Apocalypse: Sunnydale
by Ducks

Part One

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event, to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of Hell

- Emily Dickenson

American West Coast, 2015

'This is exactly like the Civil War...' Angel thought as he hauled himself out of the sewer entry.  It was barely two minutes after sunset, and already the creatures of the night seemed to be everywhere.

But not as plentiful as the soldiers... skeletons of men and other creatures, haunted husks and shells of beings sucked dry by 15 years of brutal war, who staggered along the highway all around him.

He was exhausted, and famished.  He'd been walking for two weeks straight to get here, from the Golden Might Correctional Facility in Northern Washington; a prison for soldiers of the Resistance -- for demons on the wrong side of the war.  Or the right, depending on how you looked at it.  Rumor had it that they were one of the last prisons to be liberated, long after the fighting had ceased.

In the South at the end of the American Civil War, the scene had been much like this, he remembered... men rushing home as fast as their broken bodies and spirits would allow, like a long stream of the walking dead, only to find that home simply wasn't there anymore.  All that remained there were burnt out hollows where fine houses stood, and gravestones to take the place of the beloved who once lived in them.

If Angel hadn't been so certain of his direction and his destination, he never would have recognized this wasteland as Sunnydale at all.  It was hard to even remember the landmarks that once lined Main Street...   He and Buffy had walked its length, hand in hand, a million times...

Of course, there was nothing left of the streets here, now.  Only rubble and ruins to tell that it had once been a thriving community.

But even with the landscape scraped clean of landmark by fire and bombs, he knew exactly how to get where he was going.  It was only the thought of this day that had kept him alive all these years... through the horror of the war, and through the worse nightmare of the years after.  Through all of the pain, both physical and otherwise, that he had suffered, the knowledge that he would one day be back here again kept him going... kept him rising each dark and moonless day underground.

Ravello Drive looked much like the rest of the West Coast.  The quaint, tree-lined streets were now no more than dirt and rubble-strewn paths, worn flat by tanks and hovercraft, millions of feet, and fiery magick.  He came down the last block, and his unnecessary breath caught in his throat with a choking hitch.

Buffy's house was gone, too.  And nothing, not even the ageless oak tree that was once his ladder to her window, was left to mark where it had been.  He stood on the edge of the road and gaped at the yawning emptiness of the lot.

Gone.  Just like everything, and everyone, else.  Was she gone too?

Angel felt the first real wave of hopelessness wash over him in a crippling wave.  Gone... he hadn't realized how much he had been expecting her to be here, waiting for him, when he returned... how much of himself he had invested in the hope that he might one day see her again...

He collapsed on to a heap of sandbags piled behind him, and wept for the first time in 15 years.

"Are you alright, son?" he heard a soft voice ask from beside him suddenly.  A frail hand touched his shoulder.

Angel knew he should move, or run, or something... but all he could do was hide his face in his hands as he sobbed.

The sandbags beside him creaked a little as the stranger sat down.

"Are you a soldier, dear?" she asked gently.

Angel nodded, wiping at his face with his tattered sleeve.

"Oh, my..." the voice said, "Was this your home?"

Angel looked up, and conjured a crystal clear image of the little bungalow, and its precious inhabitants, in his mind.

He nodded again.

"I'm sorry, son..." she murmured.

Angel looked up at his companion at last.  She was a handsome old woman, who probably would have made a perfect stereotypical grandmother in one of those old-fashioned lemonade commercials, were it not for her khaki battle gear and black flack jacket.  

He stared at her.  

"Have you only just now come home from the front?" she asked.

Angel blinked.  It had been so long since he had made polite conversation with someone, he wasn't sure he remembered how anymore.  Back before the war, he knew some might have thought of him as socially adequate, maybe even occasionally charming... but not anymore.

"I've been in prison for nine years." He said flatly, and turned away from her to stare straight forward once again.

The woman seemed unsurprised by his answer.  She regarded Angel carefully for a moment.  There was something odd about the boy... something that made her sixth sense tingle... something that couldn't be explained away by Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  She dismissed it.  It mattered little... he seemed to have given up everything for the right side, at least...

//Such a young man...Must have been no more than a child when he left here, poor thing...//

She rose and reached out a aged hand to him.  "I'm Carol.  Carol Blue." She said.

Angel looked up into her steely gray eyes, and then down at her outstretched hand.

"Angel." he said, and shook it.

Carol smiled warmly at him.  His hands were frigid, as though he had been ill for a long time.  She felt yet another pang of sympathy for him.

"You must be starved." She said, "And you're freezing.  Why don't you let me take you to the Centre.  You can get a meal there... medical care... a wash... perhaps even a bed, if you're lucky."

Angel looked back to where Buffy's house once stood for a moment.  Then he got up and followed Carol Blue up the street without another word.

He didn't know what he had expected the Centre to be, but it certainly wasn't this.  Carol had led him down into the sewers nearest the Docks, which he immediately recognized.  The path suddenly veered to the left, through what looked like a blast hole in the sewer wall, and led into a network of tunnels he was certain he'd never seen before, and he had spent many hours scouring the hundreds of miles of sewer beneath Sunnydale's streets... Each hallway within was brightly lit from a source he couldn't readily identify, but which even his prison-dulled senses told him might be magick.

Carol obviously knew her way through these paths.  She led him resolutely by the hand for miles, never so much as stopping for a moment to catch her breath.  Physically, she might be three times his age, but she was clearly in far better shape.

It seemed a long, exhausting while, but soon, Angel began to pick up sensory signals that surprised him.  The salt of the ocean... the musk of thriving plant life... and the calm hum and sweet, living smell of hundreds of human beings.  Carol stopped suddenly in front of an unusual outcropping in the western wall, and leaned close to it.

"Foraminis." She said softly.  Angel was startled to hear Latin again after all these years.  The magickal languages were forbidden, in Demon prisons.

The walls began to shake and hum loudly, and in a moment, the boulder before them disappeared, and they walked, hand-in-hand, through the large opening that took its place.

It was the most magnificent thing Angel had ever seen.

The area yawned open before them, an incredible underground marketplace.  The streets went on for as far as he could see, and every square inch seemed packed with carts, quaint shop-fronts, animals...

And people.  Thousands of them.  Of all races, ages, and both genders.  Here and there, he even noticed non-humans wandering about, looking for all the world like this was their home, too.  The air was bright with colorful banners and balloons, and rich with the smells he always associated with the market.  Fresh, hot meats and sweet confections, foaming beer, cheap perfume, soft cottons and silks, and the musk of animals and humans alike.

The sensations assaulted Angel, causing him to freeze in his tracks and grip Carol's hand  like a lost child.  After smelling nothing but dirt and misery, pain and death, for fifteen years, all of this... all of this normalcy... was almost too much for him to bear.

He was suddenly torn between the urge to turn and run, and the desire to fall to his knees and weep to the Powers -- thank them, for preserving some small part of the world... his world.

Carol waited patiently, watching him with interest as he drank it all in.   It was often like this, when they first came.  After the shock of finding their home decimated, to find it seemingly rebuilt miles below ground was a sensation akin to a violent rebirth.  Angel turned his wondering eyes on her.

She smiled.  So much like her own boy, now five years dead...

"We captured this complex in '05.  The demons had quite an operation going down here, being so close to the Hellmouth, and all... and so close to the ocean?" she grinned conspiratorially at him, "They were no match for us, though..." she said proudly, "And we've expanded it for miles in every direction."

Angel found his strength once again, and they resumed their walk.

He was getting a headache from the lights, the noise and the aromas, on top of his searing hunger and exhaustion.  Relief soon found them in the form of their destination, a building with a whitewashed front, and a red cross painted over the door.  Upon stepping inside, he knew immediately it was some kind of clinic.  Even over the smell of disinfectant came the stench of sickness and blood.  He swayed dizzily, and Carol put her arm around him for support.

"This is the hospital." She said, and led him to an entranceway whose door read, Registration Center, "Anyone who wants to enter the city must come here, first." She told him.

The clean white waiting room seemed stained by dozens of other men, all filthy, hopeless and half-dead, like himself.  And each one looked as overwhelmed and bewildered as he felt.

Carol led him to the nearest counter, rapping the surface to grab the nurse's attention.  He looked up from his clipboard, obviously irritated at the interruption.

"Take a number, please," he droned from rote.

"I'm Carol Blue," she said, "I'm a Spinner.  I found this boy on my patrol.  He is badly in need of care..." she told the nurse.

He didn't even look up at her again.  "Take a number, please," he repeated.

In the blink of an eye, Carol reached out and snatched the clipboard from the man's hand.  He finally looked up at her, his face shocked and angry.

If Angel had had any energy... or any feeling at all, for that matter, he would have laughed.

"Look, lady!" the nurse objected loudly, "I don't care who you are! You could be the Dalai Lama, but you still have to take a number!"

And then, Angel would have punched the boy flat in the face for disrespecting his elders.

But there was no need.  Carol leaned over the desk and got right into the nurse's face, "You listen to me, young man.  I was carrying a rifle and wand on these streets before you could even talk." she spat, "This man is a veteran.  He put his life on the line so that you could have your little position of power... so you could keep all of this..." she gestured around the room with the stolen clipboard, "You will find him a doctor, immediately, or I will take this to your smart mouth!"

Angel chuckled in spite of himself.  Carol Blue was obviously not in need of a champion.

The nurse continued to glare at her, his mouth opening and closing angrily.

"Is there a problem here?" came a voice from behind them.

The nurse got up, looking relieved.  "Dr. Harris, this woman just barged in here and demanded treatment for this man.  She won't get in line, and she won't take a number!"

"He is a veteran!" Carol shouted at the newcomer, "Can't you see he is ill? Look how malnourished he is, and pale!" She waved her hand at Angel frantically, her voice desperate, "He's only just been released from prison, and we can't just leave him out here to die!"

"No one is going to die, Mrs. Blue." the doctor said patiently, and placed a gentle hand on Angel arm, "What's your name, soldier?" she asked softly.

Something about her voice... there was something about her that tugged at his awareness and wouldn't let it go.  He slowly looked up.

Her hair was an even deeper red than he remembered, but now streaked with shining strands of silver.  She wore her trademark patient, sweet smile, but it seemed ironically punctuated by her tired eyes.

"Willow?" he said, flabbergasted.

Her hand dropped from his arm and her mouth scrunched into a shocked little "o".  Angel grabbed her in a crushing embrace, and began sobbing hysterically into her shoulder, crying, "I can't believe it's you! Oh, god, I can't believe you're alive!" over and over.

"Angel?" Willow whispered, and slowly wrapped her arms around him.  He was so thin, and weak...

In a moment, she was crying too, oblivious to the surprised stares of Carol and the nurse.

The microwave alarm beeped, and Willow reached over to pop the hot blood bag out of it.

"Ouchouchouch..." she said, tossing it so that it plopped with a wet slap into a nearby bowl.  She handed it to him.  "Be careful, it's hot." she warned.

A little thermometer on the side of the polybag read 98.6º  Angel stared at it, and then her, curiously.

"It's more nourishing warm." She told him.

He continued staring at her dumbly.

"We had more than a few vampires in the army, Angel.  We learned a lot about what you need to stay healthy, and to heal quickly.  Now eat, before it gets cold." she said.

Angel's hunger got the better of him.  He snatched the bag out of the bowl, immediately vamping out, and sunk his fangs into the thick plastic.

It was the first good meal he'd had in at least 10 years.

He made short work of the first pint, and then a second, and a third that Willow prepared for him, watching and waiting patiently as he fed.  It was only when the bloodlust faded, and he wiped the gory remains of the meal off his chin, that he was suddenly struck by the shame of feeding in front of one who had once been his friend...

He looked up at her sheepishly.

"Better?" Willow asked, taking the empty bags and putting them through a disposal shoot.  She took the bowl and deposited it in another, marked "Decontamination".

Angel nodded, watching her as she sat back down on the stool beside him.

"Good." She said, and smiled wearily.

Willow stared at him for a good, long moment.  It absolutely blew her mind that this was Angel sitting here before her, real as day.  He looked wretched -- gaunt, and frankly, ancient.  But underneath the filth and pain and despair, she still recognized his handsome features and his kind, soulful eyes.  She couldn't have been more shocked if the Easter Bunny had dropped by for a visit... or more pleased.

"I'm glad to see you." Angel said sincerely.  They were the first words he had spoken since he'd arrived in her office.

Willow smiled at her old friend, "I'm glad to see you, too." she said longingly.

Her tone made him wonder how many of the others were dead...

A split second later, she seemed to break out of the little cloud that had descended over them, and brightened noticeably.

"Well," she said, "Now that you're here, we need to get you some quarters." She looked up and down at his tattered prison uniform, "And some clothes.  You can take a bath and get some sleep, and then we can talk when you're feeling better." 

She had an air of confidence and authority she'd never had before, Angel noticed.  Probably born from years of battle on the front lines, by the side of the Slayer.

"Buffy..." he said, inadvertently, out loud.

Willow stopped and looked back at him.  "All in good time..." she said.  She waved her hand over the door panel, and it slid open in front of her.  She didn't turn around, but her head drooped as she said, "I'm so glad you're not dead, Angel..." and left.

He was dead, of course, but he knew what she meant.

Angel couldn't remember the last time he was in a room by himself.

Two orderlies, older volunteers from the clinic, had lead Angel through yet more clean, crowded, colorful streets into an enormous biospheric structure that looked for all the world like any old neighborhood  above ground, before the war.  Clear blue holographic skies sparkled overhead, lit by a synthetic sun, whose light didn't burn him.  The streets were filled with signs of life... children playing, men mowing their lawns, young housewives gossiping as they sunned themselves over Daiquiris in the back yard...

Heaven.  This was what Heaven was like, in his imagination.  Angel found himself overwhelmed over and over again, at the sights... and he couldn't seem to stop crying for the beauty of it all.

The apartment building they escorted him to was fabulous -- something of a hybrid of Spanish architecture and Star Trek.  The facade was much like the outside of the building Cordelia had lived in in Los Angeles, a pleasantly haunted apartment with extraordinary views of the city and high, vaulted ceilings.  But placed here and there were cleverly hidden control panels and vid screens.

Angel took everything in with an exhausted wonder.   So much had changed, since he'd been gone.

One of the volunteers opened an apartment door.  The inside was nearly identical to Cordelia's place, too, and immediately evoked stabbing pain within him at the memory of how he'd found her, raped and disemboweled, hanging from the ceiling by her entrails.  The Scourge had come looking for Angel, but he had already disappeared deep into the Underground, fighting with the gang of highly trained terrorists.  Cordy had refused to join him when he left, insisting that she had no intention of living in the stinky sewers with a bunch of bloodthirsty demons... even if they were good ones.  So the Scourge had come for her, and she had died for him.  Bought his life with her own... it was yet another deep, black stain on the already mottled tapestry of his existence...

"You won't be able to operate anything with bio-scan," one of the volunteers told him, "But everything is just as easily activated by voice.  Just program in a password, and let the monitor scan your retinas."

He had done as they asked.

Now he shook himself back to the present, and stared into the steaming bathwater, which gathered foam and waited for him in the tub.  The heat seared his big toe when he stuck it in, and he snatched his wounded digit back, as if the stuff were holy water.

//Don't be such a baby,// he chided himself, //You used to dream about scalding hot baths, every day.//

And he had... he'd dreamed about hot baths... fresh herbal tea... Buffy... Opera... Dark Shadows... Buffy... night-blooming jasmine, poetry... but mostly, he dreamed about Buffy.  Angel had whiled away thousands of miserable days replaying moments they'd spent together in his mind... he repeated every word, re-examined every gesture, every touch...

He sunk his legs slowly into the water, and felt a shiver run through him as the steam rose, and twenty years of grime and pain loosened up and began to fall away from his skin.

He bent over and sat down, and felt a back spasm from a poorly healed spinal injury he had learned to ignore years ago finally ease, then stop.

He sighed deeply as the water came up around his waist.  He relaxed, and one by one, the faces of the beloved dead floated up to his mind's eye, and he began to remember, once again, everyone he missed.

As Angel sunk in up to his chest, he remembered his heroes -- the ones who died in the first days of the war: Doyle, Wesley, Jhiera... They had given their lives, one by one, smiling, with eyes open, to the cause.

Goodness.  They all fought and died for the right... for the nice things about the world, and the not so nice... for sweetness... for light.  Was it worth it?

He let his head go under and sank to the bottom of the seemingly fathomless tub.  The creepy sensation of his lungs filling with water overtook him.

//This is what it feels like to die.  Funny, that I can't really remember...//

Had it been so long since he himself had died?

//Which time?// He snorted bitterly, forcing a pack of bubbles out of his mouth, and he watched as they chased one another to the surface.

Was it worth it? He thought of the taste of chocolate... the warm, honeysuckle and vanilla scent of Buffy's skin... the feeling of sunlight on his face... the thrill of her little hand in his, and the soft touch of her lips...

//Yes.  It was worth it.  I would do it all again... I'd die a million deaths gladly, without a second thought, if it guaranteed her a long and happy life...//

He lay there, a drowned man, crying useless tears into the endless ocean of the hot bathwater.

The doorbell woke him from a sound, dreamless sleep, and he turned automatically to look at the clock on the nightstand.  It was barely 4 p.m.  But what day was it? He couldn't remember how long he'd been asleep.  Or really, even, for a moment, where he was or how he had gotten here.

Willow had said -- yes, he remembered now -- that she'd be by today at tea.  Had she really said tea?

Angel stumbled to the door and waved his hand in front of the panel.  Nothing happened.

"Damn it.... uh..." he lowered his face over the monitor, "Retinal scan override." he ordered it weakly.  He felt the faint tickle of the laser scan, and the mechanical voice replied, 

"Password?"

Angel didn't have to think.  "Anne," he said.

"Accepted." The door slid open.

"Bloody things, these doors, aren't they? Worse than a lack of invitation for keeping a bloke out." his visitor said, wearing a sly grin.

Angel scowled.  "Spike."

The vampire grinned at his Sire, "Never thought to see you again, mate." he said, as he moved past Angel and sauntered into the room.

"Likewise." Angel hissed, tugging his robe tighter around him.

Spike picked up a book of Zen koans from the table and fingered it absently as he looked around the room.  "Hm.  Spartan.  So, how are you enjoying post-apocalyptic Sunnydale?"

Angel glared at him silently.  Of all the creatures he had ever known that he wished he could see again, Spike didn't even make the top 100.  He watched the blonde wander over to where he stood, and then leered up at him.

"Did you hear? I helped save the world." he laughed, "I helped build this fancy little hole.  And where, exactly, have you been, hm? Where's our intrepid good guy been, through all the tough stuff, eh?" he gave Angel a mock-Macho punch in the arm.

"And I imagine you stuck around out of the goodness of your heart." Angel snarled, unwilling to waste his energy justifying himself to his impertinent childe.

"Hell no!" he exclaimed, "That's what makes this such a grand new society! If you work hard, you get what you need, and the good folks that lead don't judge a creature's... tastes.  I get livestock.  And lots of it.  Of course, I don't get it fresh, but, it's close enough... Long, lazy afternoons glutting at the slaughterhouse..." he said wistfully, and came closer, almost breathing in Angel's ear, "And did I mention that the war hero bit gets even more sympathy than the Ann Rice routine ever did?  Certainly throws a sympathy into a lonely girl or two..."

Angel snarled, feeling the demon within him lurch, easily waking and immediately battling for control of his still-weak body.  He could barely hold it back anymore, after letting it run free to defend him for so many years.

"Now, now... temper..." Spike said, moving away to pace the room, "I can't eat the lasses, mind you," he babbled on, "But a demon can do with a warm piece every now and again, if you know what I mean..." He slowly wandered back to the door, and leaned his face in to the control panel, his eyes never leaving Angel.  "I just wanted to stop by to see if the rumors were really true, then..."  

He started to speak to the panel, but paused and turned back to Angel once more, "She's not here, you know.  The Slayer? They took her two years ago.  No one's heard from her since." he turned back to the door, "Spike 1 override!" he said, boldly.

"Password?"

Spike turned once again to sneer at his sire, "Nancyboy." he said snidely.

"Accepted." the door said, and whooshed open.  Spike stepped through and disappeared into the hall, leaving Angel to glare angrily after him.

Once he'd regained his strength, it didn't take Angel long to be busy again.  There was plenty of hard work to be done around the city, for those that had the strong backs to do it.

It was a bizarre sensation, stripping his shirt off in the fields for relief from the hot sun.  Sometimes he would shield his eyes and just stare at it... a marvel he had never imagined he would experience.  He relished the feeling of plunging his hands deep into the cool soil... the strain of his muscles as he dug, and pulled and lifted.  He felt connected to the land immediately, in a way he didn't think he ever had as a boy in the rolling green hills of Ireland.

He'd fallen into a comfortable routine of work and play... it was Friday, and he headed home for a wash before Willow would arrive for their weekly "date".  They usually tried to do something special and out of the ordinary on weekends: an old movie, or dancing, or some ethnic restaurant or another... Willow called herself his entertainment director.  And he adored her for it.

The ways in which she had grown and changed endlessly fascinated him.  He saw little hints of strange new qualities about her... wisdom, maturity... moments of complete and utter self-assurance...

But under it all, he could still recognize her shyness... her constant struggle to please... her fear, compounded by years of loss...

Willow was a gifted healer and a Witch of some renown in the community.  She had become deeply spiritual over the years, and sometimes in the afternoon, she would come to the fields and fetch him, and they would meditate or practice Tai Chi together under the oak trees as the sun set red behind them.

She had grown from a frightened, vulnerable mouse of a girl to a strong, vulnerable lion of a woman.

That night, when he greeted her at the door, he could tell immediately from the expression on her face that something was wrong.

He sighed deeply, quickly tense.  What else could there be? Who was left, now, to care about, other than the two of them? Everyone else they had known and loved was long dead, or gone without a trace...

She clearly had Guilty Face.

"I have to talk to you." She said, pushing past him and marching into the study.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and followed her.

"Lumiere." he said, and a fire burst to life in the hearth.

Angel found he really enjoyed the little luxuries afforded by a world that used both technology and magick.

He poured them matching snifters of brandy, and sat with his after handing Willow hers.

She noticed Angel had taken to wearing velvets and silks, again.  For a while, he would wear only plain cotton.

"I like your shirt." She said.

He brushed the fine black material lightly.  "I'm getting softer." he joked.

Willow tried to force a smile, but grimaced, instead.

"Willow, what is it?" he encouraged.

She sighed deeply, and ran a fine hand through her long auburn hair.

"Angel, there's something..." she hesitated, "I'vebeenhidingsomethingfromyousinceyou'vebeenbackandit'sdrivingmecrazyand
Idon'twantyoutohatemefornottellingyou..."

Her confession came out as one long word, and he put his hand on her arm.  "Hey.  Calm down.  It's okay.  What is it? You can tell me."

Willow looked up at him woefully.  "I should probably show you." She said.

Angel automatically got up and grabbed his jacket.  "Okay, let's go."

Angel knew that abandoned and orphaned children were raised communally on the outskirts of the city, but he had never come this far away from the center of the town before.

This enormous biodome simulated a rural area much like the one where he worked, complete with cows, silos, and neat, endless rows of grain.

He felt free just watching it all rush past them, the fields stained gold with the sunshine.  He loved being out this long before sunset, listening to the quiet whir of the electric train they rode as it made its way from the city.  The trip brought to mind similar ones he had taken to Dublin with his father as a boy.  Of course, they traveled by carriage, then, and young Liam was more eager to leave the narrow countryside he grew up in than go toward it.  But the sensation was much the same... the excitement and freedom of going somewhere... else.

Willow's continued silence and tension reminded him that it was possible he was fleeing toward something far more important than a nice change of scenery.

The orphan commune (called "Children's Farm" by the community), looked more like an idyllic New England town than the dark, dungeon-like fortresses where unwanted children were dumped in his youth.

Simple, whitewashed buildings framed an open courtyard, and behind were all the trappings of a farm -- a sprawling main house, a big red barn, milk cows lowing in the field, and chickens scattering everywhere in mortal terror at the sound of the old shepherd dog barking as it chased them across the yard.

Angel felt like he'd walked into a living postcard.

"I'd rather have grown up here than my own home..." he said wistfully, watching children scramble here and there, themselves chased by laughing teenagers and adults.

"Well, I guess we learned something from the war, huh?" Willow said, smiling at him, "We care a lot more about children now, than we used to."

"Wise." he said.

"Evolution." Willow replied.  By then, they had arrived at the main house.  They climbed the wooden steps, and she looked up at him as she pressed the buzzer.

"There are things I haven't told you..." she said again.

He gave her a look.

"Okay, so I haven't told you much of anything.  It's all... it's hard to talk about.  But this... " she looked down at the ground, "This is important."

A sweet-looking slip of a teenager opened the door and peered out at them.

"Hi, Tina." Willow said.

The blue eyed girl smiled broadly.  "Dr. Harris! Hi!" She said, opening the screen door to let them in.

Willow patted her head as she entered, and the girl rolled her eyes.  She looked down at Angel, who stood nervously at the bottom of the steps.  "Come on in." she said, without hesitation.

It never stopped amazing him, how his kind were welcomed in this community.

"How are you, T?" Willow asked as they walked to the living room.

"Good.  I'm done with 10th year this spring."

"Good for you!" Willow said, "Did you do okay in Quantum Theory?"

The girl grinned. "Thanks to you..."

Willow wrinkled up her nose in delight.  Teaching was still what she loved best, no matter what profession the war had steered her to.

"They're in the TV room." Tina went on, then turned to Angel, "I'm Tina, by the way, hi." She offered a daintily manicured hand.

Angel smiled and shook it, noting the pale pink of her nail polish.

//Nice to see things haven't changed too much... or, at least, teenaged girls haven't...//

He'd endured an unending parade of fashion experimentation with Buffy when she was young.  Hundreds of outfits, dozens of pairs of shoes, thousands of pieces of jewelry, five shades of blonde hair color, and at least fifty kinds of lipstick.  He was expected to have an opinion on each.  He really hadn't cared... he would have loved her if she was painted with pond scum, and wore a potato sack.  He'd go through it all again, if he could... He'd listen to her whine and grouse and complain about how lousy her life was, how hard it was to find just the right this or that to wear, if only he could see her again.

He realized, suddenly, that Tina had left the room while his mind wandered, and Willow sat on the couch, staring at him.

"Sorry." He said.

"It's okay... I..." she got up from her seat and wandered to the window, gazing out over the fields, "I told you what happened to Buffy."

He nodded, struggling against the familiar pang yet again.  "She was taken by the Scourge." he said flatly.

Willow nodded.

"There's more?" he asked.

She turned to face him.  "I told you about Buffy being taken... but... what I haven't told you is what came before."

Angel waited.  Time couldn't move any more slowly for him than it already did.  He was never in any hurry.

"We had lives, even after the war started in earnest.  Even after the world around us feel apart to the point that even the most blind couldn't ignore it... We still did regular things... celebrated holidays, went to the movies, fell in love...got married..."

Angel knew Willow had.  She had married Xander Harris right before he went off to get himself killed at the Battle of Golden Gate in 2006.  The same battle from which Angel had been captured, underground, and dragged away to the pits.

"I know, Willow.  But I don't..." he began.

She held up her hand to silence him.  "Buffy had a life, too.  Even when she was fighting, the whole time.  Once they destroyed the Initiative, and freed all the soldiers, including Riley, from the drugs the government had given them... Buffy and Riley... they..."

"Got married." Angel finished for her.  He wasn't surprised.  He remembered the warm, easy rapport he had observed between Buffy and the commando, on the few occasions he had to be around them.  And the jealous pain was more like a beating with a club, now, than the slashing with a rapier it might once have been.

"Right... married." Willow agreed, "But, there's more..."

Angel stared at her.  A realization started to dawn on him... where they were... why they might be here...

"She had... has..." she corrected herself quickly, "Two children.  A boy and a girl.  Jeremy and Rhea.  She was already pregnant with Jeremy the last time you saw her.  He's 12, now.  Rhea is 6."

Silence.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you.  I just didn't know how... and... you were so weak..."

"They're here?" he asked weakly.

Willow nodded.  "In the next room."

Angel looked at the door.  "Can we... can I... see them?"

She smiled.  "Of course.  That's why I brought you here."

The TV room was brightly decorated, and every flat surface was littered with magazines, comic books, VCR tapes, toys, and video game cartridges.  Five children sat around a table, intently playing a three-dimensional board game, whispering and giggling amongst themselves.

Angel knew immediately which two they sought.  Jeremy was tall and broad, with a warm, inviting smile and an unruly mop of golden hair... exactly the things he remembered about Riley Finn.

The little girl, Rhea, almost drove him into tears again.  She had long, blonde curls and big, misty green eyes, and at the moment, she was pouting so hard, it made Angel's dead heart hurt.