DISCLAIMER: Do you think they'd be in the situation they're in if I owned them? NOT!
TIMELINE: A month or so in the future.
SPOILERS: BtVS: Shadow
SYNOPSIS: Spike's sick of watching Buffy hold in all her pain, and decides to do something about it. The only NATURAL option, of course.
DISTRIBUTION: Feel free, just please let me know where it's going!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Inspired by something David Greenwalt said not too long ago, that Angel would absolutely return to the 'Dale, if something "really tragic" happened to Buffy. I'm thinking her mom dying qualifies. I whipped this up during a particularly boring day at work, so it's light on the plot, and Spike's characterization ain't the best, but... Hey... B/A is B/A these days, right? ;)
Utterly unbeta-ed. All mistakes and crappy choice of words are mine.
FEEDBACK: If you don't know by now, I'm not gonna tell you.
RATING: PG

She hasn't cried once. Not a single tear in the months since she found out that her Mum was sick. Even that night when I went to kill her, and found her falling apart on her back porch, her misery written on her face as though it were a living record, she still let nothing out. She held her agony to her like a shield, speaking as though there were nothing happening at all beyond the bare facts.

Frankly, I'm getting downright worried about her. I know, I'm a demon, I shouldn't care, etcetera, etcetera, but... well, we all know that not having a soul doesn't guarantee that you won't have feelings.

But anyway, this isn't about me. This is about her. She bears a lot, that Slayer. Such a tiny thing, and still she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. It would be heavy for anyone, I think. I'm often amazed that she carries it all, and most of the time, still manages to keep on kicking with a grin and a quip.

Lately, though... Lately, it looks like it's finally getting to be too much.

The doctor says there's not much time left, now. Nothing more they can do but wait. Joyce hasn't regained consciousness in several days, and we all know the end is near.

Every night I come and sit two chairs down from her. Not that it matters. The only person she pays any mind to, or touches, is her sister. She has a bubble of defense around her like plexiglass, and never lets anyone but that child through. Even her great lump of Wonder Bread won't come near her, as if he's afraid to break her by coming too close, and she doesn't even notice or care. She holds her little sister, always with a straight, fiercely determined face, a stiff upper lip, as it were, the paragon of strength for everyone around her. But I can feel her foundation cracking under the weight. She's magnificently strong, my Slayer... but no one is that tough. I know how soft she is on the inside. I remember what it was like to be that human. But I don't see how she can bear it much longer without exploding, disintigrating, just collapsing and dying under the pressure. She has to let it out.

And while I've done my damndest (so to speak) to try and help her, it's been a long time since I've shown anyone tenderness, and I'm pretty sure my fumbling isn't helpful at all. I think she's at least a little bit glad that I'm there, anyway, but she doesn't really look at me, anymore than she looks at any of the others around her. She doesn't notice the sympathetic gazes and offers of help, the way they look after her sister, the house, and sometimes even the Slaying. She just sits there, day in and day out. She doesn't want any of us. At first I thought, she needs to deal with this alone. But I'm watching her whither, and I can't help but think that it's a waste. Not even she can go on much longer.

Alone, obviously, is not cutting it.

I think about it for a while. What can possibly be done to help her feel better? Her mother's on the edge of death, and she's feeling all alone in the world. No one understands her. No one can touch her.

When I sat next to her on Tuesday night, instead of flinching away, or closing in on herself as she usually does, she gave me a weak imitation of a smile. In a flash, something dawned on me. For the first time (and I can't believe I didn't think of it before) I realized what she needs. Or rather, who.

I get up, and tell her I've got better things to do than sit there and watch everybody mope, and wander down the hall. She doesn't look up. As I walk away, I reach in my pocket to make sure I've got a quarter.

*****

Later, the others are asleep, and I've returned to my vigil beside the Slayer. Captain Cardboard sits glumly at the far end of the chairs, always cut off, never welcomed, never fitting in. He never has, really. As separate from this group as I or my Grandsire ever were, he seems twice that. I'd almost feel bad for him, if he wasn't such a wanker. He's beneath her.

The others have collapsed from their weariness. The girl has been taken home to rest. But Buffy still sits there, staring out into space, her pain radiating off her in waves, even as she tries to deny its existence with her stoic expression glued where it has been almost constantly all these months.

Exactly two and a half hours from the time I made my phone call, he arrives. I've never been much of a student of vampire tradition or any of that silly law bunk. I do unlife my way. So I've never paid much attention to all the mystical tellings of sires and bloodlines and the ability to sense one another's presence. But I'll tell you what, when my GrandSire enters a room, you know it. The air electrifies and shimmers, filling with him, a wave like fire too hot to breathe. It's almost... erotic. I mean, in an annoying, "I wish you'd just turn to dust already" sort of way. Mostly, it makes me want to punch him.

On one hand, I'm happy that he came. He said he would. Honorable git always does what he promises. But on the other, I'm most decidedly not happy to see him. I don't think I need to explain that.

Those who are sleeping wake, including, it would seem, Buffy herself. Hers are the last eyes to rise and track his approach. He comes to stand before her chair, and her eyes follow. They go wide... with surprise, with wonder, with that pain... and with other things I'm certain I don't understand. Months and months of sorrow... maybe years, as far as I know, are suddenly brimming in her eyes. All those unshed tears that have slowly been devouring her from the inside...

I watch. Will they finally fall, those tears? Will this help? Will she open at last?

I look over at Agent Dry Bulkgoods. An expression of abject misery passes over his All-American face, followed by a shock of defeat and resignation, and without a word or gesture, he rises, glances once more at Angel and Buffy, and walks away.

I don't imagine he'll be coming back.

I turn my eyes back to the Slayer and my GrandSire. They're carrying on a conversation without a word passing between them. They look into one another's eyes, and there's an exchange of information, of emotion that's so clear on their features, for a moment, I'm jealous.

But unlike that most recently exited lunkhead, I've never held any illusions about what exists between these two, or my place in it. I'm quite easily able to detach myself from my own feelings, to sit back and watch.

Angel drops down into a crouch before her, and takes her tiny hands in his. Buffy's eyes are so full, I'm certain they're going to pop from the pressure. Still, none spill. He looks at her with such tenderness, such deep feeling... I'm amazed at the intensity of it. Like she is the only being for him in the universe, and her pain is his.

Their wordless sharing goes on for an eternity, it seems, and the rest of us are held frozen in its thrall. We can do nothing but watch. They don't seem to have the first clue that we're there. They've forgotten we ever even existed.

Then, it happens. That first teardrop. But before it ever passes the line of her cheekbone, his thumb is there to gently brush it away. Another follows, and he stops that, too.

I think in a second, all of us are going to cry.

In a heartbeat, there are more tears, one right after the other until they become a stream, then a torrent. He continues looking at her, gently wiping them away.

The Slayer makes a noise--a horrible, great, heaving sob that tears from her chest with such force that it makes me jump as it echoes down the empty corridor. It's the sound of her fierce heart breaking. She collapses like her foundation is crumbling, her strong muscles finally giving way. But instead of sliding from the chair, or sagging against its arm, she falls into the outstretched arms of the man who made the woman who made me.

Angel gathers her into his embrace, and lifts her gently from the chair. He's mostly carrying her, I think, as she can't seem to hold herself up any longer. He leads her away to the empty seats on the other side of the waiting room, and sits her down on his lap, cradling her like a wounded child as she cries.

She wails. God, she wails. That sound is horrific, that dying, shattered cry. The mourning of a broken hero. But now it's muffled, poured into the heavy wool of Angel's winter coat. She babbles incoherently to him. I can't make out the words. But he holds her and listens, and I'm certain he understands every one. In return, he murmurs softly to her, a soothing cadence, a stream of endearments and reassurances that make her nod even in her hysterics. She clutches at him.

I watch for a good hour while it all pours out of her, and he bears it for her. Finally, after an eternity of that pained release, she is quiet. The others have slipped back into their troubled sleep, or have wandered off, and are no longer watching. But I can see, even on the faces of those who hate Angel most, those who are trying to pretend none of this is happening, a measure of relief. I feel it too. And believe me when I say I hate it.

We all should have realized it long before this, that he was what she needed. He's a force in her life that none of us truly want to admit, and definitely don't understand. Maybe the two of them don't either. But after those hours are gone, we can be nothing but certain.

After years which she screamed silently for him, and these months when she seemed to feel nothing at all, she's quiet. At peace. He's what's been missing.

I rise. The dawn's coming. I'm sure Angel knows it as acutely as I, but he doesn't move. The Slayer sleeps softly in his arms, resting at last, and he wouldn't disturb her for anything, even if the world was exploding around our ears.

I have to give myself a little pat on the back. It was a good idea to call him. He'll take care of her, like no one else can, until there are no sunrises left.

Go to the companion, To See Her Smile

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