Last night I tried to leave
Cried so much I could not believe
She was the same girl I fell in love with long ago" – Hootie and the Blowfish "Let Her Cry"

"I wanted to see you walking backwards,
and get the sensation of you coming home
and I wanted to see you walking away from me
without the sensation of you leaving me alone" – Counting Crows "Time and Time Again"

December, 2015- Somewhere on the battlefields outside Sunnydale, California

Angel felt the blood dripping down his chin, but didn't wipe it away. His lip stung and he knew it was split clear down the middle, a side effect from a recent fight with a Morgallah demon.

He picked his way through the trenches, his gaze fixed on the bright splashes of red the poppies crawling up the dirt and tufts of grass made in the endless grey of the landscape. They looked like blood. His chest hurt as he caught a glimpse of his second in command, Charles Gunn, who was scanning the battlefield with worried eyes. The dark brown orbs turned to him then and Angel suddenly had an inkling. Something was wrong. He wondered how things could get any worse than they already were.

They'd already lost Xander at the beginning. Giles came later, as did Cordelia. Willow had succumbed in a fight saving Tara a year ago, and her Wiccan lover followed- dying of a broken heart. Anya remained at the frontlines as a nurse, but she was a shadow of her former self without Xander.

(Buffy)

"Angel."

He heard Wesley's voice and just knew. Spinning slowly, he looked at his friend dizzily and whispered, "No."

"I'm so sorry." The former Watcher hesitated. "They say she doesn't have long… it might be the time to… say goodbye."

Angel stared sickly at the poppies, (poppies… for remembrance) and heaved, vomiting and coughing against the side of the small hill, choking on his own breath which seemed too thick for his throat. "Buffy…" he murmured in stunned amazement. It couldn't happen. He knew it couldn't. She had told him so this morning, as the first lights of dawn streaked the sky. Her hair had been dunked in cold water to wash it, and dripped down her shoulders as her eyes locked with his. He remembered the cool feel of her lips against his, their teeth bumping slightly as she kissed him and whispered, "Just another day, baby. Want me to get you some coffee?"

He had caught her around the waist and lifted her up, so they were face to face, muttering, "I hate you going out alone. Come back to me, all right?"

She had laughed, her Buffy laugh, and pecked his nose, saying, "I always do, don't I? Don't be a worrywart. I gotta go. See you tonight." And then she had jumped in the waiting jeep with the rest of the team, leaving him with a wave and a smile.

His soul screamed. Ignoring the concerned glances from his friends and members of the army, he entered the medicine tent and it was all a blur of white and red crosses. Silver trays of instruments glinted underneath the canvas, and smells of gunpowder, shrapnel and flesh wafted through his nose, into his brain. He knew where she was… he could feel her. Travelling across the grass floor, he found her at the end, on a cot all alone, with a small candle burning by the bedside. She was a hero to the people she was trying to save. Already a legend.

His wife, too. Above all else, she was his wife. A flesh and blood woman who knew his secrets. Who knew how to make him smile. She was the only one who could do that. Who was going to tell him jokes at night now? Who was going to stave off the dread of battle… soothe his wounds… kiss him goodbye in the mornings over cups of coffee? Dropping to his knees, he felt for her hand, interlacing their fingers. She didn't open her eyes, at first, simply smiled and said, "I was wondering when you were coming."

He kissed her fingers gently. "You said this morning not to worry." It came out like an accusation, but he didn't mean it like that. Or maybe he did. He wasn't sure. Could he blame her for dying?

Buffy opened her eyes and grimaced. Purple bruises streaked the sides of her face, running down her neck to disappear underneath the thin black shirt she wore. He could see the blood spreading underneath her ribs and cursed whatever weapon had run her through. His beautiful, beautiful love.

"What happened?" he asked quietly and she shrugged, fury burning beneath her skin.

"They surprised us. We lost two. I didn't even think of the Master, you know," she shook her head and he could see her wince with the pain. "I thought I had everything covered and didn't even bargain on him coming back from the dead. We were about a mile from the camp and they just fell on us as if they knew we were coming all along."

Pressing her hand to his face, he watched her cough, a thin stream of blood sliding from the corner of her mouth. Picking up a cloth, he wiped it away, leaving a film of poppy-red across her cheek. "I don't…" he broke off, his belly aching. "I don't think I can go on… I can't live without you, Buffy."

"Yes you can," she said implacably. "The battle's almost over." She smiled tenderly, and to him, her teeth looked like shattered windows. Windows to a life they almost had… it was so close he could reach out and touch it, feel it, taste it. "You'll finally have what we worked for, baby. That's all I want."

"I don't want it without you," he argued, despairing. She was giving up- she wasn't fighting. "Please… just try. Try and get better. I…" he held her ring finger, stroking the cold diamond adorning it. "We're gonna have children, love. And a house. And we're going to be normal. You just have to fight a little longer…"

"No," she said softly, touching his face, his tears. "You know it's too late for me. I have to go on. I have to…" she looked straight into his eyes. "I've died before. It's not so bad. And I'll always have the memory… the knowledge. That I loved you. That I married you…" she paused, her gaze far away. "And that's enough."

"No." He shook his head, stumbling over his words. "It's not enough. I'm not Dawn, Buffy. You can't soothe me with a few words. You CAN'T leave me, do you understand? I won't let you. Not now. Not with all—"

"I have to," she uttered. "I'm going to die. No one can stop it." Pressing a hand to her broken belly, she winced at the pain. "You have to protect Dawn. She's the only Summers' left now."

Leaning down, he curved his face against her neck and felt the stroke of her hand in his hair. She did this sometimes after they made love in the nights. It was always so cold that they had to cuddle all night, for body heat. His wife would laugh and say that she liked freezing weather. He'd laugh to, and they would kiss softly and hunker down in the sleeping bag, their skin hungering for each other only. He was never going to have those nights again. God, his heart hurt.

"Isn't this funny?" she laughed, a hollow sound. "How many times have I died now? You'd think the Powers would let it go already."

He didn't laugh. He couldn't even speak. His throat closed over and he felt his bones ache with the urge to slit his wrists and make her drink. He could make her live forever… no. No… he knew she would never accept that life. And he could never bring himself to make her suffer through it. "Buffy?"

"Yes?" she whispered, a listless note to her voice. She was weakening, he could feel it. Slowly, his reason for living was dying.

"Will you haunt me?" he asked blankly, and she breathed out, her chest moving with difficulty.

"No," she answered finally, misery filling her tone. "I want you to be happy. Without me. I want you to move on… be strong like you've always been."

Cupping her cheek with his hand, he kissed her and tasted the sorrow of so many tomorrows never reached in their tears. Her breath hitched and her fingers closed over his. "Hold me," she asked him and he drew her into his arms, her ear against his heart. He caressed her hair and back, murmuring utterances in his own language, felt the hot blood dripping down his chest from her split midsection.

"I love you, Buffy Summers," he kissed her forehead and sobbed softly against her hair.

"Love…" she slurred, and looked into his eyes one final time, smiling just slightly before she slipped away, her chest ceasing to rise. Angel closed his eyes to the pain, holding her in his embrace like she was going to crumble into dust and fade away with the wind.

~~~

Angel walked out of the medicine tent hours later. His shirt was streaked with dried blood from the body of his wife. Staring up at the sky with detachment, he gazed at the cold stars, which burned against a frail moon. The chill to the air made him automatically rub his arms. He wondered what he would do tonight for warmth. She wasn't there to hold him. She wasn't there so he could hold her.

Glancing towards their tent, he shook his head slightly, and imagined their cot with the blanket she had made for their first wedding anniversary ("Shitty quilting," she'd laughed. "but at least I tried. My sewing teacher would be so proud.") and pictured the sunshine of her hair, and felt his throat choke with vomit. Falling to his knees, he threw up into the dirt and sobbed, feeling his ribs caving in on themselves. Collapsing, he rolled over and the sky mocked him. Her ghost drifted in the shadows, her eyes and hands and skin glinted just out of reach from his fingertips. He wanted to die.

"Angel."

It was Wesley. He ignored him, sitting up and rubbing his eyes wearily. He was so tired. If only there was some way he could change this. He'd saved her life once hadn't he? Giving his own back to the Powers that Be so he could halt Armageddon. Maybe he could talk to them. Maybe he could tell them he didn't want his Shanshu if they'd just bring his wife back.

And then suddenly he knew. He knew what he had to do.

"Wesley," he stood up and looked at his old friend, who regarded him with trepidation. "I want the sphere you found last year. I need to go back in time."

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