The faint buzzing of the phone awakens me from a deep and heavy sleep, and I blink, irritated. My thoughts are garbled and slightly off-kilter. I was dreaming of my Mother, and we were walking down Revello Drive. There were trees with bloody leaves and she held my hand. She was crying, but then… she is always crying in my dreams. Perhaps she mourns me more than I mourn her.

Rubbing my eyes, I reach blindly for the ringing phone, lifting the sleek white receiver off its cradle and placing it against my ear. It's probably Danny, calling from the Hotel- contrite and husky. He hates when we fight.

“'Lo?” I murmur, making sure he knows he woke me up.

“Buffy.”

A familiar voice. Low, and scratchy from weeping. Cold, sharp fear lacerates through my insides and I sit up, the sheets falling around my naked waist in wisps of dark blue. “Natalie?” I speak softly, almost afraid to hear what she has to say. “What is it?”

“What flight was Danny on, honey?”

I stare at the wall in front of me. It blurs for a moment. “I—I think it was 231. Why?”

She sighs with something akin to relief and says, “Oh thank God. Now don't panic… but there's been a plane crash.”

“What?” I cry, my voice breaking as I shiver, the air coming from the open window, sticky and hot. Oppressive. I can't breathe. Plane. Crash. Two of the most horrifying words in the English language when they're placed together. “What airline? Was it Danny's?”

“Infinity. It was Infinity.”

My stomach bottoms out and I murmur, “That's what they said? Nat, are you sure?”

“Yes. But they said Flight 97… and you said he was on 231.”

“9—97? That… that was the one he was supposed to be on. He took… he took a bump from that flight. We argued about it. I wanted him home for the barbecue tomorrow.”

My Mother-in-Law breathes out in a rush. “Has he called?”

“No…” I touch my shaking fingers to my forehead. “He probably doesn't even know. He said he was going to an airport Hotel… but I don't remember the name of it. I don't—“

“Just calm down,” Natalie soothes, with her warm, dry voice that always makes me think of lace and flowers and the smell of my Mom's linen sheets. “He's fine. We know he's fine. He wasn't on that plane.”

“Ok, ok,” I fumble for the remote control, but can't find it. “I'm going to go now… I want to keep the line open, in case that ass has the decency to call me.”

She laughs quietly, as I knew she would. But it trails away into a sob and she murmurs, “What would we do without him?”

A chill trickles down my spine, as if Danny's icy fingers were running down the flesh of my back. “I don't know,” I respond without inflection, and I really don't. “Bye, Natalie.”

“Goodbye, love.”

For a moment I simply stare at the phone clasped in my palm, until the numbers grow larger and larger and the shrill beep on the other end makes me put it down. Grasping the remote control, I press down on the red button, my thumb aching as I switch from channel to channel, until I see swirling ocean and hear the news commentator's slick, assured voice buffeted by wind.

“Infinity Flight 231…”

“We are hearing conflicting reports at this time…”

“The Boeing 747 could carry a maximum of 300 people, it is not known if it was filled to capacity…”

“Divers are searching the waters for any survivors, but it doesn't seem likely in a crash of this magnitude…”

The little bits of information leak into my brain and I bite my lower lip as hard as I can, tasting the slick, salty blood. As salty as that sea. I remember my last harsh words to Danny --- how do you expect me to deal with *all* of our relatives tomorrow, for chrissakes? — and I taste vomit at the back of my throat, the tears stinging my eyes. The numb, emptiness in the region of my heart.

He's going to call.

Of course he's going to call.

I wonder if those people are in heaven.

I remember Heaven.

Clamping down on my fluttering thoughts, I stand on wobbling legs and open the door, avoiding his eyes staring at me from a picture of both of us with Dawn that rests on the dresser. But I know it's there. Just like I know his shirt (the one with the rip in the elbow) is flung across the back of the bed. It's the one he wears when he paints. It's splattered with creams and a bit of sunny yellow. His too-big shoes in the closet. The smell of his cologne – like pancakes with maple syrup—he makes great pancakes. God.

I stumble slightly as I walk down our hallway, which is carpeted with thick grey pile. I chose it. Not tacky, not pretty—just… classy. Danny didn't like it- he wanted this black one that I said would look like we lived in a funeral parlour. In truth, in the beginning, I picked one that was a particularly brilliant shade of purple—which he balked on. So we compromised. He doesn't take my shit. I don't take his.

Isn't that supposed to be the recipe for a perfect relationship?

I wander into the kitchen, which is warm with the night air seeping in from the locked screen door. Why does Los Angeles have to be so fucking hot in the summertime? Wiping my sweaty hair off my forehead, I glance at the phone on the wall, with taped messages beside it, and lick my lips. They're as dry as the dust that rolls in from the Hollywood Hills, orange and thick.

I want to call Willow.

No, I want to call Dawn. What time is it in New York?

I have to keep the line open. Maybe I should have some water.

No.

I'll throw up.

Pacing up and down the tiled floor, I lose myself in the endless motion of my feet.

~~~

“Daniel Walker,” I repeat to the tired and harassed woman on the other end of the line. I can hear the clicking of keys on a computer and sigh, my eyes itchy and the lids streaked with red from the blood pulsing underneath my flesh. “Daniel. Walker. W.A.L.K.E.R. Was he on that plane?”

“One moment, please,” she returns gently, and then answers gratefully, “No, he wasn't, Ma'am. Your husband took a bump from this flight and is flying out on Flight 97- that leaves in approximately 2 hours.”

“Thank you,” I reply, hanging up.

It's 9:00 in the morning. He hasn't called.

Natalie keeps phoning, asking if he's been in contact, and every time I have to say no, I get angrier and angrier with Danny, wondering if he's being spiteful about our fight—but no. No, even he isn't that reckless with my feelings. He may be stubborn, but if he thought I'd be worrying, he'd pick up the goddamn phone and let me know he was alive—

Knocking. At the door.

It's so hot.

Smoothing down the creases in my off-white tank top, which is stained underneath the arms from my sweat, I pad down the hall to the door. It looms in front of me, huge and navy blue ((like his eyes)), and I grasp the knob, turning it.

I stare at the two men on the other side. Both wear dark suits. This is never of the good. I know that look on their faces. I've seen it. On Mom's when she told me Dad had left and they weren't going to work it out. On Angel's when he told me it was over. On the paramedic's when he said he was sorry, but my Mother had died. On Xander's, last year, when he came to my door and said Giles was dead of a heart attack.

It's the “I have bad news” face.

“Are you from the airline?” I ask immediately. Blunt to the last, that's me.

“Yes,” they respond quietly. “Buffy Summers Walker?”

“Yes,” I confirm, trying not to let my voice tremble. I want to die. I want my husband to not be dead.

One of the men nods at me. His eyes are a clear, watery blue. “Mrs. Walker, we have conflicting manifests. One of them—well, it has your husband, Daniel Walker, on Flight 231.”

“I know…” I murmur, trying to gather my thoughts. “He—you see, he took a bump. He's on Flight 97 now. It's—it takes off from Boston—“

“We know, Mrs. Walker,” the other man interrupts. “Perhaps you'd like to come to LAX- the crisis center we have set up there can give you more information.”

The sun is blinding. Tears burn like sharp fire in my throat and I breathe out in a jumbled mess. “All—all right. Just let me get dressed. I'll drive in.”

~~~

LAX is crowded and the cool breezes coming from the air conditioners fan my flushed cheeks as I am led into a meeting area, where dozens of people mill around. Most have tear streaked faces. Some just looked dazed. And some appear dead. Like me. A woman wails as she sits on the floor, clutching a picture of a blonde haired girl. An older man leans with his forehead against the wall, his hands over his ears, as if there is a roar he can't shut out.

A tall, painfully thin woman in a clear-cut black suit comes towards me, taking my hand gently. “Mrs. Walker? Just wait here for a moment.”

Staring blankly at her, I don't respond, my stomach roiling as I watch her go into another room, looking through papers that I know are pictures of who was on the plane. Danny wasn't though. He told me he was taking a fucking bump. For two hundred dollars and an upgrade to first class. Why the hell didn't he call me and tell me he was changing if he was going to? Why didn't he spare me having to come to the airport and find out in some office with people I don't even know?

Completely irrational thoughts.

I press a hand to my belly, trying to stay calm. But oh Danny. Our wedding day. Me in billowing white. The dab of cake on his nose at the party. Dawnie laughing as she snapped our picture afterwards. Me mispronouncing his middle name. Willow and Anya in sweet yellow summer dresses, holding white roses and baby's breath. Giles giving me away, his hand strong and sure.

Our first apartment. Painting over all the cracks and peels. That bed that shook every time we had sex. Danny joked that the neighbors probably thought we were porn stars, with the amount of noise the springs made. The quick slide of his mouth against mine every morning before he leaves for work. When he makes me hot chocolate on cold winter mornings, and tucks hot water bottles under my feet to keep them warm. When he reads out loud to me—and he wears those glasses that make him look like a dork.

Bad times too though. The miscarriage in our first year. When he got fired and we lived on bread and a jar of peanut butter for weeks. Our biggest fight, when I pushed him- *hard* and he pushed me and I cut my hand on a shard of glass as I flailed backwards. He cried as he bandaged me up and I laughed—telling him I'd seen worse.

Danny.

He doesn't even know that I was a Slayer. That, in a sense, I still am- even if I have been relieved of my duties.

Sometimes I forget that, and almost mention it around him. My friends are pretty good at keeping the secret, and they aren't around much anymore. When we get through this, I'm going to tell him. Let him hate me, or love me even more—I just need to wrap my arms around him and show him the darkness that still lies somewhere deep in my bones. Kendra was right—it is who I am—and I suppose I shouldn't hide my past, anymore.

I sit very still in the waiting area, blocking out the cries around me and think of the first time we met. It was nine years ago. A year after Spike. A year after I'd come back from Heaven. Two months after the Armageddon that we'd fought and won and found freedom from.

I noticed him right away. It was at the Bronze—and he was brown haired and had an easy smile and I think sometimes that I loved him from the very first second, but just didn't know it. He was wearing a leather jacket – I remember that—and so was I. He asked me to dance. I said no. He asked again. I told him stalking was illegal in all fifty states. He laughed and I smiled and that was it. Pretty much.

We dated for two years. My hands shake as I remember it.

But we didn't really get serious until after they got married. That was the day that I think something permanently died inside me. Maybe the small piece of my heart that was *still* waiting after all the years? I don't know. My head falls back against the wall as I remember how he asked me to marry him two months later and I said yes—and I knew—I could have love with someone else. That I could love him in the way I *couldn't* love Riley and wouldn't *let* myself love Spike.

That maybe I could finally be happy.

Someone touches my hand. “Yes?” I look up and bite down hard on my already ravaged lower lip. No. She has bad-news face. “Did you find anything?”

She hands me a piece of paper, her eyes welling with barely suppressed tears. This must be a dream. Where's my Mother? Where are the blood-stained leaves that glitter with the wind? Slowly, sickly, my head tilts downward and I force myself to look.

There is that easy smile.

A bit tense because he hates getting his picture taken.

But it's that smile.

Shaking my head, I touch the lips and teeth that are frozen forever young in black and white and feel the screams come.

~~~

1 year later

Tossing strawberries, peaches, ice and orange juice into the blender, I set it to high, clamping down on the lid and watching it whirr. Nothing like a shake in the morning. Willow gave me the recipe on the phone last night. Apparently Tara swears by them—and I can't say I blame her. It looks good.

Pouring the pink liquid into a glass, I open the screen door and step out onto the porch, my bare feet sweaty in the hot July sun. I'm barely dressed in a shrunken white tank top and cut offs, and hopefully the lecher that lives next door isn't how mowing his lawn. Such a shame- his wife is so nice. But he's a pig, no two ways about it.

Sipping the frothy drink, and watching the little kids across the street run through the sprinklers, I barely notice the tall, dark haired man walking up my driveway, past the shiny red Sunfire I bought a few weeks ago, and up to the steps.

I look down, startled and blink against the sun. Who---?

He stares up at me and my mouth opens. I haven't seen him in so long. Not since the wedding.

“Angel?”

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