Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Category: Drama/Angst/Romance/Future
Disclaimer: no, still don't own them, so don't sue
Pairing: B/A (eventually), B/R, C/We, A/X, W/T, G/?, others
Spoilers: the whole B/A-cannon up to the end of Season 5/2
Summary: set 20 years into the future  - more would give the whole story away
Feedback: would be treasured!
Dedication: to my American friend Sheila who gave birth to her baby on September 11th and called her Hope.

Note 1: First of all. This is no Riley-bashing fic. In fact, Riley's going to be a good guy in this, although he isn't really there. (Read the story to understand.)
Note 2: Dawn died instead of Buffy in "The Gift"

PROLOGUE: WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Christmas 2001

The streets in L.A. were busy tonight, Angel thought as he made his way through the masses of people who were rushing in and out of stores, undoubtedly trying to buy something for friends or family at the very last minute.

It wasn't the first time Angel had gone through Christmas. He had to laugh at such a ridiculous thought. There weren't a lot of people around, or rather non-people, who'd lived through more Christmases than he. Yet, there weren't a lot of people around either whose Christmases were more lonely.

But he liked lonely. Cordelia had approached him a week ago, mumbling something about Christmas with friends, but he had declined with a little smile and told her that Christmas and vampires didn't mix. She'd frowned at that but accepted it, while Wesley had given Angel a knowing look behind her back, but hadn't interfered.

As a result Angel would spend this evening on his own in the Hyperion Hotel or maybe stake one or two vampires. They seemed rather bloodthirsty at this time of the year. He could remember 150 years ago when he and Darla ... His thoughts came to a screeching halt. No he wouldn't go there. Not tonight. Tonight he had a mission to fulfill.

His fingers tightened on the letter he was holding in his hand. It was the most painful mission of his life without doubt. But it was a mission of love and underneath the pain he could feel the satisfaction that he might be able to do right to a person he'd done so wrong and his mind was wandering back to a phone call he'd received a week ago.

He'd just come back from slaying a particularly nasty demon when Willow had called from Sunnydale. She sounded rather desperate and after some fumbling with words she'd finally blurted out that Buffy was in pretty bad shape, had been ever since Dawn died. The Sunnydale crew was doing their best but so far without much success.

Buffy was doing her duty, but other than that she was pretty much a zombie. They had tried talking to her, had dragged her out, Giles had even sent her to New Orleans for two weeks lying to her about a vampire problem there, just to get her out of Sunnydale, but nothing worked.

Angel and Willow had quickly agreed that it wouldn't be good for anyone if he came to Sunnydale. There was still no way he and Buffy could be together and if anything his presence and unavoidable departure would only cause more pain. And so after replacing the receiver on the cradle, Angel had started thinking. Brooding, as Cordelia had called it. 'You are wearing Buffy-face' she had accused him, hands on her hips, but he had just sent her away, not willing to explain what was bothering him.

Two nights later he had driven to Sunnydale and seen her. Without letting her see him of course. He'd been careful to stay out of her sensing-range and as far as he could say she hadn't felt him this time. But he had seen her and what he'd seen made his heart ache and his soul heavy. What Willow had told him was right. She was like a zombie. She was a slayer who did her duty and nothing else.

Returning to L.A. the brooding had intensified, and tonight, alone in the Hyperion hotel, he finally came to what he hoped was the right decision.

He clutched the letter in his hand a little bit tighter. He knew that sending the letter would most likely make him lose Buffy forever, but then he'd accepted the fact long ago. He loved her, more than he had ever imagined being able to love someone and more than anything he wanted her to have a life, to be happy. He wanted her to be happy with him, laugh with him, have his children, but of course this wasn't an option. If anything he could be her friend. From a distance. She knew it too and she accepted it. The day in the cemetery at her mother's grave, when she'd told him he'd better leave because she was too needy, there he'd known that she understood. And accepted it.

If you love a person you want that person to be happy, his mother told him so many years ago and he hadn't understood then. He did now. He wanted her to have all her dreams fulfilled.

Angel almost went past the mailbox, but stopped and turned, standing before it, the letter in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand and let it fall through the slit. It fell on the ground and with it did Angel's heart. This was the end and he knew it. Tonight he was saying goodbye to all his secret dreams of a future filled with sunlight, laughter and the face of a blond girl who had given him the reason to go on.

Blinking away the sudden moisture in his eyes he made his way back to the hotel walked straight into his room and sat down on his bed. A shaky hand reached out for a book and when he opened it a picture fell into his lap. He picked it up, and smiled, tracing the perfect features of the young, blond woman with a gentle fingertip. Finally he breathed a kiss on it and closed his eyes, "I love you," he whispered. "Be happy."

Chapter 1: OLDER. BUT WISER?

20 years later

Buffy had never seen ghosts in the 40 years of her life. Of course that wasn't entirely true. She had seen ghosts, lots of them actually, but somehow none of them had ever left a profound impression, and ten years after she had slayed her last demon, after the council had let her retire at the age of 30, they had somehow slipped her memory.

But now when the image of her mother materialized in her living room, Buffy found herself gasping in surprise and - she had to admit - in shock. The image of Joyce Summers, her ghost, or whatever that thing was she saw, looked at her daughter for a long while, then she tilted her head and smiled sadly, "You're pathetic, Buffy Summers," she said, "and you know it."

It wasn't the wisest thing to get drunk on your 40th birthday, Buffy thought as she refilled her glass yet again. You could start seeing ghosts. Even a ghost that looked shockingly like her mother. Her mother who was dead for almost 20 years now. But then she wasn't really drunk, she told herself. Just trying to get into a good mood. It was her birthday after all and she was entitled to have a good time tonight.

Squinting a the TV she leaned back in her chair, the glass of Bourbon in her hand, and studying its contents she thought what she was going to do with herself for the 40 odd years she statistically expect to continue living.

Twenty years ago she would've gone out slaying some vampires or decapitating demons, but as there was no Hellmouth anymore in Sunnydale and she had lost her slayer powers ten years ago there wasn't a lot she could do, but wallow in self-pity.

Or talk to ghosts. "Shut up," she hissed at her mother. "What do you know?"

"More than you think," Joyce replied, still smiling. It was a smile Buffy had never seen on her mother's face before. It was a knowing smile. The smile of a person who understood and wouldn't be deceived.

"Oh yeah?" Buffy said sarcastically, "You never knew anything. It took you two years to realize what was going on with me and even then you only knew because I told you."

"You shouldn't be drinking, Buffy," Joyce said mildly, ignoring her daughter's biting comment. "You're an alcoholic, and you know it. You gave up on life. There's no excuse for that."

Of course Buffy didn't believe her mother. She felt absolutely self-righteous in her misery, the pig's sty that had once been her treasured apartment, and the one she'd been living in for 19 years. Eighteen of them together with her husband.

Taking a large gulp from her glass she stood and stumbled over to the desk in the corner where a bunch of pictures were standing in sliver frames. She lifted her glass and toasted to them, then smiled ironically. They were smiling. Why the hell did they dare to smile when there was absolutely nothing to smile about? Life wasn't nice and fun, it was bad, very, very bad.

"What do you know?" she asked the materialization of her mother again, "You never lost your husband to a fatal illness. You just divorced him." Of course Buffy knew the accusation wasn't fair. The marriage of her parents hadn't worked because her father had been married to his work instead of his wife. But nobody was fair these day, so why should she, start. Life wasn't fair.

Emptying the glass with the next gulp, she turned away from the smiling faces of her husband and her three children. Her children. A harsh laugh came from her throat and she stumbled back to the table and refilled the glass yet again.

Her children. Three of them. And all of them living with strangers. No, she corrected herself and drank again, not strangers. They were her so-called friends. Some friends they were. One morning they had stood on her doorstep and told her - mind that - just told her that her children would live with them from now on. That there was no way they would be watch it any longer, the way she was neglecting them, and herself.

Gulping the rest of the liquor down, she angrily shook her head. She wasn't neglecting herself or her children. Okay, so the living room hadn't been dusted since... well, for a while, there was not one clean plate in the kitchen and in the fridge were some unidentifiable cultures growing, but all in all her life was in control.

All right, she had lost her job three weeks ago because she has shown up at odd times if at all, but her boss had hated her forever and just waited for an opportunity to get rid of her. And besides, she wasn't the only American citizen who was out a job. There were a lot more and she would find a new one. As soon as she could find the energy to shower and dress and maybe do the laundry first, because frankly she had no idea if there was any clean clothes left.

Okay, maybe she had been neglecting herself. Just a little. But wasn't one entitled for some misery if your husband of 18 years just fell victim to an extremely fatal form of leukemia. If you were making love to your husband one week and the next you were spending it choosing a grave and the right music for the funeral. In Buffy's book that gave you the right for a lot of things. And that was exactly what she was doing. A lot of things. Like drinking, and drinking, and drinking a bit more. But she was feeling good when she was drunk, and she wanted to feel good. Especially on her birthday.

She was 40 years old, an ex-slayer, widowed, with three kids, and about 40 years in front of her. Forty years full of emptiness. A sob tore from her throat and she realized that she would need at least another bottle if she wanted to make it through the night. She couldn't allow herself to think, to let the fears rise, or she would crack. She'd been so close to a nervous breakdown but thanks to her friends Whiskey, Bourbon and others she had found a way to cope.

With a pained cry she suddenly threw the glass towards the pictures on the little table, but it missed and smashed against the wall. "Why did you die?" she cried, staring at Riley's smiling face. "Why did you have to die and leave me? You bastard. You promised me forever and then you left and what am I going to do now?"

"He would be very angry if he could hear you now," Joyce scolded her gently. "He loved you, you know. Very much in fact."

"Oh yeah?" Buffy whirled around, glaring at her mother. "Loved me, huh? But he left me. You did too," a sob formed in he throat and she forced it down, "And Dawn. Everyone leaves me."

Stumbling towards the kitchen she noticed that there were no glasses left in the cupboard and so she took a mug instead. Not a bad choice. It was nice and big and a lot would fit into it. No need to refill often. Returning to the living room she stared at the picture again. Why did they all leave her? Why did everyone she loved die? Her mother, her sister, Riley. Would it never stop? Was she doomed to lose everyone she loved?

"Yes, everyone," Joyce agreed, "Even Angel."

At that Buffy froze. She hadn't allowed herself to think about him for a very long time. She didn't even know where he was living or if he was alive at all. Then she shook her head at the absurdity of her thought. Of course he was alive. He was a vampire after all and they were immortal.

And what on earth was wrong with her mother to bring up Angel? Hadn't Joyce been the one who hated Angel the most? Who had blamed him for all the bad things that had happened in her daughter's life?

"Yes, I know. I misjudged him by a lot. And I'm very sorry about that. At the time I thought it was the best for him to leave." She sighed and rubbed her forehead with one hand, "Looking back, maybe it would've been better if he'd stayed. At least a while longer."

Buffy shot her mother an irritated glance, "Are you reading minds now?"

"Well, the form of my existence is... special. Words or thoughts are the same here."

"Oh, this is great," her daughter threw her hands in the air. "Now nothing is safe from you anymore. Not even my private thoughts."

She tried desperately to suppress thinking about Angel, not with the ghost of her mother around, reading her thoughts. But the images wouldn't stop coming. It was as if the mention of his name had opened floodgates.

It had to be the date, Buffy decided. Her birthday. Today 23 years ago, they had made love. The first and only time with Angel. It had been heaven and then hell. God, she could still remember his hands on hers, could remember the way he had kissed her neck, her breasts, her whole body. She had made love uncountable times with Riley over the last 19 years - and before - but try as she might, she couldn't remember the details. Maybe because it had become too familiar, maybe because...

NO, she refused to go there tonight. She had loved Riley. Had loved his laughter, his smile, and his uncomplicated way to enjoy life. She had enjoyed being around him, had enjoyed having children with him. It had been a good time and she wanted it back. Wanted to see him laugh again, wanted him to tell a joke, wanted him to make her laugh. But of course it wouldn't happen. Damn him. Why did he have to die six months ago and leave her?

"Because that's what happens," her mother said wisely, "Birth and death are part of it. It's a circle," now an odd smile played around her lips, "Our whole life moves in circles. You just have to keep your eyes open, and not shut life out."

"Really?" Buffy hissed bitingly, "And what sort of life is there for me? I'm forty years old. I have three kids who don't want to have anything to do with me. My friends are avoiding me. Nobody understands what I'm going through. There's nothing for me out there anymore."

Joyce sighed heavily, "I see. One night won't do. You're a difficult case, Buffy Summers. But we will get you back on track. Just trust me."

The image of her mother faded and Buffy shook her head in disbelief. She had to be drunker than she'd originally thought. She had actually spent a good part of her birthday talking to a ghost. Shaking her head again, she let out a harsh laugh. Trying to see the label of the bottle standing on her desk, she decided it wasn't really important what she was drinking, as long as it made her feel good. And that was how she felt. Good. Definitely good.

Chapter 2: A CUP OF COFFEE WITH AN OLD FRIEND

Willow Rosenberg had never particularly liked L.A. Not that she hated it, no not at all. But it had never been one of her favorite cities. She had no idea why she couldn't help it. But if you had children there came the time when Sunnydale wasn't big enough anymore. They wanted things they couldn't get at home and so Willow and Tara had finally given in and taken their and Buffy's children to L.A.

And there she was now, strolling along rows of shops, not really interested, but glad nevertheless that Tara had taken the kids and given her an hour of her own. Willow felt a little tired these days. The checkup with the doctor had indicated nothing but at the age of 40, she mused, you were entitled to feel tired from time to time. Especially if you took care not only of your own children, but of Buffy's as well, one of them being a very stubborn, very exhausting teenager with an attitude and a lot of anger stored inside.

Willow sighed at the thought of Buffy. She had been fine after Riley's death and everyone had marveled how well she took it, but - as they knew now - that had been nothing but the initial shock holding her up. As soon as it had faded, Buffy had taken a turn to the worse. It had started with the occasional drink in the afternoon and had developed to a real problem that nobody seemed to know how to solve. Not Willow, not Xander, not Giles and certainly not Buffy, who had disappeared somewhere on the way.

They tried to talk to her, make her see that it couldn't go on like that, but she'd slipped more and more and in the end Willow and Xander had gone and taken her children. They talked to a social worker before and she had agreed that Buffy's children could stay with them - for the time being. What would happen if Buffy couldn't manage to get back on track - Willow didn't even want to think about it.

The redhead was so deep in thoughts that she only noticed the other person when she bumped right into her. "Oh, sorry," she apologized startled.

"You should be sorry," came an annoyed voice back, "these are my favorite Italian-" then the person gasped, "Willow? Oh my God. Willow!"

"C- Cordelia!" Willow was surprised to see the former cheerleader standing right in front of her. "My God, Cordelia Chase. The last person I would expect to run into. What are you doing in L.A.?"

"Shopping of course," Cordelia replied, smiling, "And living here. We moved back to L.A. four weeks ago."

"We?" Willow raised an interested brow.

"Yes, Wesley and I," the brunette explained. She lifted her hand and showed the redhead the gold band on her third finger, "He and I are married."

"Married!" Willow couldn't help the shocked sound of her voice. Cordelia and Wesley were married. Oh my God!

"Yes, married," Cordelia grinned, "We've been married for nine years now."

"Nine Years!"

"Willow you should be careful. Someone might mistake you for a parrot," the brunette teased. "But I can understand the surprise. To tell the truth, it surprised the hell out of me too. I never would've expected to end up with Wesley. Anyways. What are you doing? Do you have time for a cup of coffee? We could sit down and talk about all the things we've missed."

Still a bit stunned, Willow nodded and only a minute later found herself sitting opposite Cordelia and waiting for the coffee they had ordered. "I think I need to digest the news," the redhead said when she saw Cordelia looking at her expectantly. "You and Wesley," she shook her head, then chuckled slightly. "But we should've guessed. You liked him from the start."

"I did, didn't I," the brunette replied affectionately, thinking about her husband, "I really love him." Her whole face lit up when she said it.

Cordelia was still incredibly beautiful, Willow thought. Her skin still flawless, and the hair shorter than usual but perfectly styled. "Do you have kids?" the redhead asked.

"Yes," the brunette nodded, reaching into her purse, producing two pictures that showed two obviously Asian kids. "This is Michael," she pointed at a boy of about six years, "and this is Cathy. She's five. Michel's going to be seven, next week. And what you already noticed is that they're adopted." Putting the pictures away, she explained, "One year after we got married and tried to have a baby I had a checkup and the doctor found out that I couldn't have children. So we decided to adopt two. They come from Vietnam."

"I see," Willow smiled, seeing Cordelia suddenly in a new light. Not in a million years she would've expected the former cheerleader to adopt Asian orphans. "They look great," she complimented, and then reached into her own pocket. "These are ours. Callie and Tiffany," she said. "They're nine."

Cordelia studied the pictures, then looked thoughtfully at Willow, "So I suppose your... uh... relationship with... what was her name... Sarah? It didn't last?"

"Oh, but it did," the redhead replied with a wistful smile, "We're still happy together and her name's Tara."

"Oh, you adopted them as well," the brunette exclaimed, smiling too.

"No, we didn't. We were artificially inseminated. Both of us. Welcome to the 21st century, Cordelia," Willow said grinning at the other woman's expression. "Tara and I are even married. Not the ordinary way, but through a wiccan ceremony. It was great."

"And the others?" Cordelia asked, not really wanting to discuss the subject. "How's Xander? And Buffy?"

At the mention of Buffy Willow's smile faded, "Xander's fine, she said. He's still married to Anya. They have five children."

"Five!" Cordelia exclaimed incredulously. "Oh my God, Xander times five."

They laughed at that, then the redhead continued, "They're nice kids actually. Two girls and three boys. The girls are twins. Giles is back in Sunnydale. He was in England for a while but it seems he realized he lost his roots there and so he came back. Now he's writing a book about demons and stuff," she grinned, "he can't help it. It's in his blood, I think."

There was a short pause while the waitress served their coffees. Sipping at her cup, Cordelia eyed Willow over the rim. "And Buffy? Still happy with Riley?"

"Riley died."

The brunette was glad that the cup didn't slip from her hand. She was so stunned by the news that she had problems to putting it down, her hands were trembling so much. "When?" she asked, her voice sounding odd even to her ears.

"Six months ago," Willow replied, wondering about Cordelia's reaction. "He had Leukemia. He was dead within six days. It was... hard. Especially for Buffy. And for her kids of course."

"Yeah," Cordelia nodded, glad that 40 years of life experience had taught her not to show her feelings. "She had two, didn't she?"

"Three," the redhead corrected. "Joyce is 17, Ben is 10 and Marlie is just five. They are... living with Tara and I at the moment," she added.

"With you?"

"Yeah," Willow said on a released breath, glad that she was able to talk about this. "Buffy... she... well, she doesn't get along. She started drinking. It's bad. Really, really bad. Finally we had to take the kids. She... wasn't looking after them."

Cordelia's lower lip dropped, "What?"

The redhead nodded, "Oh Cordelia, it's horrible. We tried everything, but Buffy blocks us out. She insists there isn't a problem. But you wouldn't recognize her. It's... I can't even begin to describe it." Willow sipped at her coffee and then she asked the question she had wanted to ask from the moment she had recovered from the shock of seeing Cordelia Chase in L.A. "How is... Angel?"

"He's fine," Cordelia replied quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly. "He's still in Washington," she added, "We were there for 10 years. After the hellmouth in Sunnydale was closed, the vampires moved away from L.A. and suddenly a problem occurred in D.C. So we moved there. And it was good. Especially for Angel."

She didn't elaborate on the last statement, but Willow understood nevertheless. It had been hard for Angel to see Buffy happily married to Riley, to watch them having children together. They hadn't seen each other very often, and when they met Angel always managed to keep a blank expression, the one he had brought to perfection in two hundred and a half centuries, but nobody was fooled that he was hurting inside. "So that's where you went to. We always wondered," Willow acknowledged.

And they had wondered. After the hellmouth in Sunnydale was closed, Angel informed Giles that he would move the agency away. He hadn't said where and Giles hadn't asked, sensing that the vampire didn't want to be found. "So Angel's fine, huh?" Willow asked.

"He is," Cordelia confirmed. "We had a lot of work up there. But it was... satisfying and it paid a whole lot better than it did in L.A. We made good money in Washington. We even worked for the government from time to time."

The redhead nodded at that and in silence they drank their coffee for a while, each of them digesting the news. It was the brunette who finally broke the silence, "So Buffy's in pretty bad shape."

"No," Willow shook her head.

"But I thought-"

"Yes, yes," the redhead made a dismissive gesture, "I know what I said. And yes, she is drinking and all. But besides that, physically, she couldn't be better." Willow sighed, "Actually, if it wasn't for the drinking thing, I'd envy her. She's in perfect condition. She's 40, but looks thirty. The doctor says she's even got the body of a thirty year old. Giles thinks it has something to do with her having been the slayer."

Cordelia absentmindedly rubbed her aching back, "Physically like 30, huh?" she said, laughing slightly, "Well, that's a reason to be jealous."

"Oh, come on," Willow laughed too, "You don't look 40 either. Not at all. You don't even have one gray hair."

The brunette's eyes sparkled at that, "I just have a good hairdresser, Willow. You can't be honestly think that this," she ran a hand over her hair, "is all nature."

"No, I suppose not," the redhead sighed.

"And it's not what I meant. On the outside I might look younger, but my back aches, and my knees crack when I get up in the morning." Seeing Willow grin, Cordelia nodded, "I see, you know what I'm talking about. So yeah, I would give anything to be 30 again." Suddenly she remembered something, "Oh crap," she looked at her watch. "I almost forgot I have to meet Wesley. We wanted to choose a bedroom today. Furniture, you know." She waved for the waitress to pay the coffee, then reached into her purse again, "Here take my card. Call me."

Willow nodded, "I will. And thanks for the coffee," she said when they both stood up. "I'm living in my parents' old house and Buffy is living in an apartment close to her mother's former house. She didn't want to live there after Joyce and Dawn died."

"I see," Cordelia replied, a world of meaning in those two words.

"Yeah," the redhead nodded, "And tell Angel we miss him too."

A long look passed between the two women, "I will," the brunette said.

"Yes, do that," Willow retorted. "And don't wait too long."

"I won't," Cordelia promised and smiled. "I'm sure he'll be interested to hear the news. He's got some of his own."

"He has?"

"Yes, but it's for him to tell you."

"So he'll come back too?"

"He might," Cordelia gave Willow another smile.

"I would be glad," the redhead replied, smiling too now.

"I'll tell him that. I really have to run now. See you later."

"Yes, see you too." But Willow was saying those words to herself. Cordelia had already left. But maybe, she thought, she'd just found the answer for her prayers.

****

Spike had made it a habit to drink a cup of coffee with Buffy once a month. It had started shortly after the hellmouth had been closed and he seemed to be the only vampire who didn't have the urge to leave the place since it didn't hold any appeal for evil anymore.

Why he didn't want to leave, he didn't know. He was long over his infatuation with the blond slayer, so that wasn't the reason. The watcher had suggested it had something to do with Spike having been too close to humanity for too long, that this had changed his evil nature into something softer. Of course the vampire resented that theory and privately entertained the thought that part of the fun was getting back at Riley who still hated his guts and didn't like his wife having coffee with a hostile. Even more the blond ex-commando hated the idea that his children could be fond of Spike.

So the vampire kept coming once a month. They talked about times when they were still out all night, hunting and staking vampires and saving the world. It was fun and Spike found himself looking forward to those monthly meetings and strange as it might sound over the years they had developed some sort of twisted friendship, the ex-slayer, saver of the world, the epitome of good, and the evil, still chip-headed, vampire.

When Riley had become ill and died within a week, Spike had expected to welcome the news. He had never liked Riley, never understood what the slayer found in the loser, but had wisely kept his mouth shut. And even if he didn't understand it, the slayer seemed not unhappy with the ex-commando who had become a successful psychiatrist in Sunnydale.

So Spike had expected to be happy seeing his most hated person gone for good, but somehow he didn't. And he knew the reason for his lack of joy was Buffy and the kids who had managed to get to him. Especially the little one he found himself drawn to. Marlie was a little doll with her blond locks and her curious hazel eyes. Maybe it was her resemblance to her mother Spike found so intriguing.

Ben was always a bit distant to him and Spike suspected it was due to the fact that the boy was a little bit jealous of the time Buffy spent with the vampire. Joyce on the other hand was outright hostile. He wasn't sure why, but he guessed it had something to do with Riley. She had already been seven years old when the hellmouth was closed for good and most likely the most sensible to the hostility between her father and Spike. As a result she had taken an instant dislike towards the vampire.

"You know," Buffy was saying beside him, "if you were coming to say nothing the whole evening, you should've just stayed away."

"Well, what do you want me to say, pet?" he asked, glancing at the glass of Brandy she had refilled yet another time, while he was sipping at his coffee.

"Something, anything," she replied, her voice already slightly slurred.

"Okay, then," he pushed himself off and stood, then walked over to the window. Slowly he turned and looked into her eyes, "I want to know what you're trying to do here?"

"What the hell do you mean?" she asked, a certain edge in her voice. She held his eyes for a moment, then lowered her lashes and reached for her glass.

"That," he replied and pointed at the liquor. "If you want my opinion, it's just pathetic."

"Oh, great, now I have two telling me the same nonsense," she muttered and took a large gulp. "Yeah, well," she said out loud, "If I wanted your opinion, wonderful-one-without-faults, I'd ask. I can clearly remember a very drunken vampire who was pathetically whining for Dru when she left him. Besides, I'm not drunk. I just need a bit of help to get into a good mood."

"Happens a lot these days, from why I hear," Spike retorted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Has this something to do with the fact that you tried to get back to your precious husband by hopping into the sack with me? Feeling guilty after all those years?"

That finally penetrated the wall he had felt she'd been building the whole afternoon. Her head came up with a jerk, her eyes narrowed and her eyes glittered dangerously through the slits, "Watch it, chip-boy," she hissed.

"Oh, I'm shivering with fear," he mocked, "You're human, Slayer. You can hit me if you want, but I doubt it'll hurt a lot."

"I didn't 'hop' in the sack with you, as you called it." She spoke very slowly, her voice low and warning.

"But you wanted to. Don't tell me you didn't want to have some excitement that night. Do you feel guilty for it now? You, the mother of two children by then, married to Riley, the good guy, and you had to urge to jump the bones of an evil vamp."

A low sound escaped her mouth and she stood abruptly. Swaying slightly because of the amount of alcohol she'd already taken in, she turned away from him. Why did he have to do that, she wondered? Why did he have to come and remind her of her one lapse in judgment? Of course, she didn't need to ask herself. Friend or not, he was still an evil vampire. "No I didn't even want to," she said in the same slow manner, "It just... happened."

"Oh yeah? Baby, you were so hot, we would've done it hadn't Red walked in on us. There would've been no stopping us. Certainly not from you."

"You're disgusting," Buffy replied, turning around to face him again. "Disgusting and evil."

He shrugged, "Sure, I'm evil. No news here. Besides, calling me evil is hardly insulting. It's a compliment these days. The watcher thinks I'm a softie. Now that's insulting for a vampire."

"Good to know," she murmured.

"Slayer, you have to stop that," he said again, returning to their first subject.

"I'm not a slayer anymore," she said angrily. "You just said it yourself, I couldn't hurt you, even if I wanted."

"Self-pity, is it?" he asked, uncrossing his arms and walking towards her. "Well, I'm going to call you Slayer as long as I like. You were the best. The only one I ever respected. Snap out of it. It can't go on like this."

"And why not?" she shot back. "Because you say so?"

"No, because you can't. Look at yourself. You look like shit. And you smell... When did you last wash your hair?"

"None of your business," she snapped.

"Just as well," he snapped back. "I'm not going to look at this mess any longer. Again, Slayer, snap out of it."

He walked through the door and slammed it behind her, avoiding a glass she'd thrown his way. He left the apartment with a heavy heart and the feeling that he had no idea what he could do to help her. As much he hated to admit this to himself, there was probably only one person that would be able to help, but he didn't have the slightest idea where to find him.

Chapter 3: EX-SLAYER, SWF, SEEKING ... A LIFE.

The sun was already high when Buffy woke after she slept through the night like a stone. It was one of the advantages of getting drunk. Oblivion came easily and you could avoid restless sleep and heavy thoughts.

Yawning and ignoring the already familiar hangover headache Buffy staggered from her bed, then to the bathroom. Not bothering with her appearance she made her way to the kitchen for some coffee when the doorbell rang.

Muttering something about people who didn't call before actually standing right in front of her door, and ignoring the fact that it was almost noon already, she padded barefooted towards the door, combing her greasy hair behind her ears. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered when the bell rang again. She blinked when she finally opened the door and her eyes fell on her best friend. Or rather, judging the expression on the redhead's face, her former best friend, "Willow?"

"Yes, Willow," the witch narrowed her eyes at the blonde's appearance. "Why the hell," she shouted, "didn't you answer your phone last night?"

Taken aback, Buffy let her enter her apartment, not caring for the total chaos, "Whoa," she tried to get her friend to calm down. "Last Night? The phone didn't ring last night."

"Didn't ring?" Willow spat right into her face. "I tried calling you about twenty times until the thought entered my mind that you were probably too stone drunk to even register the ringing phone."

"Now, wait a minute-"

But the redhead didn't want to wait, she was angry, not scratch that, she was furious. Furious because she hadn't been able to reach Buffy when an emergency occurred, furious that a scared little girl had to go to a hospital without her mother, and also furious because her best friend was just slipping away, giving up, and there wasn't a damned thing Willow was able to do.

"No, I'm not waiting a minute. Actually, I just came to deliver a message and after that you might as well go to hell." She was so angry, she didn't even try to calm down.

"Willow-"

"No, I don't want any excuses," the redhead raged on. "Marlie had to go to the hospital last night. They had to do an appendectomy on her. It was an emergency. Obviously she's had tummy aches for a while but didn't tell us because she said she wanted to tell her mommy but her mommy wasn't around." She paused, staring at Buffy, daring her to say one word.

The blond didn't. She was too shocked to say anything. Her daughter was in the hospital. Precious little Marlie, her sweetheart had been into surgery and she hadn't even known. Marlie had gone through a nightmare and there had been no mother for her. After she'd lost her father only six months ago, her mother wasn't there for her either.

"I really had no idea what to say to her. So I just held her hand. And when she woke up the first thing she said was Mommy. But you know what, her mommy wasn't there. Because her mother is too busy destroying herself, and the tiny bit of love her children still have for her." Willow took a deep breath, her hands at her hips, her eyes blazing with anger, but she was a bit calmer now, that some of the fury inside of her had been left out.

Buffy was searching for words, and as she found none that were appropriate to say, she simply asked, "Are you going back there now? To the hospital?"

"Yes," the redhead replied. "I'm going back to her. She's five years old Buffy. Five years old and alone in a big hospital. Sure, the staff is nice and the nurse who cares for her is a sweetie, but Marlie doesn't know anyone there and she's terrified. She just lost her father. Her mother doesn't care a damn..." she took a deep breath again. No, she decided. She had said this to Buffy again and again and it never worked. There was really no sense in getting worked up over this. But she had been so angry to see Marlie's scared little face and hearing her ask for her mother...

"I'm coming with you," Buffy was saying, already looking around for some clothes that weren't completely out of question.

"No," Willow replied sharply, not caring when the blond stared at her as if she was speaking another language. "No, you aren't coming with me," she clarified. "I don't want you to come with me. Marlie doesn't need a mother who comes rushing to her side out of a momentary flash of guilt, only to abandon her in one or two days again. She doesn't need that emotional roller coaster. No. I just came to tell you."

She looked around, taking in the scattered clothes everywhere, the two empty bottles of Whisky on the table, the layers of dust on every shelf, then shook her head, "If you can't take care of yourself, how are you supposed to take care of your children? I'm even going to tell you, you can't come to the hospital. Either you get your life back on track or you better stay away completely. The way you are at the moment, you're of no use for your children. You're just going to hurt them again."

She turned and her hand was already on the door handle, when Buffy suddenly cried, "I just lost my husband, Willow. He was healthy and fine and a week later he was dead. Dead. Do you understand? He isn't just miraculously coming back tomorrow. He's dead."

"Yeah, I know," the redhead turned around, her face sad, "We were around death a lot for a while if you remember. Death isn't unfamiliar to me. But you know what the real problem is, Buffy. Riley's dead and I know it's hard, but maybe you should start realizing that you're still alive." With a last long look she opened the door and was gone.

*

Buffy stared at the closed door for a long while. What the hell had happened to Willow? Shouting at her as if this was all her fault. Couldn't she see that life hadn't dealt her a fair hand? Oh sure, it was easy for Willow to yell at her and demand she should get her life back on track. Willow hadn't lost her husband to a fatal disease, she was still living her pretty, little suburban life with her equally happy lover and their nice, pretty girls.

God, they were disgusting with their great happiness written all over their faces.

"No, it's you who's disgusting here."

Now, Buffy thought, she had completely lost it. She wasn't drunk now. Yes, she had a horrible hangover and a killer headache, but besides that, she was absolutely sober, but she could've sworn she had heard her mother's voice behind her. Maybe this was one of the final stages of being a drunk, complete with hallucinating, although people didn't usually get into those final stages after only six months. Or at least, she hoped they didn't.

"No," she said firmly, "You are not here. I'm not hearing a ghost talking to me in bright sunlight."

"No, of course not," her mother replied, and darn the woman, her voice held a trace of amusement. "Because if you did, you'd probably be crazy. Isn't that the explanation the inhabitants - including me – of Sunnydale have told themselves for years to deny all the things that went bump in the night? So why should you believe that you are talking with your mother's ghost?"

"Oh, that's really great. Come on, throw more of my own words back at me," Buffy hissed, turning around. And of course there she was. The materialization of Joyce Summers was right in her living-room, floating just inches above the carpet. The very dirty carpet. Oh God, this was a nightmare. Last night Buffy had been too drunk to care, but here, in broad daylight, it wasn't a nice thing to have the ghost of your mother in your apartment that was far from clean.

"At least you still remember things. It's a relief, you know. To see that the alcohol hasn't melted your brains already."

"You're so funny," the blond told her mother. "Did you take classes for making jokes up there, or what?"

A laugh was her answer. "I always thought I had a good sense of humor. That's how I managed to deal with the fact that my daughter was facing death every night," she paused, her smile turning soft, "That, and the fact that I trusted you. I trust your strength, your will to survive. But now, you seem to have lost it. What happened to you, Buffy? Why did you give up?"

"You know why. My husband died, after we spent almost 20 years together. Don't you think it's reason enough?"

Joyce, or rather her ghost, sighed deeply, "It might be. For another woman. But not for you."

"Why?" Buffy whirled around, glaring at her mother, "Because I was a slayer? Because I'm so strong and not entitled to fail. Newsflash Mom, I failed a lot. I couldn't get you back to life. Jenny Calendar died and I couldn't do a thing and Dawn," her voice broke and a sob tore from her throat. But she quickly had herself back in control. "So you see, I'm not some unfailing super-hero. Sorry, to disappoint you."

"Yes," Joyce nodded, "I am disappointed. But not because people died. People die every day. I died because I was sick. Dawn died because it was her fate. She was doomed to die from the start. I know she felt real to us, by God, she felt very real to me, but the fact remains that she wasn't. Those monks made her for only one reason, so that you would protect the energy that was bound in that human body. And yes, it was a cruel twist of fate, but you couldn't have changed it."

Buffy snorted at her mother's words and turned to start her coffee maker. She needed a cup of coffee now. Badly. And maybe, just maybe, the Joyce-ghost would go away then, noticing that she didn't want her here.

But, of course, no such luck for Buffy. Joyce came soundlessly floating after her, materializing herself at the counter, and Buffy closed her eyes, knowing that there was more to come.

"I'm disappointed because you're lying to yourself. I know Riley died and I do believe that you miss him, but it has got nothing to do with your undying love for him that night after night you try to drink yourself into stupor and try to forget all the lies you've been living with for over 20 years with it."

The spoon Buffy had been holding clattered on the counter and with a whirl of her body she was facing her mother, advancing the ghost menacingly, "Shut up," she shouted. "How can you even dare-"

"Are you angry now?" Joyce asked, interrupting her fury, "Do you want to beat me? Well, go on, try it." She seemed to think about something, and then said, "I've always wondered if it might hurt if someone hit me. So don't hold back. Hit!"

Her daughter stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath and straightened, "I'm not going to hit you. You're my mother." The moment the words were out of her mouth, she made a sound of disbelief and threw her hands in the air. "God, now I'm going insane. What am I talking about? You're a ghost. You're probably not even there. Did I actually refer to you as my mother?" She shook her head, picked up her spoon again and measured coffee for the percolator.

Mrs. Summers sighed deeply, "And I thought we were over that part already. Yes, I'm dead and yes, I'm a ghost, but I'm here nevertheless and you of all people should be able to believe that. I'm certainly not the first ghost you've seen."

"No, you're not," Buffy confirmed. "But you're - don't take this personally – but you're the most freaky one. Or what would you think if you met the ghost of your dead mother?"

"Actually, I did meet her," Joyce replied cheerfully, "She's happy up here and has lost a lot of her-" the expression in her daughter's eyes brought her to an abrupt halt, "but of course you aren't interested in hearing that. Maybe later. Now your grand-mother is the least of your problems, I suppose."

"You have no idea what my problems are," her daughter bit off. "You never did. You were the most oblivious person I ever met."

"But of course I wasn't a ghost then," Joyce said wistfully. "As I already told you. For ghosts words and thoughts are the same. I know exactly what you're thinking," her voice softened, and became like the one Buffy remembered, the one that had tucked her into bed when she was little, "and for that, I also know that you need to face hard truths. And soon. Or you're going to lose everything that's important for you."

For a moment Buffy contemplated shouting at her again, but this was her mother. And sure, they hadn't been always close, but a mother was the closest relative you had - besides children - and although the ghost-thing was definitely creepy, she thought, why not. She shut her eyes tightly for a second, and then looked at her mother, "And what, if I'm not able to face them?" she asked, her voice almost like that of a little girl.

"You are," Joyce said, "You've always been strong. But you've been lying to yourself for so long, it's hard to break the habit. Believe me, I know. But you're young, and there's a whole life out there. Don't throw that away. I know, I'm not meant to tell you, but there's love out there for you. You just have to go and get it."

"Love?" Buffy echoed incredulously, "Mom, I-"

"No," her mother shook her head, "don't say it. First deal with yourself. Try it. Start today. Then take the next day and the day after that. Each day it will become a bit easier and in the end you'll be living again. Really living, not just existing."

"What if I fail?" the younger blond asked. "What if I can't get back, or can't live with what I've done?"

"Don't think about failure now, Buffy," Joyce said softly. "Just think about today. Try to get through today without a drink. I know it's hard. But you can do it." She took a deep breath, a cheerful smile on her face now, "I have to go now. This materialization thing is still not easy for me."

"No, Mom," Buffy cried in sudden panic. "Please don't go. I'm not sure I can do this on my own."

Silence was her only answer. She ran from the kitchen into the living room and frantically looked around, but there was no sign of her mother there. She went through the entire apartment, looked for her even in the closets. But like most things in her life these days, the search was a failure too. Joyce was gone.

Go to Part 4