Epilogue

She was probably in shock. Floating on the afterglow of the battle with the First, feeling as if she'd fucked and sucked her way into some kind of supernatural post-coital bliss, throbbing and radiating from the depths of her womanhood, shooting in waves like orgasms to the tips of her fingers and toes.

It was finally over.

They stood there together, what was left of their band of champions, on the edge of the crater that was once Sunnydale. She and her sisters, her friends, her Watcher. Adrenaline still pumping in tsunami-strength overdrive, a deep crimson flush still tingeing each cheek. Gazing, twitching, a steady buzz of shared anticipation vibrating around them like catsuits.

They'd fought hard, fought dirty. And they'd won, on their own terms, with a shared power forged in soulfire. Slayer soulfire.

Buffy looked at the faces surrounding her. She was their leader, and there was only one thing she could to do: grab the cell phone that was, luckily, still lodged in the front pocket of her jeans and make the call to Angel.

"Come on out, Buffy. You're always welcome here, you know that," he said. His voice was overcome with relief. He clearly had worried that they'd make it through to the other end. "And please, stay as long as you need."

So she herded everyone back onto the bus. They dropped Robin and a few of the more injured girls at the hospital in the next town over, then embarked on the two-hour drive that would take them into the heart of Los Angeles. The city of angels. The city of Angel.

Buffy remembered little of the drive, so numb was she with the shock of what had just happened. It wasn't until they arrived in the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel that she became aware of her surroundings again.

She played Mother Hen, feeling for broken bones, wrapping sprains, bandaging wounds. She worked her way from sister to slayer to friend, mending and caressing, hugging and consoling. Methodically clearing the residual debris that irritated bodies and irked minds. She offered what little remained of her heart and her energy, sparing nary a stray speculation on Spike or the Scoobies, Sunnydale or Angel. She didn't dare think about anything having to do with regular life, in all its never-ending, relentlessly complicated, Lifetime-turned-SyFy movie-of-the-week glory.

Feeling utterly drained of life, she finally retreated to the private room Angel had given her. She didn't even have the energy to act surprised when she found him perched at the end of her queen-sized bed, waiting with his hands fisted in his lap and his eyes turned downward to the patterned rug under his Adidas.

She took a few steps into the room and he rose, arms outstretched and eyes full of silent, tender support. A few steps more and she leaned into him, though she kept her own arms tight against her chest, allowing him to draw her weak body into his chilly embrace. They stayed like that for a few minutes, neither moving, only one of them breathing softly, shallowly. As the quiet surrounded her and reality started to set in, an emptiness overtook her, cutting a hole through her middle and dropping her heart and stomach to the floor.

Buffy collapsed, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs. And as the world started to dim, she vaguely felt Angel swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he lay her softly against the quilt and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

When she could finally breathe again, when the world came back into focus, she looked up at him, noting sorrow and anguish in his eyes. Sympathy. For her. And she lost it again, completely.

"G-g-gone, A-A-Angel," she stammered between sobs. "H-heee's g-gone. Th-th-they're gone. H-h-h-he's...h-h-he's...oh, Angel. H-h-h-he's-"

"Sshhhh, Buffy, hussssssshhhh. Hush now, breathe," he crooned. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

He rubbed her back, drawing his hands up and down, up and down, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on the pattern he was tracing into her back. Slowly, she felt the tears quiet, the numbness return. She steadied herself with a few slow inhales, exhales.

In the instant he sensed her weeping cease, Angel drew back, ran his hand over her forehead, then bent and touched his lips to hers.

She'd seen him only days ago. Had kissed him welcome, delighting in his attention and his presence. But now, after months—no, years—of desperate separation, when Angel undoubtedly had expected complete surrender, Buffy's body went rogue. She panicked, her feet scrambling over the bed and to the opposite side of the room, where she pressed the flat of her back tight against the drywall. Her socked feet slipped hysterically against the weave of the Persian rug.

"Buffy…Buffy!" Angel's eyes went wide. He advanced on her, palms out and yielding, moving quickly—too quickly—around the foot board, closing in on her shaking body. "Sweetheart, what-it's...it's okay."

"Angel, no! No! Stop!"

It was too similar. Too much like the bathroom at home. Another time, another night, another vampire.

Her vampire.

Too many memories, too many sensations.

She jerked back, hard. Hit her head and saw stars.

"I'm really sorry, Buffy," Angel lamented, minutes later, once her eyes had finally cleared to find his worried face hovering over hers.

She was flat on her back, on top of the bed. He must have carried her there again.

"I thought you'd want me to...to..." Angel stammered. Then, hanging his head, he said, "Well, I'm-I'm just sorry."

And then he wiped his palms against his thighs—an odd gesture for someone who didn't sweat—and asked if there was anything he could do for her. Buffy only shook her head, climbed out of the bed and walked right by him, evading an invitation back into his cold arms for the privacy of the locked bathroom.

She'd realize much, much later that it would have been easy to simply give in. Hell, it would have been safe to do it. To just lose herself in him. Amidst such desolation, such numbness, the last thing she needed to worry about was Angel...or Angelus...or even a moment with either that was anywhere near pure happiness. Later, she would look back and understand that there was just too much trauma, too much tragedy to allow any happiness to seep through.

But she didn't consider any of that now. Instead, she retreated into herself. Turned on the shower head, climbed into the tub. Stood there, leaning with her forehead against the cold tile wall as the water warmed from cold to hot to scalding, pounding her neck and shoulders, pooling at her ankles.

Angel wasn't the one she wanted. She wanted Spike. But Spike was dead. Spike wasn't coming back.

The first time the realization hit, she was genuinely scared it would kill her. She'd never felt like this before. Not when Mom had died or Tara…not even when she'd been forced to kill her first love in the moments after his soul had been restored.

Pain like she'd never felt before lanced through her body, searing her from front to back with its bolts of barbed lightning, melting her insides and stealing her breath. Maybe she really was dying. Maybe that would be easier. And decided it was, she closed her eyes and yielded completely to it.

It didn't take her, though. When the wave ebbed and she could suddenly breathe again, she lifted her face to the water as if allowing it to wash the last vestiges of death from her skin. Numbness returned for a whole second or two, giving her the chance to take a breath. Then the awareness of Spike's death flashed again across her mind, slamming into her like a wrecking ball and stealing her breath.

And it kept happening, over and over. She'd be overwhelmed with pain, convinced she was dying for a few moments, then the universe would swing back and fill her with life once again.

Before long, she lost the strength to remain upright and slid to the floor of the tub, sitting curled there for what felt like hours, her brain revving, her body numb. Weeping against the tiles, slapping weak fists against the bath water as it rose higher and higher up her hips. Shouting curses to an ignorant universe until the pool surrounding her went cold.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, shivering and breathless but ready for bed, Angel was gone. She stumbled across the dark room, fell into the bed, and immediately yielded to an eclipse of dreamless sleep.