He'd been alive for over three hundred years in one form or another, but it had taken two hundred and forty years until he'd had his first real kiss. It wasn't like he'd been innocent, or that he hadn't kissed girls. He'd kissed women, girls, whores. He'd spent the better part of his first twenty odd years on the planet in the arms of women paid to spread their legs to anyone with money enough in their wallets. The next one hundred and fifty years were stained with blood, punctuated by the screams of his victims. Two hundred and thirty-nine found him cowering in an alleyway, trying to forget the previous two hundred and thirty-eight. Trying to repent, but unable to figure out a way to account for more than a century's worth of the worst sins imaginable. At two hundred and forty, he kissed her.

He'd passed the three hundred mark years back, surrounded by family and with his wife by his side. And this night signified another milestone. Family and friends had gathered to celebrate his fortieth wedding anniversary. Forty years and they didn't even comprise a third of his life.

Standing on his back porch, he watched his friends and family mingle in the backyard. So this, in the end, after three hundred years, was his biography. The story of his life edited down to one backyard. Four children living, one dead, eight grandchildren, and one great grandchild on the way.

"There you are," Buffy said as she joined her husband on the patio. At seventy-two, Buffy had aged gracefully, her skin still smooth and with minimal lines. Her hair, now a silvery gray, was sculpted on a bob-styled haircut that framed her face. "I thought we agreed no brooding tonight."

"You agreed, not me. I'd never bargain that away." Angel smiled down at her. The years had been kind to him too. The lines around his eyes were a testament to the fact that he'd spent more of his life as a human smiling than the brooding Buffy still kidded him about.

"I distinctly remember you agreeing with me."

"You're old. You don't know what you remember," he teased. Buffy slapped him lightly on the shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. She turned her attention to the yard as she surveyed her guests.

"Jeez, we are old. Would you look at these people?" She swept her other arm to encompass the backyard and it's contents. "It's like an AARP convention."

Angel laughed at his wife's comment. "We're going to be great grandparents soon."

"Six months. Let's not rush it. It's just going to make us older." Buffy shuddered. She tilted her head back to study her husband. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day when you had gray hair," she said, lifting her hand to brush it off his forehead.

Angel squeezed her shoulders. "I could say the same for you. The hairdresser's bills are so much cheaper now."

"What romantic fools we are," Buffy sighed dreamily.

"We're too old. That and it takes too much energy."

"God, it really does," she sighed again, this time in agreement. She watched their daughters as they converged in the yard. Two brunette and two blonde heads shined in the light from the lanterns. She nodded to the quartet. "We done good."

"We did," he agreed. The women all had happy families and successful careers. Chloe, a former ballerina, had retired to Sunnydale and opened a dance studio. Cinda had inherited Giles' half of the Magic Box, took over its management completely when Anya retired. Gilly, always the family ham, was a successful actress, something Cordelia claimed Gilly inherited from her. And, at thirty eight, the baby of the group, Amanda was a pediatrician.

Glancing up from her conversation with her sisters, Chloe spied her parents on the porch. She excused herself from the conversation and made her way up the path to her parents. She grabbed their hands. "You two are not being joiners," she admonished.

"It's your father's fault. He was brooding."

"Figures." Chloe rolled her eyes. "Come on, you need to mingle. It's almost 8:30. It's almost your bedtime."

"Funny kid."

"I thought so."

"So does this mean I'm done brooding?"

"Yes," Buffy and their daughters said in unison. Angel shrugged, sighed as Chloe pulled him into the party, and abridged the mental inventory of his life. Forty years, four children living, one dead but still missed, eight grandchildren, one great grandchild on the way. So, this was his life. His biography.