondered whether the power of the Slayer had been drawn to the darkness already inside of her, instead of her Slayerness putting that darkness inside of her.
Buffy didn’t want to think about that. She shook her head and shook the sheet out, then twisted it into a long rope. She pulled Angel’s arms up, tying his hands with the sheet to the bars of the standard motel bed headboard.
“You could free yourself, if you needed to,” she told him.
“I don’t want to,” Angel said again.
“Alright, I . . . Okay.” She kissed him again.
Anne said, “You should take your clothes off. Shouldn’t you?”
Buffy pulled back, but was reluctant to pull up her shirt.
She didn’t look like she once had. Death knew her now; she had slept with it. Sometimes she swore she could see its hallows around her eyes, between her ribs. And there were scars, too many of them for the Slayer healing to wash away, too many to tan with days in the sun.
She never had ashamed of her body; there had been too many days in the sun for that, also. She understood the truth, and faced herself with that brightness-soaked confidence.
The thing was she had never faced her younger self. It wasn’t self-consciousness; it was just different. And it seemed so strange, to not be the same, to bear all the proof of their difference so outwardly, instead of hidden, private, hers.
She stripped down mostly just so she didn’t have to think about it any more.
“I don’t need you either,” Angel said, looking at her, his hands pulled up on either side of his head. “But Christ, how I want you.”
Buffy got back on the bed, kneeling over him.
When she lowered herself onto him, he was watching her with different eyes completely than those he’d used to look at Anne. These weren’t gentle and prayerful and love-filled. They were hot and black and filled with lust.
“Now,” Buffy said, “we fuck.”
She pushed herself down on him, hard.
In one respect, Anne had been right: Angel’s body didn’t change. Just the way she fit around him, just the way she rode him, just all the ways she could love him.
She lifted herself up and back down on Angel’s cock, finding a rhythm, relearning the feel of him. It had only been once before that she had been with him in this way, and yet it felt like a thousand times, because it was a part of her.
He would always be a part of her, she realized with a sudden stab of something, as she adjusted herself so she could feel him inside her at another angle, so he could help her too.
He would always be a part of her—and so would she.
“K-kiss him,” Buffy got out somehow, even between her breathlessness, her powerful thrusts down on Angel. “I want us to . . .”
And Anne, maybe understanding what Buffy wanted them to do, maybe not, leaned her head in and did kiss him, and what Buffy could see of it was mostly that gold hair sweeping Angel’s chest, and Angel’s arms hanging white and arched above her like wings.
They weren’t the same, Buffy realized, she and Anne, but that didn’t make them not one.
Same went for her and Angel, too.
“God,” Buffy said. “I—I never noticed how . . . I have a really fine ass.”
She leaned down, and as Anne was still at his mouth, she lipped his neck, found the spot, and began to suck.
Angel made a muffled sound, deep down Anne’s throat, and came.
And it was that moment, that one moment, she felt like she was touching a time before she died, touching Anne and loving Angel, and some part of her was whole again.
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Summary: Buffy and Angel go back in time. Mostly porny.