disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
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THE ROAD TO MADNESS


"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

Angel stared at the closed, mahogany coffin. The grain of
the wood swept off into the darkness, muddled by the
fuzziness of night, amidst a flurry of pastel-colored
blooms cascading over the casket like waterfalls. Roses,
daffodils, daisies, chrysanthemums, carnations...

And he felt cold. Still and silent, bathed in the chilly
light of the moon.

He wondered what would happen if the wood encasement creaked
open with an echoing moan and Buffy stepped out. "Hi guys.
Fooled you there, didn't I..." And she would smile and
reveal her new, dripping fangs...

For a moment, he found sanctuary behind closed eyes. Closed
against the bitter chill, but not preventing it.

"Who's for lunch? Xander, you look meaty... Oooh, Angel.
If I feed on you, would it suck out your soul?" Buffy was
saying. Buffy was salivating. Buffy was.

The dank smell of cut grass pervaded his nostrils.

He hadn't just been contemplating that. He couldn't have
been. That wouldn't have been Buffy.

No.

Very cold.

The wind was singing. A sad requiem if there ever was one.
He knew they hadn't wanted to have the funeral at night,
and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful or not.

"Where's a nice, tasty mortal when you need one? Angel,
come bring me some breakfast..."

The single rose he held in his hand bit thorns into his
palms, but he clutched it tighter, embraced the pain.
Cordelia glanced down, worried, as red droplets of blood
fell from his recently mended hands into the wet, green
grass beneath him, but the humble priest continued, and she
didn't want to make a scene.

He felt Wesley's presence nearby, behind him to the left.
And he was grateful for it.

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me
beside the still waters."

He was wearing a tux. The first time in a long time.

< You don't have a tux, do you? >

Buffy, I'm so sorry...

He inhaled the wet scent of death. Breathed it in and let
it flood and drown his lifeless lungs. Filled himself with
it and let it into his veins.

A storm front was coming in.

"He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of
righteousness for his name's sake."

Funerals... In his life, he had only been to one. His own.
There had been no reason to go to any others.

A painful realization.

< When I kiss you, I want to die... >

God, no, Buffy. I would have told you not to kiss me
then... I didn't realize...

Willow was crying softly next to Dawn, muffled, into her
hands, and Dawn was sobbing as well, but all of the other
Scoobies held all their weeping in their faces with sad,
crushed looks. Giles was staring off into space, as though
he felt he could commune with Buffy that way.

Someone was fiddling with a ring on his or her hand, Angel
could hear it as it scraped at the flesh. Bruised. Ripped
at skin.

"Yea, though I walk though the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod
and thy staff they comfort me."

No comfort.

Cold.

A breeze ruffled around him, a cool whisper against his
skin, and a ripple of thunder peeled across the clouds
above, rumbling in his chest.

He felt his world crumbling around him. Tumbling down, and
the view was spinning. Spinning. Someone grabbed him and
held him upright. Wesley. Cordelia. Both of them had him
in a death grip.

Standing, standing. Stand in the face of adversity. Stand
in the face of death.

Stand at the death of Buffy.

"Aaaaaaaangel, where's my O-Pos?"

He started to shake. No, no, nonono.

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth
over."

Blood. Blood runneth over. "That's the spirit, Angel-poo.
Think of food while I'm starving."

He took a step back. The others were starting to notice him
now. "Go away," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut with
all the ferociousness of a kitten.

There was no denial.

He was actually wishing for...

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Buffy pouted.

"All right, Angel. If you don't want me here, I'll go.
Maybe I'll snack on the angels... Do you think they're as
tasty as you?"

I wouldn't know. God, Buffy, I wouldn't know. And I never,
_ever_ will...

_Please_ stay...

"Ashes to ashes."

"No, don't go," he whispered. "We can curse you..." he
murmured, unaware that he was speaking aloud, and that
Cordelia was working again with the back rub while Wesley
held him upright. He reached out and could almost feel her
there, fading away into the darkness. Fading away...

They would have lead him away, but it was over.

"Dust to dust."

And then he was back, staring at her casket, slammed back
into the chilly darkness like a diver hitting the water from
fifteen meters up. The crowd was slowly dispersing. People
were giving him their condolences. Willow, even Xander...
Giles.

"Thank you for coming, Angel," he said stiffly, and then the
watcher was gone.

"Angel, would you like to--"

"I just. I want to be alone. Please," he pleaded,
interrupting Cordelia's soft-spoken question. Cordelia
nodded and lead Wesley off into the darkness towards his
battered Belvedere.

He heard the engine start as they drove away to the motel.

The night was still new.

He stood and stared at the casket.

And stared.

It can't really be true...

And stared.

A soft voice interrupted his commune. "Sir, we, um, we have
to bury the--"

"Go ahead," he choked.

The coffin was lowered. Dirt spewed forth with giant, metal
shovels and heaving grunts. Still he stared, unblinking.

Dead.

He could tell it made the men nervous.

But soon, they were gone and he was alone again. Alone with
the freshly turned dirt and musty smell of Earth.

And the moon covered over and the sky began to weep. Fat,
wet, bursting tears that hit the ground with healthy splats
and then jumped up onto his ankles from the developing
puddles. He let them soak him to the bone, chill him
through the marrow. Cold.

Sinking in the mud.

His long coat and sopping pants weighed him down with the
sky's grief.

Cold hand on his shoulder. "I knew your gel-encrusted hair
couldn't stick up all the time..."

Angel snapped into focus at the strangely melancholy voice
of his grand childe. "Spike," he growled. "Get away from
here. I'll kill you, I swear..."

Water droplets flew off of his face and spewed into the
humid air as he let his incisors lengthen into tiny, needle
points.

What Angel wasn't expecting, however, was for Spike to hit
him clean across the face and send him tumbling to his
knees with a jarring smack. A hollow thud resounded as
Angel's supporting arms gave out and he was in the dirt.
"In the state you're in, you couldn't kill yourself, and
you're not a moving target."

Spike's voice was woeful as he collapsed into the wet Earth
beside Angel, who was lying crushed and broken on the carpet
of sopping grass. Little bits and pieces of green blades,
cut from a recent pass of the mower, drifted off the surface
of the green ground and stuck to his face and coat and hair.
And he was wet and cold and alone, and he didn't even care
enough to get up.

He didn't even have enough fight left in him to complain
further about Spike's presence, as much as it would have
angered him. Before. Collapsing, he just let himself relax
into the wet, muddy, matted Zoysia.

"I loved her too, you know. Don't think you have the bloody
monopoly, Sire," Spike added, his voice shaky, but the
nomenclature of Sire was uttered with such sarcasm, Angel
didn't doubt it was meant to bite.

Angel heaved and curled up, in a racking frenzy of silent,
dry sobs.

"She was a damn good Slayer," Spike said, his tone crying,
even if he himself wasn't. "I would have come to the...
Well, you know I don't do funerals."

Angel started to shiver and shake and tremble and quake,
staring off at some greenish black point in space. Spike.
Spike was in mourning for what should have been an enemy...
Buffy. BuffyBuffyBuffy... Too much.

His teeth started to chatter.

Spike pulled out his lighter and lit up a smoke, inhaling
loudly. "For you, Slayer," Spike proclaimed as he took a
drag.

Angel found it hard to contemplate how the damn thing could
stay lit as the rain continued to dump down from the clouds
in pouring sheets, streaming off the planes of his freezing
skin, beading on his hair, dripping off the point at the end
of his nose.

Drowned rat.

The smoke stung his eyes.

For a long silence of silences, they sat. Cold and still.
Neither one speaking.

And then Spike was surrounding him. "Come on, Sire," he
said, this time not hostile or sarcastic, or anything. It
was a tone Spike hadn't reserved for him for years. He
was cradled against Spike's smaller, thinner body. "Get
up, yah big poof."

Spike shoved against his ribs and shoulder blades, trying
to get him to move. Tugged at his coat.

Angel had neither the will nor desire. "Just leave me for
the sun."

Spike laughed sadly. "That's shit, Sire, and you know it.
Get up."

Smack.

"Get up!"

Angel curled up against Spike's lithe body, closer with each
prod and kick. "Will..." Lost and tiny and gone. He
clutched at his blond progeny's sopping duster, latching on
to the only familiar thing left.

Because it was all foreign now.

All strange and new and different.

And cold.

The shivering began anew and the world tipped upside down
as Spike threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
Not one verbal jab, nothing.

All was silence as two frozen bodies disappeared into the
night.

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