disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
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THE FRAY

"Here, I want you to use this," Angel whispered.

Buffy looked up at him as he brought the claymore before him
in a gesture of offering -- a priest kneeling before an
idol. Angel watched as her eyes trailed downwards to the
blade, sweeping across it with a long gaze. "But, it's
yours..." she protested weakly.

He glanced at his claymore, and then back to her, his eyes
filled with something he couldn't quite identify as any
particular emotion. "I won't need it."

The skin around her lips and eyes ticked, and twitched, more
evidence of her discomposure than words ever could be. Her
clutched fists grew even more white-knuckled, and he could
see her chest heaving with tiny, hitching breaths.

She was trying very hard. She really was.

His eyes wandered. The others were already staking out the
grounds, Giles and Wesley discussing strategy in an almost
heated debate. Everyone else examined the terrain,
deciding where it would be easiest to trip up the opponent,
and where it would be easiest for the opponent to trip them
up...

"But..." His gaze was brought back to Buffy's trembling,
shivering voice. She sat there, strong, and cool, like
stone, but her voice, her face, her eyes... They all let
him know what she was really feeling.

He shoved it into her hands, and she reflexively grabbed it.
Her hands clutched around the blade, a little line of blood
developing on her palm where she gripped it too hard.
Seeing her look of almost physical illness, he took her and
held her in his arms. The sword clanked uselessly from her
lax grip.

"I'll be fine, Buffy. I promise," he whispered in her ear,
running his hand along her back, which was starting to
tremble as well.

He didn't tell her that he was lying, this time, and she was
too distracted to notice. He was lying through his teeth.
Far from fine, he felt weird, and cold inside.

Dead, again.

Even deader than before he had met the sunrise.

Like he was willfully surrendering his soul into the arms of
Wolfram and Hart with a nice gift card to accompany it.

Because this time he was leaving her, and she was still
alive. Just like he had promised he wouldn't. Just like he
had sworn to himself that he would never do again. Never
again.

She sighed into his chest, warm soft breath flowing across
the cotton of his shirt, a soft caress. "I don't want you
to go. There's another way... I know there is. They
wouldn't bring you back just so you could..."

He felt a tremor race through him at the lost sound that
dripped from her tone, drowned it with the undercurrent of
sadness. "I sometimes think Their sense of humor leaves
something to be desired..." he joked weakly, gripping her
tightly.

It didn't help.

A sob racked her tiny body, silent. "Shhh, Buffy. I
promise, I'll come back." He rocked her back and forth
like a baby. Just like Cordelia had done for him.

Her shoulders drooped as she looked up at him. "How?"

"Take cover!" Xander yelled, running back to where Buffy
and Angel were perched, just as the Earth started to rumble
and shake. Any normal resident would have assumed it an
earthquake. Angel felt the bones in his chest rattle with
vibration as the others came bounding backwards, and knew
that it wasn't.

Not an earthquake.

He closed his eyes as the air in the center of the open
space began to crackle and growl, screaming with a glittery
red sheen. The night began to burble and morph into a
melting ooze, until finally, the portal opened into flaming,
crimson brilliance, swirling outwards like an expanding
bubble until it was ten feet in diameter.

He felt Buffy's tiny hands clutching him.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no, no..."

"All right," Giles was saying. "Buffy, you're going to need
to take the obvious leader. Myself, Anya, and Xander will
be protecting Willow and Tara while they cast. The rest of
you can fight freely."

A pale hand was thrust in his face. Spike. "Come on, poof.
We've got Hell to pay..."

Angel smiled weakly and stood, but Buffy refused to let go.
"Buffy..." he whispered.

"Awww, don't worry, Slayer. You think I want an eternity in
Hell with this poof? I'll bring him back for you..." Spike
muttered, seeing the crushed gaze slathered across Buffy's
tearstained face.

Angel knew he was lying, as well. Spike knew he probably
wasn't coming back...

The blond vampire turned to him. "Let's go."

Angel turned to Buffy, stared at her long, and hard, until
she nodded. So subtle, he almost thought he was imagining
things until he heard her voice, soft and bright. Strong.
"Bring me back a souvenir, ok?" She gave him a weak smile.

"I'll bring back the whole Gothaim, if you want," he
replied, surprised at how steady he sounded. How
unaffected. Sad, but nothing near what he should be.

Nothing close to what he should be.

Perhaps it hadn't sunk in yet...

As the Mohras started flowing out of the portal, a long
writhing mass of gleaming weapons and jewels and pounding,
snarling mouths, pounding feet, he felt her frantic,
panicked breath against him. She gripped him, pulling him
into a kiss so devastating, he thought he would collapse
right there. Her soft lips swept across his own, silk to
flesh. Salty, sweet...

He felt himself falling into her.

Spike's hand was on his back. "Mate, we gotta go..." the
voice was hesitant. It sounded choked.

Giles and the others had already rushed out, the sound of
steel meeting steel in a vicious confrontation returned him
to himself.

"I'll be back," he whispered, pulling away from Buffy.

Her fingers fell away from his, collapsing into the dark
space around them. "I know."

They were both lying.

And they both knew it.

*****

Cordelia and Wesley were the first pair to leap into the
fray. And what a fray it was.

One of the Mohras was upon them at once, hacking, slashing.
Wesley hefted his mace before him, knowing that this would
be difficult. He had never preferred hand-to-hand over
long-distance fighting. Never. And, he knew that he was
good support in a rumble, but he was fighting with Cordelia.
And he would have to take the lead.

He marveled, for a moment, at how far Cordelia had come as
she held her small axe high, looking rather pissed off and
menacing despite her lack of size, or weight, or anything
else, really. "You stupid green guys piss me off," she
yelled as she took a swing at one. "Every time, with you,
it's apocalypse this. Apocalypse that..."

She barely dodged the foot that was aimed at her stomach.

Wesley swung his mace down, trying to distract it enough for
her to get in a killing blow. The Mohra bellowed and turned,
swinging its broadsword in a wide, arcing down sweep that
Wesley barely managed to block.

His muscles strained and shook and shuddered as he tried to
keep the deadly blade away from him. The sword was caught
in the spikes of the mace, but it wouldn't be for long. He
kept the mace up at an odd angle, making it as hard as
possible for the Mohra to disentangle from it.

Cordelia figured out what he was doing, and she swung around
with her baby axe, whacking the Mohra over the head, just
above the jewel. A terrible sucking sound enveloped the
space around them as her axe head embedded itself in mushy
green flesh. Glowing chartreuse ooze began to seep down
around the wound, and it stumbled, screaming in pain, but
continued to work at freeing its blade.

"I missed! Crap!" Cordelia screeched. She started leaping
up, attempting to grab the axe handle and try again, but the
Mohra was moving around too much, and she couldn't grab it.

Wesley grit his teeth, and yanked downward, hoping surprise
would work to his advantage. "Yes, Cordelia, I can see
that," he grunted as he whipped his mace back and down onto
the Mohra's head.

The little axe was knocked free on the downswing. The
upswing caught the Mohra under the jaw and the broadsword
went skittering out of its hands as it tried to recover from
the blow.

Cordelia made a flying leap towards her axe, but when she
got there, she crouched down on her haunches gingerly and
picked it up. Nothing like the classic duck-and-roll weapon
retrieval that Angel and Buffy always did.

The Mohra tried to kick him, but Wesley leapt back.

He saw something moving in the corner of his eye. A split
second glance revealed Angel and Spike, creeping towards the
portal. For a moment, he felt a pang, deep in his gut, but
he refused to let it fester.

Now was not the time.

Sighing as Cordelia came charging back, he refocused on the
Mohra.

*****

"Yeah! That's the way I like it!" Gunn cried as his second
Mohra crumbled away into a glitter of light. With a burst
of muscles, he arched his axe high to save it from smacking
into the pavement at the loss of resistance.

His grin of triumph ended as soon as it had begun. There
was a pack of Mohra's heading over towards Spike and Angel,
the obvious intent of cutting them off at the pass.

He ran over, ignoring the threat to himself as one Mohra not
yet engaged took a vicious swing at him. The sparkle of
light as it exploded under some unseen blow told him he
didn't need to turn around and face it. He didn't even take
the time to wonder what the Hell had killed it.

"Yo Angel! This way!" he shouted, motioning past himself
with his free hand.

Angel switched directions, followed closely by Spike, and
Gunn ushered them past. The two drooling Mohras that had
been tracking them lost their interest in them and focused
on him.

Two menacing morning stars stared whistling in the air,
swinging ominously a few feet over his head.

Smiling, he lifted his axe.

This was exactly how he wanted it.

Executioner style in reverse, his axe flew backwards and
caught one of the morning stars in mid air. The large
spiked ball clanked around and stuck itself in the grooves
of Gunn's peculiarly made axe as the swing continued,
collapsing into the face of the Mohra that wielded it.

Explosion.

Bright light.

One left.

Glancing around, he saw that Spike and Angel were gone --
They must have made it through the portal.

"You want this quick, or slow?" Gunn asked, the grin
returning to his face.

The Mohra leapt at him, flinging its morning star to the
ground when it realized it was useless against Gunn's
swift axe and opting for brutal hand-to-hand.

With a vicious war cry, Gunn plunged into battle again.

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