DISCLAIMER: All characters and everything directly related to the canon Buffyverse, belongs to other people. Who aren't me.
TIMELINE: Series 5 Angel, the end of.
SPOILERS: Series 5 angel, quite majorly.
SYNOPSIS: A little Angel POV when everything's over.
DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who already has any of my fic, feel free to take this. Others please ask first just so I know where it's going.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: In This Head, is still in progress, and I plan to continue. This is just a little burst of nothingness.
FEEDBACK: Please?
RATING: PG or something. Nothing adult at all. Just drabble.

I'll wait for her, always.

The others… they're all gone now. Wesley, Gunn, Lorne… Fred's been gone for a while. Doesn't make it any easier to deal with. Especially when her form still lingers, an empty shell of what she used to be as it wanders around the building, touching everything with this innate fascination and awe as if the world around can be shattered, as if made of glass.

Something, I've come to realise over my many years on this earth, is that everything can be shattered. Only few things can be put back together again.

And what can I say? Glue doesn't hold forever.

So here I stand, as everything has crumbled around me. I can hear Fre… Illyria… as she passes by my office, looking for something left to cling onto. Something to keep her in this world. Who is she kidding? There's nothing for her. There's nothing for anyone anymore. Was there ever?

I turn around and survey my office. If I close my eyes I can nearly hear the gang bustling in with their news, surrounding me with their life. It never stopped the pain of living without Bu… without her ((it still hurts too much to say her name)), but it certainly clotted it for a while. Like a giant band aid, only without the comical creatures stamped on it.

Although, I was a puppet for a while.

I wonder how she would have reacted to that. Heh, she did always have a penchant for her stuffed animals. What I wouldn't give to be snuggled in bed with her like they were…

Suddenly it's almost normal again; I'm standing in my office thinking about her. Everything's like it always was.

But Wesley won't be bothering me with his thoughts on what the "ladies" think. Fred won't be babbling on about Kyrumption. And Gunn won't find her photo in one of my books and proceed to comment on her "damn fine ass".

Because they're all gone. Of course I knew they'd fade away from me eventually, as people always do. But I wasn't expecting it this soon.

I've often believed that in order to continue to live in this world, you need something to attach yourself to it. They were my attachment. I could go back to my analogy about glue, but it was always her job to make analogies about nothing in particular.

As I turned and stared out of my window into the LA lights, I wondered how long it would take me to realise that I need her. Would I wake up one morning and realise that what happened to Fred, to Wesley, to Gunn… that could happen to her.

It's happened twice. What do they say? Third time's the charm.

((the mere thought nearly kills me))

I think I've always know that I need that attachment. Even when I was Angelus, I needed Darla… or Spike or Dru, to keep me attached to reality, or my own deluded sense of it. I need that glue to keep me here, even if it doesn't last forever.

But that's not really what this is about. It's about loving her. It's about wanting to hold her and keep her safe from all the horrors of the world as they pass us by.

How many times am I going to have to leave her before I can stay?

Ambling over to my desk, I close my eyes and picture her standing before me. Blonde hair flowing over her back, blue eyes wide with trust as she tells me that the hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it. And that she's going to help me do just that.

I grip the first thing my hand comes in contact with as I try and hold onto this unimaginable reality. If I concentrate hard enough it's almost like she's there…

But she's not. She hasn't been for a long time. I lose my grip and my hand drops away as the object clutters to the ground.

I stare long and hard at it as I pick up the long drone of the dial tone.

My hand grips the object once more, as my other hand haphazardly punches in those numbers that I memorized the first second she gave them to me.

"Hello?"

Her voice. Even now it removes all bindings and breaks me down to what I used to be. My hand clutches tightly around the receiver, as if it's glued there.

I want to be sticky again.

"Buffy."

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