They faced each other across a mausoleum. A souled vampire, searching for a chance at redemption, still holding a demon's bloody scythe. A battered, swaying mortal, who'd just decided to throw his last chance away, still carrying the scroll of life and death.

Lindsey McDonald held Angel off with a long cross set atop a longer pole, circling to stay out of reach. His tie was too tight, his face sweaty, his mind still reeling with the choice he'd just made. Angel advanced on him coolly, calmly, like the Death he'd just killed, all black clothing and blacker eyes.

"Lindsey. Give me the scroll."

He adjusted his grip on the cross, held the scroll more tightly. "That's not gonna happen. It belongs to us." Wolfram & Hart. Us. He'd just decided that, not two minutes ago, and he would stand by it now.

*****

Stubborn, isn't he?

Very. But he saved the children.

And sacrificed how many others, including the girl?

He hasn't sacrificed her yet.

Give him two more seconds.

We don't have to.

*****

"Us." Angel's face was blank now. Like he hadn't expected anything else. "You put your faith in Wolfram & Hart."

"You said I had to make a choice."

"And you did."

"Yeah. I had a crisis, and I want to thank you for your help with that. I'm seeing more clearly now."

*****

Free will. It's his choice, and you heard him. He's made it.

Has he? And what other choices has he been given?

Others have made better choices, with a lot less assistance.

So you'll turn away from this one?

*****

Angel shook his head, so slightly Lindsey almost couldn't see the movement. "You don't see anything. You don't know what faith is."

"I see that what happened here tonight was foretold." Lindsey held up the scroll, taunting, in control. He knew what it said now. "That doesn't bode well for you. I see that you're either the one with the power, or you're powerless!"

"Uh-huh." Angel was unimpressed. And pissed. "You see what I'm going to do to you if you don't give me that scroll?"

This was power. Yes. Angel wanted something Lindsey McDonald had. He held life and death in his hands, and he could do whatever he wanted with it. Whatever he chose.

*****

He's turning away from us. What do you want us to do, chain him to our sides? We can't keep someone who chooses to walk away.

But we can give him more choices to make. More time to make them.

He's had enough chances.

One more. Give him time, and one more.

*****

"You need the Words of Anatole to cure your friend. She's your connection to the Powers That Be." An image of the girl, young and beautiful and all attitude, rose in front of Lindsey's eyes. He banished it instantly, ruthlessly. "And since it's foretold that we sever all your connections... Well..."

There was a fire burning there; that was where the heat was coming from. Something for the ritual, one of the four elements. Superstition and magick... but practical right now. Useful.

*****

Is this about the girl? They've barely...

It's not about the girl. It's about what should be. What can be. I will *not* lose a soul because we're too impatient to prune it back. Give it one more chance to grow.

*****

He lowered the scroll towards the burning brazier.

*****

... And if he makes the wrong choice?

*****

The flames leapt eagerly at the parchment, embracing it.

*****

Then he'll have to live with the results. We won't do anything else. Just... one last chance. Here and now.

*****

Angel's hand tightened on the scythe, lifting it, judging the distance.

*****

... All right. So shall it be.

*****

Lindsey's hand flicked suddenly, and the scroll came out of the fire. In the same motion, he threw it towards Angel. It rolled, tumbling, to stop at Angel's feet.

Angel looked at it, then stared at Lindsey, unblinking, unthinking. The scythe was still clutched in his hand. Lindsey stared back, not sure why the impulse had hit him, why he'd yielded to it. But it was done now.

"We don't need it anymore," he heard himself say snidely. "See if you can find a way to squirm out of fate. But I wouldn't count on it."

It cost him every ounce of courage he had left after this night, but he dropped the cross with a clatter to the floor. Then he straightened his tie, turned his back on Angel, and strode to the door after Lilah and Holland. He could feel Angel's eyes on his back, but didn't stop, didn't turn. Didn't breathe.

There would be explanations to make, and he started rehearsing them. Holland didn't have to know when Lindsey has regained consciousness, after all. And Wolfram & Hart now owed him some major brownie points. Oh yeah, he'd walk away from this with a bonus and another secretary.

The crypt door swung open, and he stepped through into the dark, heavy night, shoving his hair out of his face and making a note to get it styled. But as he lifted his arm, a sudden burning pain ripped through his wrist. He gasped and clutched it to his chest, but it passed as quickly as it had come. Recovering, he walked to the limousine and climbed inside. Where he belonged.

It pulled swiftly away from the curb and he settled back without a word from any of the other occupants. But he could have sworn he heard a voice anyway, echoing.

One last chance...

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Comments to perri@neon-hummingbird.com. Last updated January 15, 2002.