I'll Fly Away

5-19-02

Part 13: Not Goodbye

"What did you do?"

Charles Gunn was a veteran of the turf wars, a street fighter. He was high-spirited, and quick to battle, though not as madly fond of chaos as some of the old gang. He'd been swallowed by a tree, brokered his soul, fought psychotropic slugs, and been chased by an ax-wielding Wesley. All within a year. But Angel had never seen him look as pole-axed as he did when Fred waltzed in the door…minus her fairy-princess hair.

A half-smile tugged at Angel's lips. Fred amused him.

"I got a bob!" She vibrated with excitement, like a skinny branch in the wind. Slender fingers rose and threaded through the shorn strands.

Gunn's mouth opened and closed like a drawstring purse. "I'd rather have a Fred."

Uh-oh. The one time Angel had made a hair suggestion to Darla, she'd brained him with a boudoir lamp and consumed a small beach. Fred's face just crumpled like a crushed flower.

"You…don't like it?" she stammered. All eyes in the room turned to Gunn, who must have been smarter than he looked, because he began back peddling. Furiously.

"No. I mean yes! I like it! It's just…very short and, well,…very short."

Angel cringed. Paddle harder, boy. From behind Fred, Lorne made a throat-slashing motion. Gunn blundered on.

"And that new outfit, sweetie. I love it!"

Fred burst into tears. "I've worn this a hundred times!" She rushed past Cordelia and fled up the stairs. Somewhere on the upper floors, a door slammed. Angel's sensitive ears picked up the sound of sobbing.

Cordelia glared at Gunn. "Were your parents siblings?"

Gunn only gaped at her, confused. "Huh?"

Angel reached out and gave him a brotherly swat to the back of the head. "You should have worshipped the new hair, not made her cry about it." He decided to keep the Darla story to himself.

Lorne shook his head. "She's probably up there drawing on the walls again. I'd put on my apology shoes and boogie, sweetcheeks. Pronto."

Gunn took the stairs two at a time. Angel could hear him moving from door to door, calling for Fred.

Lorne sighed. "Poor guy. He's in the La Brea tar pits of love."

Cordy perched on the edge of a table. "Tell me about it. Last week she asked him how long he'd mourn if she died."

Lorne's bright eyes danced. "Ouch. How'd the poor shmuck answer that one?"

"Correctly. Then they comshucked like bunnies. Or went out for frozen yogurt. It's hard to tell which. Dessert makes Fred deliriously happy." Lorne's laughter joined with Cordelia's, and the ghosts of the old hotel seemed to be at peace.

Angel listened quietly. And what makes you happy, Cordelia? It used to be pompoms and pep rallies. Once, it was Doyle.

Outside, the sun was rising. Angel couldn't see it, of course, and to feel it would mean certain death. But he was acutely aware of the light. It had been calling to him, unceasingly, for a long time. He had only to wait for the Powers' blessing. The fresh gardenia scent of Cordelia's perfume washed over him like a promise, and Angel turned slightly to watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling, and Angel swore his dead heart turned over. They'd been many things to each other over the years, but never lovers. Maybe someday, after Shanshu…

"Are you going to brood all day?" Cordelia's voice cut sharply into his thoughts. She twisted her willowy body around to look at him.

Angel scowled. "I'm not brooding."

Cordy graced him with a 'yeah, whatever' eye-roll. "That's a broody face, Angel, or you need more fiber."

That was Cordelia, as honest as the sun--bright, vivid, and true--and unlike any other woman he'd ever known. She wasn't doomed, or predestined, and only slightly demonic. Because of the choice life gave her. She also chose to live in his difficult and adventurous world, and he loved her for that. No saint was Cordelia Chase, but an incomparable friend to have around. She was rather vain, and he loved her for that, too. To many, her life would have seemed sad, but Cordelia was one of those rare people who was determined to be wonderful, to spin silk from straw and make something elegant of her fate. Of all the women in his long life, only Buffy had been as strong.

Buffy…would it ever not hurt to think of her?

Cordelia's piercing stare was too much, and Angel moved to the window. He could feel her eyes burning into his back like twin suns. Beyond the blinds, the world was waking up, and Angel extended his hearing as far as he could, down the thoroughfares and byways of his city. He wished he could extend it to Sunnydale, to the house on Revello Drive, to the Bronze and Willy's bar, where they would be talking, he was sure, about a Slayer and a vampire.

Angel was not ignorant of the situation.

The demon network spanned far and wide, and he had heard the rumors about Buffy Summers ditching her sacred duty for the summer and hitting the road with a vampire whose hair was moonlight on snow.

There'd been an elf incident upstate, according to his sources..

When the rumors first surfaced, his instincts had demanded he fly to her rescue. By the time he reached the highway, however, rational thought had returned. Buffy was highly capable of both getting to a phone and kicking Spike's ass. If she was streaking across state lines with Angel's murdering boy, then it was on her own terms, with full consent. With that realization, Angel had pulled onto the shoulder and thrown up pig's blood for a full five minutes, then trudged home and placed a weary phone call to Xander Harris, whose hatred would almost surely drive him to speak the truth. And when it was confirmed…well, then Angel had wept for the first time since the loss of Connor.

Cordelia was like a serene shadow at his shoulder. "Hey, not-brooding-guy, why don't you not-brood over to the phone and call her?"

Yes, Cordelia knew him well. And he loved her for it. He'd tell her that. Someday.

***********************************************************

Buffy burrowed into his back, and he sighed softly in his sleep. One cool hand reached back to grasp her thigh, but he was still firmly asleep. She knew all his sleep habits by then, had studied them like a dedicated scholar: the violent twitches, the contented murmur, the dream-smiles, the occasional snarl. Even in his sleep, Spike was restless. Buffy wasn't surprised. Had he ever acted like a dead man was supposed to? She flung a proprietary arm over his shoulder and smiled when his fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist. Resting her chin in the good hollow of his shoulder and neck, Buffy tried to remember back to when she'd slept alone, to when the sheets smelled only of her, to when the room didn't look like it had been hit (and re-hit) with a black clothing bomb. Had it really only been a single summer that he was hers? No, it had been longer than that. It had been years.

The seeds were there, even as he stalked the perimeter of her life.

Her eye was drawn to the carefully closed blinds, to the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, to the hook on the back of her bedroom door, where his coat had found a new home. Oh, yes. He was hers. Buffy scraped her big toe against the knob of his anklebone and shivered at the contrast between his evening cool skin and hers, which was Caribbean warm. Even as he began to stir, Buffy found herself drowsing. She couldn't help herself; vampire skin was as soft and smooth as fresh sheets. As she drifted off, Buffy smiled at the rumble under her cheek. Gradually, it grew louder,

And louder…

And louder still…

Buffy's eyes popped open. Trash day!

She flung herself from the bed in one smooth motion and dashed for the door. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

Spike sat up, rubbing absently at his buoyant hair. "Problem, pet?'

"Why didn't you tell me the damn garbage truck was coming? You're supposed to be super hearing guy!" Buffy left the door wide open as she scrambled into the hall. At the top of the stairs, she remembered that she was naked.

Flying back into the bedroom, Buffy grabbed the first item of clothing she happened upon, which happened to be Spike's duster. The coat's owner was still in bed, and lifted an amused eyebrow in her direction. Buffy stuck her head out the window just as the grunting mass of a truck shuddered its way to the curb. Slamming the shade back in place, Buffy powered out of the room and into the hall, down the stairs, and through the kitchen. Grabbing a trash bag in each hand, she bolted for the curb. She burst through the back door like a blonde cannonball.

The truck was two houses away, and picking up speed. "Crap, crap, CRAP!" Buffy's chant pierced the morning stillness.

Buffy wound her arms up like a pitcher on the mound and let the garbage bags fly. They sailed through the air with the greatest of ease and landed in the back of the departing truck with a satisfying thwack.

"Yes, yes, YES!" Buffy did a little jig, right there in the street. For a moment, she forgot that she was still barefoot and clad only in Spike's leather, which flapped obscenely in the morning breeze. She forgot that her hair was a sweaty snarl, wild from the drag of her fingers and his, and that the hickeys on her jugular just screamed, "My guy has a neck fixation!" What she did remember was standing in this very spot, just a few months ago, almost weeping instead of dancing, broken by bills and bad boy-love and the loss of heaven. In the silence of the empty street, Buffy looked down at her hands. They were deceptively small and tender, a child's hands. For a time, she'd forgotten their incredible strength, that she could use them to save herself.

Buffy turned her face up to the morning sun and thought about the long, strange journey back. Funny, how she picked death in a second but took years to fully return to life. Years! It was even stranger to be thinking of dying on a morning when the sky was the color of sapphires and the wind was in her hair. When Willow was magic-free and Dawn was coming home and the trash had gotten off on time. When she had a man who bloomed with a primal passion. Her lush lover, her midnight star, who pushed her to be everything she should, and more

Buffy looked up at the clouds and imagined that her mother was up there now, looking down and whispering, yes, yes, this is happiness, Buffy. This is how life is meant to be. This is why I had you.

*********************************************************

Spike buried his head in Buffy's pillow and breathed in her girl-scent. The golden hairs clinging to the linen tickled his nose. He was just settling back into the nicest dream when the phone shrilled just inches from his ear. Spike rolled over in a rainbow of twisting limbs and groped for the receiver with one hand.

"Yeah, what?" He muttered irritably, still half-asleep.

"Hello, William."

The voice was rich and hated, and, oh, so familiar. Bloody Peaches! Spike dropped the phone like it was dipped in holy water. It lay on the rumpled coverlet. Grinning at him.

Scratchy voices filtered from the receiver. "Spike, pick up the phone. I want to know where Buffy is."

Angel was using the bossy tone that made Spike want to push him off a cliff. Low voice, lower IQ. High, prancing poofter. Spike snagged the phone cord and dragged it toward him. "Listen, you bloody---"

Angel cut him off. "Where's Buffy?"

Hanging up, gutted like a steer. He opened his mouth to say it, but a hand plucked the phone away from him. Buffy glared briefly at him before pasting a false smile across her face and cooing into the receiver.

"Angel! Its good to hear from you! Thanks for getting back to me so fast."

Spike's eyebrows shot up. "You called him? Why? We got a donkey about to foal and need Paddy's help?"

Buffy shot him a deadly look. Spike puffed out his lower lip and blew her a kiss. Her glare turned murderous, taking him back to the days--they weren't so long ago--when he was just her favorite enemy.

Buffy took the phone to the other side of the room, but Spike's exceptional ears could hear every word filtering down from merry old L.A.

"Cordelia said you called. I was glad. It's been… a long time."

"Too long." Spike made gagging noises and mimed retching. Buffy seized a throw pillow and thwacked him hard. Spike grabbed one end of it and pulled. A brief tug-of-war took place while Buffy juggled the phone between her ear and shoulder.

"Buffy…I have to ask. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" With Spike. He let the unspoken words hang in the ether between their cities.

Buffy sighed. "No, not really." She eyed the former scourge of Europe--once, and always, the scourge of Buffy--who seized the moment and obtained control of the pillow. It was one that Dawn had sewed as a Brownie. "I love Red fraggle!" the uneven embroidery announced. It had to be Red, of course. The rebel, the coolest fraggle. The monks had crafted their Summers girl with care.

"Buffy, he's soulless! And ever will be! You can't--"

She interrupted calmly. "I can handle Spike." I've handled him in every way possible. I know his flesh like I know your spirit. And I have loved both.

"We need to talk about this!"

"Maybe. But not now." I'm so sorry to hurt you, Angel, my love.

She would have said it aloud if Spike's eyes weren't burning into her like little flame torches, if he wasn't her moonlight man and Angel, her unanswered prayer. God, the three of them and the crazy blood ties that bound them. When they were gone, would anyone understand that it was a love story?

"All right. But if you need me…"

"Then I know where to look. Always." She cleared her throat meaningfully. Spike lounged insolently against the window frame, his eyes brewing up something dark and bitter. Buffy frowned at him. Honestly, he and Angel were like little boys fighting over a favorite toy.

Well, she was no man's toy.

Buffy grabbed the abandoned Fraggle pillow and swatted Spike across his perfect rear. Hard. He squawked in outrage and Buffy pointed to the window shade, her meaning clear. Shape up, bleach boy, or you're toast crumbs.

"I called to ask if you'd noticed anything strange down your way. Like a lot more vamps than usual. We dusted a couple dozen just last night."

Spike snorted. "Xander spewing on them was my favorite part. I like him a smidge when he's projectile vomiting on the fledglings."

Buffy moved to smack him in the head, but Spike danced out of her way on the balls of his feet, bouncing like a prizefighter.

"Actually, yeah. There's been increased vampire activity all over L.A. We don't know why. One last hurrah before the summer ends, maybe? It's their last chance to snack on the tourists."

Buffy shuddered. "Double yuck." She cornered Spike between the bed and dresser and tackled him. He landed face down in the sheets and Buffy wasted no time in climbing onto his back. There. With Spike successfully pinned, she could finish her conversation.

"Angel, could you do me a favor and check on Dawn? My dad isn't exactly Ward Cleaver. Dawn could be demon chow for three days before he even noticed. I talked to her the other day and she said everything's fine. But she's, you know, seventeen and still rebelling."

Angel laughed. It was the laugh Buffy remembered, rich, dark and bittersweet. Like the best chocolate. "That sounds familiar."

Buffy was distracted, trying to hold Spike down as he flailed and cursed like one of the drowning people in Titanic. Fortunately, his exotic swearing was partially muffled by the bedding. What a baby. Buffy slapped him on the butt again, then tuned back in to Angel's voice.

"…be glad to look in on her. Just give me the address…"

Most of Angel's response was lost to Buffy as Spike surged up off the bed like a naked Venus. Buffy fell to one side like a surfer tumbling from her board. In a nanosecond, he had reversed their positions and she found herself trapped beneath the long, lean length of him. Spike's eyes danced with the promise of revenge as he bent his head and nuzzled at her breast. He bit gently, like he was nibbling fruit. Buffy's own eyes rolled heavenward.

She was flushed from their tussle, but he was cool, perfect, and pale as whipped butter. A study in ivory, except for his nipples, which were like little brown dates, and the fleshy melon-pink of the penis that was ripening against her thigh.

The phone! I'm on the phone! Buffy suddenly remembered.

She managed to get the address out without gasping in the middle of the sentence, but Spike was zeroing in on her inner thighs. And Angel was still talking. "I'll check on Dawn as soon as I can…"

She put a hand out to stop Spike, waving the phone for emphasis. "Not now!"

Angel paused, surprised. "Okay, when?"

Spike sulked. "Yeah, when?"

"As soon as we get off the phone!"

Angel sighed. "Well, it is daylight, but, if you're that anxious, I could take the sewers."

"Yes, yes!"

Buffy said a hasty goodbye.

*************************************************

Willow awoke to squeals of laughter piercing the thin wall between her bedroom and the other. The squeals were followed by the thump of what could only be bodies hitting the floor. Or the wall. Or doing serious damage to the dresser. Goddess knows, they were creative. She thumped on the wall.

"C'mon you guys! Tone it down!"

She'd gotten past any lingering embarrassment weeks ago. This life wasn't for the timid.

Willow pulled on her robe and padded into the hall, moving quickly past Buffy's closed door. The nightly soundtrack made her miss Tara even more. Her bed seemed so lonely and wide without Tara snuggled beside her. Tara, with her warm heart and ice-cold feet. Her Tara, who smelled like fruit, jasmine, and freshly cut grass, a good earthy bouquet. Willow used to breathe her in at night, that fierce and loving girl. When they made love, Willow felt linked to the universe. She heard pancakes sizzling and children singing, rain falling and mountains growing. There were flashes of extraordinary pale pink and peaches and greens. She was lost in a thousand flowers.

Willow peeked into the living room. The others were gone, off to work and school. Poor Xander. She wondered if he remembered giving Spike a drunken hug. The kitchen was filled with watery morning light, and Willow stepped into s scattered patches of sun as she crossed to the backdoor, intent on finding out if the morning paper had blown all over the backyard again. She pulled the door open and stuck her head out.

"YIKES!"

Willow shrieked as something flapped across her face. She batted at it like a terrified kitten and spat out a Russian curse word she'd heard Anya use on shoplifters.

But Willow should have batted in the other direction, because the thing--it was a large sparrow-- flapped right past her, straight into Buffy's kitchen. Willow slowly followed, and just stood looking up at the bird making itself comfortable on top of the fridge. Feet pounded on the stairs, and seconds later a shirtless Spike appeared in the kitchen doorway, shadowed by a flushed and rumpled Buffy.

He looked around, expecting minions. "Red, what are you on about?"

Willow pointed to the bird with a shaking finger. Then she reached into the supply closet and pulled out a long-handled dust mop, which she presented to Spike.

"You have to kill it!"

Buffy's eyes widened. "Will, isn't that a little drastic? It's a little bird, not Rodan."

Willow just shook her head and began frantically pulling the shades down, so the bird killing could commence. "Everybody knows that if a bird flies into your house, it means someone close to you is going to die. Unless you kill the bird! Right away!"

Spike looked at the mop doubtfully. "With this? Don't you have a tennis racket?"

Buffy shook her head. "Mom didn't play." Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me you believe in the sparrow of doom!"

Spike shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Well, in my day, even a singing teakettle was a sign. If a girl sewed a dress without throwing any stitches, it meant she'd die before she wore it. And not stopping the rocking chair after you stood up was bad luck. Very bad luck."

Buffy tossed her head in exasperation. "How very cheery. Your jog down memory lane warms the cockles of my heart."

Willow coughed. "Guys! The bird! Remember?"

The sparrow blinked down at them, and Willow shivered.

***************************************************************

Angel felt a presence at his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Cordelia's voice was gentle.

Angel shook his head and echoed Buffy. "No, not really."

He leaned his forehead against the cool wall. Why, Buffy, why? Of all men, she had to pick his insolent childe. Even as a pup, he was a flawed, improbable creature who dreamed high, fell hard, and found his joy in the forbidden. He hated Angelus--and any other creature--who lacked his passion. Angel had felt the harsh lick of those burning desires, and they were all consuming. Could any human survive it? Didn't Buffy understand the price she'd pay, and that no love was worth such a sacrifice of self. Dear lord, the price of it all! That was why he gave her up.

Cordelia laid her bright head against his shoulder and Angel tentatively stroked the tawny strands. He remembered her earlier conversation with Lorne. "Tell me, Cordy, how long do we mourn our lovers?"

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "For eternity, of course."

*******************************************************

"That's it. No more." Buffy stood up and seized the mop from Spike. "The bird goes free."

"Now, just a minute, Slayer---"

Willow, armed with a plunger, swung wildly at the dive-bombing sparrow. "We've almost got him, Buffy!"

"No! End of discussion!" Buffy marched to the kitchen door and yanked it open. "Fly free, birdie, fly free!"

The three of them stood and watched as the bird flew out the open door. It was gone in a flutter of delicate wings.

**********************************************************************

Angel made his way through the sewers, carefully stepping around suspicious pools of moisture. "Watch out, Fred. Don't get your feet wet."

The thin, doe-eyed girl shot him a baleful look. She was in a rare funk. Fred was an east girl to have around, because she rarely nursed a grouch. And bright! Smarter than the rest of the team combined! "I don’t see why I had to come."

"Because you'll like Dawn. And if someone else is there, she might not slam the door in my face. She never liked me much. I scared Joyce, and Dawn never forgot."

"Oh. Gotcha."

He'd gone to Sunnydale, after Glory, to see Buffy laid in her secret grave. After, they'd all sat in the Summers living room, encased in numbness. Silence reigned over the scene, and Angel hadn't dared break it to ask why Spike and Dawn were huddled together like refugees; bandaged, hollow-eyed, lost. And when it was done, he hadn't had the heart to stay a moment longer, even to shake the truth out of Spike. It wouldn't have taken much. Not that night. He'd left the Hellmouth before sunrise, and never returned since. There were too many memories there, too many ghosts of killers and the killed.

Fred held the door while Angel ran from the sewer to the building with his head buried beneath his jacket. He didn't challenge the sun much, unlike Spike, who liked to make a flamboyant, flaming entrance wherever he went. Stakes, sunlight, and now the Slayer. He danced with all three, the fool.

The lobby was swanky, by anyone's standards. "This way." Angel and Fred waited as several people filed out of the stairwell.

Fred turned to him. "Angel, can I ask you something?"

"Sure." He fidgeted nervously.

Fred scuffed her toe across the linoleum. "Do I look like I have a bowl on my head?"

*******************************************************

Willow sighed and sipped her tea. Every now and then, she shot a look in Buffy's direction.

Buffy ignored her, and feigned intense interest in the Walmart flier. They needed a new toaster, thanks to Tim Taylor over there.

"C'mon, Red. It's not that bad. Tweety probably had the wrong house."' Spike cajoled a tiny smile from Willow. "Here, you can read Dilbert first." He thrust the funnies at her.

Willow continued to sulk. "The morning Tara's mom died, their milk cow got loose. They woke up and there was Flossie, looking right in the picture window! And the dog howled all night."

Spike whistled. "Bad sign, those."

Buffy looked from one to the other. "Have you two been sniffing paint chips?."

******************************************************

"I have something in my shoe."

Fred sat down and began unlacing her sneaker. Angel paused on the stairs, sighing impatiently as Fred picked at a particularly stubborn knot.

"I'll meet you in the upstairs hall, okay? It might take me a minute to find the right apartment anyway."

He continued up the steps, taking them three at a time.

***************************************************************

Wesley didn't even recognize the man in the mirror.

He was harder, leaner, with a five o'clock shadow that threatened to flourish into a full beard. But mostly, it was the eyes, dark and deep, smudged with rings of purple-pink. He didn't sleep much, or eat, just drank scotch and watched from the windows, standing still, barely breathing. He listened to the city, for the things it might reveal. The answers had to be somewhere, after all.

He could be a rogue demon hunter, now, if he had the heart.

Wes poured himself another shot and sank into the armchair where he'd spent most of the last two years, listlessly attuned to the world outside, to the clatter of passerby, the rumble of storms, the rise and fall of storefronts. During the year, yellow buses hissed by, filled with the bright, moving boys and girls of school age. With children named Connor, perhaps. Wesley wiped at his rheumy eyes. The tears were from the sting of the whiskey, of course.

Wes leaned back and lost himself in the salvation of soft music drifting from underneath the layer of dust that coated everything he owned. He closed his eyes and listened.

So bitter, so right.

***********************************************************

"427B…427B…"

Angel moved down the hall, peering at the numbers on the doors. Was it his imagination, or was his eyesight not what it used to be?

Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe shanshu was only a breath away.

****************************************************************

Cordelia's scream echoed through the Hyperion, shattering the morning like a brick hurled through glass.

Her cry bounced off the old walls and brought Lorne running. He found her crouched on the office floor, clutching her head. He knelt next to her and carefully laid a green hand on her shoulder.

Gunn hovered in the office doorway. "I thought the visions didn't hurt anymore?"

Lorne shot him a look. "Hello, McFly! Obviously, this one does."

Cordelia twitched violently. "Angel! Angel stop! Don't go there!" Her voice rose higher and higher as she yelled into the scene that spread itself across her second sight like a scrolling reel of film. Lorne and Gunn looked at each other, horror dawning. Cordelia began to cry, flapping her hands helplessly at heaven.

***************************************************

Angel couldn't enter, but the door was open a crack, revealing a sun-washed apartment, tastefully decorated in hues of cream and oatmeal.

He raised his fist to knock.

And never saw her step from the maintenance closet behind him, stake raised expertly for the killing blow. She knew how it was done.

She was a Summers girl. Before.

******************************************************

Cordelia screamed as she watched the stake enter Angel's back, biting through leather and passing into the ashy cloud that had walked the earth in the form of a man for more than two hundred years. Later, in her age, she would remember that it sparkled more than most.

With him in those last seconds, she felt a stark and painful unity with the dying. She wept as his last thought swept across her senses like rainy wind: This is how it ends, then. This is how it ends. Eventually, she lay still as his life force--thoughts, needs, hopes, memories and dreams--poured into hers like sparkling wine filling a goblet. Such hunger, such sorrow! She saw his boyhood and his turning, tasted his love, determination, and pride; looked on his battles, triumphs, and defeats. It was a bitter, bitter tale, as bracing as the ale that flowed that night Darla found him.

Cordelia saw it all! One life ended, another began. There were rocky coasts and wagon wheels; a harvest moon; taverns blazing with light. Gypsies dancing, cities burning. A woman's sharp fingernails, and her sharper teeth; another's warm breath. Bubblegum kisses. Oh. Buffy. Cordelia recognized herself in the mix by the telltale rustling of pompoms and faintest scent of gardenia. The brutal parts were dominated by four figures, framed in firelight, the sad ones by lullabies and the overwhelming taste of brandied pears.

***************************************************

Fred stood frozen in shock, staring down at the pile of gray ash. Her instincts were screaming at her to run, but she felt frozen, unable to move from the quicksand of surprise and sudden grief.

"Oh, Angel…" There was nothing left. Just this. Fred's knees gave out and she sat down hard. With shaking hands, she reached out. And that was how Gunn found her, mere minutes later.

Kneeling in the doorway, gathering what remained.

TBC

**Notes. Wes was listening to Les Mis. I don't own it.

**Coming up next: Dawn did a naughty thing. But why? And how? Betcha Buffy's gonna be pissed off about it, too. Duck, Spike! Run, Willow!