DISCLAIMER: no characters but the boy belong to me
RATING: light PG-13
SPOILERS: none i swear
FEEDBACK: please?
A/N: thank you so much the marvelous feedback: Christine, Reed, Doc,and Ceme

Angel walked past the rusted gates of Sunnydale Cemetery. Like yesterday and the day before that and so forth for the past eighty years, his hand held a single white rose. She was buried at a grassy plot, surrounded by her family and friends.

Buffy Anne Summers
Beloved
1981-2006

He placed the rose on the tombstone. The petals glowed from the faint light of the stars. The smooth marble was cool under his caress, engraving worn from his touch. He sighed heavily and again cast his mind back to that fateful day.

~~~

Angel had arrived just in time to see the demon draw his sword across the Slayer's neck. Her name tore out of his throat and he raced towards her body. Dead men don't bleed, and she wasn't bleeding. There was but a line of blood on her neck.

That was it. No good-byes, no "I love you", nothing. He was dimly aware that the demon had been defeated. All he focused on was she. Denial raced through his veins and he clutched her, shook her, screamed.

Lifeless green eyes were his response. He reduced to sobs and held her body to him.

Xander and Giles dragged him away lest he burn. Hours later he sat on the couch wishing he had.

~~~

It was still hard to comprehend, even after all this time, that Buffy was under him. Buried into the cold unforgiving earth. She had been so vibrant, so full of life. He sat on the cold ground and leaned against her gravestone. Closing his eyes he imagined that her warm body was curled next to his. "I killed two demons today."

“Did you?” she would respond, her breath warm against his ear. Concern would color her voice as she asked, "Are you hurt?"

He smiled and spoke to the night air, "I'm fine." His lips began to tremble. "I miss you."

Phantom fingers traced his jaw and tenderly stroked his cheek. "It's not our time."

"When?"

"Soon my love."

As he opened his eyes, Angel could have sworn that it was her lips that had touched his and not the wind. Inwardly he smiled, soon.

Fifty years later a little boy wandered through the graveyard. It was the dead of night with but a sliver of moonshine. He cursed himself for accepting the stupid dare. He jumped and flinched at every noise. At an owl's mournful hoot the boy spun, fully prepared to run. He was brought to a stop by an object out of the corner of his eye. The tombstone was crumbling and one could barely make out the word "beloved". Yet it wasn't the stone that had caught the boy's attention. It was the jacket. It had belonged to a man and was covered in fine white dust that the wind dare not disturb. It lay in a heap.

Curious, he touched the fine wool and slipped his small hand into the deep pocket. There was a picture of a girl. Black and white but worn yellow over time. She was a beauty and a small smile graced her lips. Reaching farther into the pocket the boy's hand clasped a silver ring. Tiny fingers outlined the hands holding the heart with a crown.

The boy grew into a man, a husband, a grandfather. Every once and a while he would think back to that night and wonder if the man and the girl in the picture had lived happily ever after.

They had and still were.

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