Disclaimer: Joss owns them and is apparently going to destroy them. I merely offer you an alternative!!
Rating: PG 15
Summary: It's the night after the funeral.
Feedback: So appreciated! I live for it!

I think its the night after the funeral when I realize I haven't cried yet. Not a single tear.

I'm in my room, folding clothes and watching the way the sky glistens with blackness, as the moon slowly creeps along the horizon. My throat sort of hurts and so does my skin. But I'm not really feeling anything, just staring with my empty green orbs at the endless night.

The cracked paint on my windowsill is beginning to irritate me. It looks so messy, so wrong. It looks like it wouldn't have been that way if Mom was around. For a moment I gaze at it, and it becomes my whole world. Those tiny slivers, the peels in the paint. unravelling like threads down my wall. I should fix it. Slap some coating over it.

As I stand here, the joints of my knee start to sting from being held in one place too long. And that's when I realize. I haven't cried yet. I think I must be strange. There must be something wrong with me- not to have wept and screamed and crawled on wobbly hands and knees into my mother's room. my hands extended. where are you, Mommy?

But I'm not a baby and I have Dawn to look after. She keeps crying, every day, all day and the swollenness of her eyes scares me. She looks worried every time I go and patrol, because she's imagining what it would be like if I didn't come back. If they found me, split open and blood soaked in some crypt. run through with a stake by a creature that I am trained to fight. I've pictured the scene so many times in my head, that it plays behind my eyelids like a film without sound. Me, dead. Me, resting in a deep deep sleep. But. Dawnie.alone. That's why I don't let myself become what I see in my head.

The gang have all been over today. Xander's mother sent a cake. I guess frosting is supposed to heal all wounds. I ate it all for dinner and then threw up in the bathroom, my insides heaving and shaking. Dawn must have heard me. She was in her room listlessly doing homework. While her sister puked her guts out and then rested her forehead against the cold tiled floor. It felt sort of good and for a moment I considered becoming bulimic. I knew it was a crazy thought as soon as I had it. Who just suddenly decides that they will be a bulimic? But I liked the empty feeling in my belly. It was nice.

As my hands close over the next piece of clothing to fold, I stop for a moment and stare at it.

It's one of Mom's nightgowns. She must have thrown it into the hamper a long time ago and I did the laundry without thinking. My fingers clench and bunch around the cotton. Lifting it to my nose, I inhale and almost sob in frustration. It smells like fabric softener. There's nothing left. No traces of her. Folding it carefully, I lay it on my pillow and decide that I'll wear it tonight. If I sleep. I still have to patrol and make Dawn's lunch for tomorrow and read a chapter for English.

A strange hot ache spreads in my limbs. There's a tingle buzzing in my blood. It creeps up over my stomach and down between my legs. shaking slightly, I face the doorway and think I hear soft footfalls. A cold knot of ice forms in my chest, pressing down against the ribs that pierce my skin. I feel like shouting, "Who's there?", but what do I care anyway? If it's not Mommy, I don't give a shit.

The door opens and I stare. It's worse than somebody. It's Angel. "Angel," I say in that inane way I do, and hate myself for it. He always made me be someone I didn't like. Someone weak and vulnerable. I say it like a question that needs to be answered, and it does. "Angel."

He looks at me with those eyes and my gaze sweeps over his beauty with disinterest. He was always gorgeous, always pale and untouched and ethereal. "Buffy," he murmurs. "Oh, love."

No, that's not good. He's being tender. Why is he looking at me like that? I'm just folding clothes.at 1am. "What are you doing here?" I ask shortly, without any warmth.

"I found out from Harmony." he says quietly. "About your Mom, and I wanted to come and-"

"And what?" I laugh, showing my razor like teeth. "Show your undying support? Be my rock. save my soul? Oh, well thanks Angel. Thanks so much."

He doesn't flinch and I think he should be. He should be wincing and his eyes should be clouding with hurt. Cause that's what I'm doing. hurting him. Being the Buffy he made me into, when he left and destroyed all my little dreams. "No response?" I mock, and face him. "Don't you want me to fall into your arms? Say, thank God that you came. cause it means so damn much?"

Angel stares at me with hooded eyes and then leans against the wall. "I don't want you to do anything."

I laugh. And laugh. My stomach hurts, a prickling deep down in my belly. With horror, I feel the hot sting of tears at the back of my throat and run, past him, with strong legs, into the bathroom. Slamming the door, I lean against it and swallow, gulping back the bile and insane tears which threaten to creep into my mouth. My flesh is itchy, and cold. So cold.

There's a soft knock. "Buffy?"

Bastard. I hate him, with his stupid voice and deep fucking eyes and big dumb boots and that goddamn duster he wears. I hate him. Shaking madly, my arms wobbling, I try and block out the sound of his pleas for me to open the door. Why doesn't he just break it down? He could. Oh God. I can't listen. I can't be who I am right now. It hurts too much.

Turning on the taps to the shower, I watch the way the water cascades into the bath, hitting the white porcelain with concentrated heat. Steam begins to wisp around the edges of the bath, swirling around my head and filling my ears and mouth. I shiver and iciness drips down my spine. I hate the cold. I hate it. My clothes come off with fingers that are sore. Dropping the pants and the shirt and underwear on the floor, I step into the bath, and feel the water cover me.

My skin turns red, but I don't feel it. It's sweaty in here now, and the air is laded with heaviness, muskiness. Why am I so cold? God, the water should be hot. I can't even see the bathroom anymore, it's cloaked in the shadow of the steam, which swirls around me like ghosts. The knocks on the door are getting consistently louder and his voice starts to become panicked. Maybe he thinks I'm drowning myself. What a thought.

My chest starts to ache, just slightly. and I realize I stopped breathing. How long ago I don't remember. Looking down, I stare at my flushed legs and turn the water to cold. It sheets over me like ice and still I don't feel a thing. Feeling like screaming, I lay down and press my face to the side of the bathtub, curling into a ball.

How long ago did I come in here? I don't remember. How long ago did Mommy die? I don't remember. Who am I? I.

I'm Buffy Summers. Yes, I know that. I'm Buffy Summers, Slayer and friend, once girlfriend to Riley Finn, who is currently doing secret stuff in the jungle. My two best friends are Willow Rosenburg and Xander Harris. I used to have a lover. Not Riley. I used to have a Mom, but she died. After I broke her ribs I threw up and the stain won't wash away. I have a sister who isn't really my sister. When I hug her every night she feels real, but she's not. I have a Dad, and a Watcher. But my Watcher is more like my Dad than my real Dad. did that make sense? Oh yeah. and I'm slowly dying in this room. The bathroom. My head's spinning on the floor now and I can't feel anything. My once lover is outside, and his eyes are probably weeping tears of regret. But he'll go on because that's what he always does. I don't make his world stop anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever did.

"Buffy." Why is his voice so close? And why do I feel like screaming at the sound of it? Arms grasp my legs and my shoulders and he lifts me with that ease he's famous for. but I feel the tremble in his hands.

He carries me and slowly I come back to myself. "Angel," I whisper and press my face into his neck. "I'm sorry," I murmur and he shushes me, smoothing my hair.

"No. nothing to be sorry for," he soothes and then sits down on the bed, drawing my naked, quivering form onto his lap. Curling up, I touch his face and stare into his eyes.

"My Mom died." My voice is soft, quiet, and firm. He nods and I see the glitter of tears. Is that just my reflection?

"I know, love. I'm sorry."

My throat is so heavy and my eyes burn. "Can I cry now?" I ask him and feel small. He cups my cheek and then lies back, drawing a blanket around me. Resting my face against his chest, I swallow and try and breathe.

I think I am going to cry now, and it makes me feel sick. Angel isn't saying anything, but his presence is enough, as it always was. I wonder briefly why he is the one who can open me up, and wonder why Riley never could. I also wonder why his smell can make me feel at home and why his smile is all that I ever want to live for. Then I wonder why he left me and why my Mommy left me. and then I feel the tears and roll over, my fingers grappling with his sweater.

As he holds me, I remember that I love him and wonder just when I forgot.

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