disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
-----
THE ROAD TO SANITY


Angel winced as he heard the door slam behind him, sending
him tumbling back into the world with a hefty sigh. For a
moment, he simply stood there, not knowing what had
happened. One second, he had been trying to leave the
crypt, and the next, Spike had been there in his usual
obnoxious way, and he had caught that familiar tang.
Buffy's own personal scent.

Most mortals didn't realize that, to vampires, they all had
their own particular odor. A flavor. Some were
tantalizing, some refreshing, others nauseating -- it was
partially what made them all such captivating prey. No two
were exactly the same.

Perfectly unique.

Buffy. He sighed. Fresh roses and dew drops. He could
remember drinking that endless olfactory heaven the first
time he had met her, and just about every other time he saw
her. That soft, sweetened scent of long distant flowers
muted with rainfall was one of the things that had pulled
him back. After Hell. He had recognized that well before
he had even recognized that he was home. Home.

Home was fresh roses and dew drops.

Spike had it all over him. He had been close to her when
she had died. Close to her, where Angel had failed to be,
and Angel had gotten lost in that. Lost in the glorious
scent that was Buffy and only Buffy, raining across his
skin, tempting him, taunting him, begging him... Touch me.
Touch me. Love me...

Her skin had always cried for it.

He wondered if Buffy had ever known what that had done to
him.

Closing his eyes, he winced, remembering, at first, all the
too short days he had spent with her in his arms, by his
side, and then he came screaming back to reality. Her face
morphed into Spike's stricken features, and the guilt
crushed him once again. He really hadn't meant to get so
carried away, and he couldn't remember a time when Spike had
looked so... Affected.

Angel was willing to admit that Will might be fighting on the
side of good. He had seen stranger things. But Will's face.
That slapped, biting, pained look. < I didn't tell you to
stop? > That had cemented it.

And he had loved Buffy as well. An easy thing to do. He was
surprised the whole world didn't come running at her, begging
for just one short hour of her company. But then, he _was_
rather partial.

Feeling his shoulders fall under some invisible weight, he
bit back, a bitter grimace.

Buffy. Dead.

Dead roses.

"Ummm, Angel?"

He drifted down out of space with a reluctant blink and
shake of his head. Dawn was tugging on his arm.

"Sorry," he whispered as the pain returned. Clarity was
back, replacing the wistful contemplation he had enjoyed
for those few seconds. He had felt almost peaceful, then.
Now, the ripping, tearing feeling was back in his chest.
Phantom pains? So real...

Was it possible for a soul to fall apart?

Dawn had lapsed into silence, and he couldn't help but
notice how beaten she looked. Tired, and slumped, and
puffy-faced with a metric ton of grief on her back. Too
much grief for such a young soul to carry with it.

That was when he remembered that Dawn wasn't technically
young at all.

Still too much.

Too much for anyone.

He understood, because he felt it, too.

She stared at her feet as they walked through the cold, dark
cemetery. The air was heaving with mist and threatening
rain with its angry fists, but no rain fell. For now.
Distant thunder rumbled through the crackling air. He could
feel it vibrating in the deep pit of his chest more than he
could actually hear it.

After several minutes, she stopped. "What happened?" She
was looking at him, blue eyes wide and curious, and for a
moment, she looked like she had forgotten that the only
reason he was here was because her sister was gone and she
was never coming back.

Buffy. Dead.

He stared back at her for a moment, raising an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"

She gestured at him. "Well, your coat is gone, and you're
so covered with muck that if you were anywhere near to being
your normal immaculate self, you'd be preparing to commit
homicide, just to get into a nice, steaming shower."

For the first time, he glanced down at himself. His suit
was ruined, the mud was smeared into the weave, little
flecks of grass clippings and dirt spatters were all over
him, like a second coat of paint. He had left his duster
behind because of Dawn. He didn't need her to be guessing
what was smeared all over it, thanks to Spike. But the
rest...

He wrinkled his nose. "You just had to point that out to
me, eh?" Letting out a dry chuckle, he was surprised to
find that it hurt just to laugh. The feeling was worse than
any curse could ever be.

She returned his chuckle with a small smile. "You're
avoiding the question." She started walking again. "You
know, you're usually the only one I _don't_ have to remind
that I'm not a little kid anymore. I can take it..."

He sighed. "Not this, Dawn. You can never be old enough
for this."

"I saw you at the funeral, Angel. Who were you talking to?
Are you going crazy?" Her voice was choked, and drawn, and
cracking with such underlying sadness that he wanted to take
her in his arms and hug it away. Just like he always had
with Buffy when she was sad.

When Buffy was alive.

And then a terrible shudder of guilt. He had wasted her
funeral with idle, desperate wishes, rather than communing
with the simple fact that Buffy was dead. And no wish, be
it self-serving or selfless, would ever bring her back.
After so many years of it, he knew with intimate reality
that death was a fixture in permanence. It was done, or not
done yet. But never undone, at least not by any goodly
means. Was this what it had been like for her, that summer
three years ago? He hoped that it wasn't.

"No one. I wasn't talking to anyone. I just... came a
little unhinged."

She stopped again, so abruptly that he almost plowed right
into her. "You're not going to kill yourself, are you?"

He blinked. "No," he answered automatically. Pain, in his
chest. Bitter, cold, crushing pain. Would he? Would he
really? Perhaps he wouldn't even need to.

Cordelia _had_ had a vision.

It was always so easy to slip up in battle.

He shook his head, realizing that for some reason, he was
able to think objectively about this. Strange, detached,
and cold. Like he had been before that night with Darla.

So easy to slip up...

Dawn sniffled beside him, bringing him back to life and the
bitter night. "You _are_ going to, aren't you?"

"I said no," he answered quietly as she pointedly removed
his hand from her shoulder.

Her eyes hardened. "But you're lying."

"I don't know if I am or not." Honest. Cold. Brutal. He
had never realized how harsh the truth was, until he saw
its consequences reflected in Dawn's eyes.

The crushing. It felt worse, now.

She hit him in the chest and shoved away. "How can you say
that? Buffy died so you could live. Buffy died for you,
and me, and everyone else who doesn't deserve it, and you
don't even want to let her gift mean _anything_ to you."

A heaving, strangling sigh. "Dawn, I realize she gave a
gift, but--" he choked, but she cut him off.

"But what? You want to return it?! Well, you can't. She's
DEAD. Get over it, or I'll have to lose a brother too."

Shock. He stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to
say. He hadn't known she cared so much... "I didn't
mean--" he tried to backpedal. Interrupted again.

"How can you be so blasé about this? How can you just be
like, 'Well, I don't know if I'm going to kill myself, or
not, Dawn. I'll have to check my schedule and see if I can
work it in and then I'll get back to you,'" she screamed
furiously at him, her puffy eyes streaking with tears.
Cascading down her face like tiny drops of pain -- each and
every one.

Something set him off. He didn't know what, but something
reached out and set him flaming. He started to tremble.
"Yes!" he growled.

"Is that what you want to hear?" he continued. "That, even
now, I'm contemplating how I can go into a battle and never
come out? Do you want to hear that I was talking to some
figment of Buffy at that funeral? That she was a vampire?
Do you want to hear how I managed to get myself so wrapped
up in what little that lingers of her on Spike's skin, that
I mistook him for her? Do you? Is _that_ what you wanted
to hear? That I'm falling apart?! Well, I am. Are you
happy now?!" He was shouting. Shouting, and he couldn't
stop himself. The anger came forth, falling off of his
heart in tidal waves.

"No," she answered, lower lip trembling as she slouched
under his menacing glare.

He didn't even notice. "She meant everything to me, Dawn.
Even after I left, for a while, she was the only reason I
kept myself alive from day to day. The only reason I forced
myself to bear the pain. And then, I started feeling the
pain less, and less, partially because of Cordelia and the
others. But she was still the reason. She was always the
reason. And then when I found out I was going to Shanshu,
that was one of the first things I thought about... That
maybe after so much that I would _finally_ be able to have
what I want for more than three, heart wrenching years. But
now, it's all gone. Gone. No reason. And if I Shanshu,
what good will it do me? Give me a suntan?"

Tears were streaming down her face now. He stood there as
the scarlet tingeing his vision faded away into the blurry
darkness. Nothing but the crickets' orchestra made a sound
to accompany their aria.

And then he realized how much he had told her. Things he
had kept buried inside of him under the tightest wraps
possible. His chest hitched, body spasmed. "I shouldn't
have said that," he whispered. "Come on, I'll take you
home..." His voice was cracked and broken.

Buffy. Dead.

He grabbed at her hand, but she flinched away. "What's a
Shanshu?" She frantically wiped tears away from her
splotched face.

His eyes widened. "I... My reward. I'll become human
after I've atoned enough."

"Oh." She twiddled with her bracelet for a moment before
looking back up at him. "You never told Buffy." A
statement. Not a question.

He nodded. "I didn't want to make her wait for something
that might not even come until lifetimes after her..."

"You should have told her."

"I..."

"She died because she wanted to. Not because she had to..."

He looked down at the ground as he realized what Dawn was
really saying. That maybe Buffy could have been saved
before the whole mess with Glory had even started. And he
hadn't done it. For her own supposed good, he hadn't done
it.

Crushing. Crushing. Cold.

"Dawn, I'm sorry, I really..."

"Go ahead and kill yourself. I don't care," she huffed at
him and stalked off into the darkness.

He looked down at the ground for a moment, unable to watch
her retreating. And then, he noticed that something was
strange. Silent...

The crickets had stopped.

Head snapping up, he froze. "Dawn!" he called into the
darkness, his preternatural vision assuring him that she
wasn't far off yet. Fifty feet or so. "Dawn, stay where
you are and don't move!"

At first she appeared not to listen. "DAWN!" Her steps
faltered, and she stopped, apparently hearing the deadly
seriousness in his voice. He sprinted.

Seconds after he appeared before her, a pack of eight
vampires or so melted out of the darkness, practically
slithering in the misty air. Growling at him, and her, deep
and guttural and frightening.

"Dawn?" he asked, peering at the many sets of glowing eyes
as he let his own demonic visage to the fore. "Don't.
Move."

"Wasn't planning on it," she whispered. He could hear her
heart fluttering in her chest, her rapid breathing. She was
afraid.

He snarled at the apparent leader, who just leered back at
him. "Oh, look. It's Angelus, the Slayer's lapdog. And
the Slayer's sister. Hmmm," the leader menaced.

Angel felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on
end. "If you leave now, I won't harm any of you. I'm not
looking for a fight..." he tried to reason, knowing innately
that it wouldn't work. It almost never did, especially with
Sunnydale vampires. They were generally of a more stupid
variety. The mere fact that they chose to live in Sunnydale
with a resident Slayer said that much.

"Why? The Slayer's dead. She's not here to save your
ass... Look boys, he doesn't even have a stake with him.
Darn." Leader vamp cackled at his joke, sounding incredibly
pleased with himself.

Angel growled at them, angry all at once that they were
threatening Dawn like this, and that he really didn't have
a stake. Why didn't he have a stake? This was Sunnydale.
In a cemetery, for crying out loud!

He felt Dawn's small fingers poking him in the back.
"Angel..." she whispered so softly that he himself almost
couldn't hear her.

He didn't answer her, he couldn't afford to be distracted
right now. There was no way he was going to be able to keep
eight vampires off of her for long. If it was just himself,
no problem, but... And, of course, there was the stake
issue. "ANGEL..." the whisper was more desperate now. A
small point was poking into his back, almost painfully.

A small point...

He reached a hand back and was greeted with a cylindrical
shaped object. Sharp point. He prayed. When he brought
his hand back around, it was adorned with a nasty looking,
twisted stake.

Mr. Pointy.

Thank you, Dawn.

He growled at the vampires, switching tactics. "Why don't
you just try me..." he menaced as he waved the stake in the
air like a sparkler, hoping they wouldn't see through his
facade.

Run away. Run away. Runawayrunaway, he tried to beam into
their heads. And yet, he refused to falter. Not now, when
Dawn was at stake. He grimaced at his own pun.

The leader appeared to contemplate the offer. "Get them,
boys!" he shouted after a few moments.

Angel winced. Damn. "Dawn, if you get the chance, run.
Just run," he told her, guttural through his razor fangs.

With a wild snarl, he went into battle.

The first three went easily before they realized what was
going on, and then the remaining five, including the leader,
jumped him at once, apparently preferring him as a target
much more than Dawn. All the better.

He felt the beast rearing up inside him, for the first time
since Pylea, and was amazed at the feeling of it inside him.
He felt that he truly had control of it. It was _his_
machine. _HIS_. His own personal instrument of death. And
it was viciously more powerful that way.

One was holding him in a chokehold, wrapped around him in an
anything _but_ intimate embrace of violence, and biting at
him painfully. As he felt the skin on his shoulders tear
apart like a baked potato ripped open by a knife, he howled
in agony and reached back with his arms, clawing at the
enemy.

His hands came back with a head in tow. The surprised look
on its face was struck away as the head quickly dissolved
into dust along with the weight on his back, that familiar
rip-scream accompanying its disintegration.

The two remaining vampires stared at him, open-mouthed for a
second, and then they fled back into the night, no words of
fright. Just blind panic as they retreated. Normally, he
would have pursued. But not now. He turned. Dawn was
still there.

"You run really fast, don't you?" he commented, irritated
that she hadn't followed his instructions. He brushed the
dust off of his shirt and pants, not that it was anything
more than a futile effort. His clothing simply couldn't be
saved. Mud, grass, and vampire dust. Probably blood, and
certainly semen. The dry cleaner would have a heart
attack...

He held the stake out before him in an attempt to give it
back. "Thanks," he said softly as he felt his shoulders
slump, the fury of battle draining out of him as through
through a sieve. Tired.

She stared at him, mouth hanging open in a cavernous, maw-
like gape.

"What?" he asked, looking down at himself. "WHAT?"

She blinked. Shook her head. Her eyes were still wide as
saucers. "Are you on steroids?" she finally asked, crossing
her arms over her chest in the perfect disproving posture.

He cocked his head at her, letting the hand holding the
stake fall to his side in confusion. "No..."

"Oh." She shook her head and turned in the general
direction of her house. "That was... That was... L.A. is
that brutal?" she asked.

Angel sighed. "No. I've just been training."

"Buffy trained. She was never like that..."

Buffy. Dead.

Reality came roaring back. "She doesn't have a demon at her
disposal," he whispered in shame. "She didn't, I mean."

Dawn shrugged. "Whatever works, I guess... So. Are you
going to take me home, or do I get to still be mad at you
and stalk off definitively?"

"Dawn, I..."

She gestured upwards. "You're going to roast if you take
the latter option. It's getting lighter and the sky looks
like it's clearing up..."

He looked up at the sky for the first time since he had gone
off at Dawn. "Oh," he replied, a sheepish look plastering
itself across his face as he ended with another heaving
sigh. Heaving sigh. It seemed he had a lot of those, these
days...

She was staring at him, and he could tell she was trying
very hard not to laugh. "One condition," he said.

She raised her eyebrow at him, as if to say, 'you're
actually going to ask a favor of me? Don't push your
luck...' "Could I possibly use your shower?" he asked,
hesitant underneath her glare.

But the glare melted away into a weak smile.

"As long as you save some hot water for me--you always used
it up whenever Buffy let--" she stopped, visibly struggling
to finish the sentence.

Buffy. Dead.

Angel chose to rescue her. "It's a deal."

After a few moments of silence, nothing but the crickets to
fill in the gaps in the conversation, she nodded, turned,
and started to walk away.

He sighed and followed.

He could be with Buffy later.

continue