Years Later Series:
Broken
by KNS

Touch me in the morning
(Mornings were made of gold and we could feel one another living)
Then just walk away
(We woke with a dream to hold and we could take what the world was giving)
We don't have tomorrow
(But there's no tomorrow here there's only love and the time to chase it)
But we had yesterday
(But yesterday's gone, my love there's only now and it's time to face it)
Wasn't it me who said nothing good's gonna last forever?
~ Dianna Ross - "Touch Me In The Morning"

Xander gently laid a hand on Willow's shoulder. "Come on, Will, you need to get dressed. It's time to go to the funeral."

Willow lifted her empty eyes to him for a moment, then slowly stood up and walked towards the staircase. She left her breakfast untouched on the table behind her. She hadn't eaten much of anything in three days. She hadn't spoken, either, not a single word.

Xander sat down in her chair and put his head in his hands. Today was the funeral. Three days after she had died, Buffy Summers was to be laid to rest beside her daughter.

Angel had deliberately chosen the same date and time for her funeral that Wesley Wyndham-Price's was to be held. Let them chose, he had told Xander bitterly. Let the Council chose between him and her, between the one that had saved and protected them hundreds of times and the pig that had destroyed her. Let them chose, and then let them live with the choice.

Xander listened to the silence in the house, broken only by the sound of the shower being switched on by Willow upstairs. The boys were at Mari and Giles' house. He had sent them with Mari three days before. Willow's parents were dead, his father was dead and his mother was in a nursing care facility he had no one else to send them to. He certainly couldn't deal with them, not now. What would he have told them? Your sister is dead, your aunt is dead, your mother has gone insane, your uncle is going insane, and your father hasn't quite decided yet? In a few days maybe you'll get to go to your Uncle Angel's funeral as well?

That first day after Buffy had died, he'd walked into Angel's flat to find him sitting at the kitchen table, a picture of Buffy before him and one of her laser pistols in his hands. He'd had to do some fast, fast talking to take the determined look off the ex-vampire's face, and even then the emptiness had remained in his eyes.

He'd seen that kind of emptiness before - in Buffy, before Angel had returned and on the night she'd thought he'd left again. That emptiness had driven her to alcohol and strangers' beds. What would it do to Angel? Somehow he doubted he'd ever find out.

"Look, Angel, if you do this, think about how it'll hurt Willow. She's already not talking - how do you think she'll take it?" he'd said, meaning what he said but also using every reason he could think of against the silent ex-vampire. "And what about Giles, huh, what about him? I know you won't believe this, but he loves you, too. Always has, and not just because of Buffy." Finally he'd had to throw out his final plea, his last card. "Don't do this, Angel. I need you, man. Things are falling apart around me. I need you to help me hold them together."

Angel had slowly turned to look at him. "She's dead, Xander," he'd said softly, and Xander had been torn between crying for him and slamming his fist into his nose - because he could only imagine what Angel felt, but he didn't want Angel to ever say those words again.

Angel loved her most. As long as Angel said she wasn't dead, then come heaven, hell, or high water, she wasn't dead. But if he said it -

Xander sighed and lifted his head from his hands. Upstairs Willow shut off the shower.

Angel sat in the last row at the very back of the church. No light spilled through the massive stained-glass windows above him outside the sky was clouded and dull, and the air was cold without the sun.

Almost as cold as he was without her.

He sat in the shadows and watched the mortuary attendants set out the flower arrangements that had been sent. In some little corner of his mind he was surprised that there were so many. Roses, lilies, holly hocks, tulips, gladiolas, and so many others he couldn't name - he wondered who had sent them all. Their fragrances filled the large church.

He gazed at the giant glass window behind the altar at the head of the room. It was a beautiful design of the Blessed Virgin cradling her infant Son.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," he murmured, then stopped. He couldn't remember the rest of the words. Even if he could, would anyone have listened to his prayers? Somehow he didn't think so. Still, if he knew the words, he would have said them anyway. For her.

For a moment he wondered why he had chosen to hold her services in a church at all, let alone a Catholic one. He'd been raised Catholic, but she'd never been particularly religious. She'd believed in God, but he wasn't sure in exactly what form. Catholic, Protestant, what? He didn't know. It had been one of those question he'd never gotten around to asking her. Their time together had been so precious, so cherished to him that he hadn't spent but a tiny bit asking questions. He'd thought he'd have at least thirty or forty years for answers.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. . .

He watched as the morticians brought in the casket. It was made of aspen wood, the closest true white wood in all the world. He'd had a Claddagh engraved on the lid, and another on the white marble headstone that would lie atop her grave.

It was funny - he just couldn't believe she lay inside that beautiful box. Not her, not Buffy. She was off shopping in some mall somewhere, hauling around bags of new clothes and maxing out her plastic. She was veging out infront of the entertainment center at home. She was taking a shower, getting ready to go out dancing tonight with him and the others. She was *not* lying inside that silk-lined coffin. . .

"No, leave it closed," he called quickly as one of the men moved to open the lid.

The man jumped and scanned the back of the church until he spotted Angel. "Sorry, I have instructions to open it," he apologized.

Angel shook his head. "Leave it shut," he said, his voice low and tight. The man shrugged and left it closed.

"I don't blame you wantin' it closed an' all," a man's voice said off to Angel's right.

Angel turned and found a dark skinned, middle aged man standing a few feet away from him. The man was tall, and had odd scars running down the left side of his face and neck. Angel had never seen him before. He said the first thing that came into his mind. "Who are you?"

The man stepped forward, offering his hand and smiling. "I'm Jonathan, Jonathan Peters. Pleased to meet you."

Angel reluctantly shook his hand. "You knew Buffy?"

"Oh, Lordy, yes," the man laughed. "Me and her went through the war together. She was my CO - commanding officer, that is. Lieutenant Buffy Anne Summers, yessir, a mighty fine woman."

"Lieutenant," Angel echoed. "I thought she had more rank than that." He sat down and the man sat down beside him.

"She did, she did," Jonathan said, smiling. "She was a captain, I tell you. But Buffy Anne, she had this way ‘bout her. She treated everyone like theys her equal, no better an' no worse. Well she had this real hard time callin' all them ones above her ‘sir', and one day she gone an' pissed off the wrong guy. Busted her down to lieutenant, Army did, and sent her into Recon - reconnaissance, that is. That's where we done met." He smiled, remembering.

Angel felt left out in the cold. Here was a part of her life that he knew nothing about. She'd never talked of it, even a little bit. Maybe this man could tell him something.

"I'm Angel, Angel Summers," he told Jonathan, realizing he hadn't introduced himself earlier.

Jonathan grinned, stretching the scars across his face. "I know that. Done realized it when I saw that there ring on your finger. She wore one just like it, ‘cept hers was plain silver. Kinda an unusual design." He leaned towards Angel and whispered, "Plus she told me what you look like an' all one time." He leaned back, looked at Angel as if he'd just realized something. "You must be older than you look, ‘cuz you look awful young to have been much more than a boy durin' the war."

Angel nodded. "I am." He paused, then asked hesitantly, "Were you two - good friends?"

Jonathan grinned. "Suppose so. She was my CO. They're not suppose to fraternize with us grunts, but like I said, Buffy Anne treat everyone the same. Plus, we were Recon - that make it different. Made us all closer." His voice suddenly lost its cheerfulness, became somber and straight. "Good place to get killed fast, doin' Recon. Hundred of us went in, only fifteen came back, you know."

He paused, took a deep breath and sighed. "Sometimes things would get real bad. War always bad, but sometimes it get worse than others. That's when she'd talk ‘bout you." He looked to Angel. "She call you her angel, her guardian angel. Said that was how she was gonna make it through the war, with her guardian angel."

Jonathan laughed. "Took me a while to understand that ‘Angel' was your real name. Thought it was some pet name or somethin'. She said you looked like an angel, called you the finest lookin' man she'd ever laid eyes on. Broke many a heart with those words, let me tell you. She was one fine lookin' woman, an' many a man lost his heart to her."

His voice sobered again. "Couldn't wear no rings on an every-day basis, you know. Enemy would cut off your whole finger if they ever caught you wearin' one. But sometimes, late at night when she thought no one knew, she'd put on that silver ring. I asked her one night what was ‘tween the two of you. She said you two's divorced. I asked her why she still wear that ring then? She said just ‘cuz somethin's over don't mean it's over."

Angel bowed his head. Sometimes she had been so profound. . .

"She was the best officer I ever knew," Jonathan continued. "She fought to win all the time, even though she didn't volunteer for that crazy war. She fought until the day that fool shot her in the gut while cleaning his weapon. She didn't want to be shipped home! Can you believe it? I told her, ‘Buffy Anne, this a sign from God. You go home an' find your angel. You make him realize you're special.' She said I ever need anything at all, I call this guy Jellies an' he'd find her. She gave me this little cross to protect me."

He held out his palm, and on it rested the tiny silver cross Angel had given to her so long ago. "I came all this way to bring it back to her. Think you could get that done for me?"

Angel hesitated, then slowly reached out and took the cross. "Thank you," he said softly.

Jonathan nodded and stood up. "I'm right glad I met you, Angel Summers. I think you as good a man as Buffy Anne said you was." He offered his hand again. Angel stood up and shook it. "Yous ever in Georgia, USA, you come look me up. Jonathan Peters, don't forget."

Angel nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Peters. I may do that sometime."

"Jonathan, call me Jonathan," the man insisted. "Buffy Anne always did."

Angel watched the man walk forward in the church towards the candles in the corner. Slowly he sat back down and looked at the cross in his hand.

He'd given it to her the night they'd met. He'd watched her for so long before that he'd wanted to give her something, anything of his to keep. The cross had seemed the safest thing, for it was both beautiful and practical, just as she herself was. And though she'd knocked him flat on his ass and told him to lose the Cryptic Guy attitude, she'd kept and worn the cross.

It had made him happy just to see her wear it, to know that she valued something he had given her. That night at the Bronze they decided that what was between them could never be anything realistic, she'd kissed him and the cross had burned its mark on his skin. He'd smiled every time he saw the mark for the next few days, for it was a symbol of what lay in both their hearts.

And now here it lay in his hand, neither in her possession nor burning his skin. A symbol of nothing but what was gone.

Xander walked into the church and almost turned around and walked right back out. The place was packed - every chair, every bench, every corner filled with people Xander had never seen before in his life. Was he at the right place?

He stopped a youngish man in a business suit and asked, "Is this where the memorial services for Buffy Summers are being held?"

The man slowly ran his eyes up and down both him and Willow. Xander knew they made quite a sight. Willow had barely gotten herself into her black dress, let alone done more than run a brush through her hair or apply any makeup. As for him, he'd forgotten his tie, and he'd been on the road before discovering that his shoes matched neither his suit nor even each other.

"Seating is limited to *family* members only," the man said snootily, "but you are in the right place."

Xander watched the man brush past him and Willow without a second thought. Xander wanted to shout after him, ‘Did you ever bury your daughter and your best friend in the same week? How about showing a little mercy - it was just a question.' But he didn't say that. It was too much effort, and the man probably wouldn't have listened anyway.

Instead he took Willow by the arm and propelled her through the main aisle down to the front bench. There he found Marianna and the two boys, much to his relief.

"Who are all these people?" he asked Mari.

Mari did not look well. There were deep circles under her eyes, and the cut above her right ear was red and puffy. "I don't have a clue," she said, shrugging. "Ask Rupert. Maybe he knows. He wrote the obituary for - for - her." She couldn't say Buffy's name.

Xander got Willow to sit down beside her two boys. The children crawled onto her lap and snuggled close to her. Absently she wrapped her scarred arms around them, her eyes fixed, unblinking, on the casket only a few feet away from her.

It wasn't that Willow was a poor mother - she wasn't. She was a wonderful mother. But this was the second funeral she'd attended in five days, and she was filled with so much grief that she couldn't let any of it out. And so she did nothing, paralyzed with emotions that left her silent and still.

Xander found Giles talking with Sister Elen in a far corner of the room. Sister Elen was dressed in something besides a tee-shirt and old hole-filled jeans, for once she wore the long, silken robes of a church official, and her hair was pulled back in a graceful braid. It was she who would preform the ceremonies for the service.

"What is this?" Xander asked Giles, gesturing at the mass of people filling the room.

Giles' face was calm and composed. He handed Xander a computer printout. "I-I placed a small obituary in the ‘London Times' net-paper. Do you remember that student of Buffy's that caught us at dinner not so long ago? He read it. A-apparently he thought it a tad too small."

Xander looked at the printout. ‘When Heroes Die' was printed across the page, beneath a picture of a smiling Buffy. It was an older picture from a few years back she was laughing over her shoulder at whoever held the camera. Beneath the article title were the words, ‘Soldier. Teacher. Friend. The world bids goodbye to a fearless hero.' The printout was the cover page of ‘Times Magazine Online.'

"She was famous?" Xander asked. "That's impossible. All these people didn't know her."

"She wasn't famous," Sister Elen said, smiling gently, sadly. "She was too shy to be famous. She was kind, courageous, forgiving. Always. It's only with her death that they're realizing it. They're only now beginning to realize what they've lost."

"Too late now," Giles mumbled, and Xander was surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice.

"It's never too late, Rupert," Sister Elen disagreed gently. "Come, let us start the service."

"Wait," Xander said, "where's Angel?"

Giles bowed his head. "I saw him earlier. He's here. Y-you know how he is . . ."

"He's gonna do it, isn't he?" Xander asked softly.

"I-I think so," the Englishman admitted. "It would come as no surprise."

"Suicide is a mortal sin," Sister Elen said, distressed. "He could not lay beside her."

Xander let out a breath of laughter, although he was for from amused. "I don't think he's really concerned with that. . ."

Part Two

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