Title: I'll Stand By You
Author: JR
Email: JRR42@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Angel, Giles, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.
Thanks: To all the wonderful friends who have been their for me and my family through this difficult time. Your kind words, thoughts and prayers have meant the world to us.
Dedication: For my Mom. And for Nena.
Summary: Angel helps Willow through a difficult time.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled the car into the parking lot of the Melvile Funeral Home. I would have been there a lot sooner, but an accident on the freeway had traffic tied up all over this part of the city. Oh the joys of living in L.A..

Saints above, how I hate funeral parlors. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? With me being a vampire and all? Simple truth of the matter is that most of the undead hate funerals and all the trappings that come with them. For most vampires, it’s the actual killing and carnage part that’s considered fun. Well that and the excitement of watching our fledglings struggle out of the ground that first night. It’s hazing of a sort, a right of passage kind of thing. But for the makers, it creates a special sense of anticipation that just can’t be duplicated.

Not like this. Not the dread and sadness that accompanies these human ceremonies.

I paused outside the door, taking a moment to prepare myself for the pomp and pretension I knew I would find inside. Once I was as collected and ready as I would ever be, I pushed the tinted glass door open and walked across the threshold.

The lobby was just as I had expected. Dark blue carpet, walls painted in eggshell white, furniture made out of cherry wood -- all carefully chosen to appear tasteful without being too somber. Funeral homes and chain hotels, two industries with one common factor -- a severe lack of imagination in interior design.

“Hello,” a voice greeted me. I turned my head and found its source. She was in her mid-to-late thirties, not exactly attractive per se, but one of those faces that instantly set most people at ease. She was seated behind a large table that tried too hard *not* to look like a desk. A receptionist then, I assumed.

“Hello,” I responded in kind. “Eisley?” I asked simply, not seeing the need for any additional words. I had a feeling I was in store for more than my share of polite conversation that night.

“That way, Sir,” the woman replied in a cultured tone. “It’s just on the right."

“Thank you,” I replied and headed off in the direction she’d indicated.

It wasn’t long before I came across the black sign with the harsh white clip letters proclaiming the name ‘Eisley’. One of the doors leading into the room was propped open, a few muted whispers spilling out to reach my vampire ears. I saw the wooden stand next to the door and crossed over to it. A reception book lay open on the slanted cherry wood surface. Roughly a dozen names had already been signed, and I couldn’t stop myself from scanning the signatures for the one I was hoping to find. Thankfully, it was there, third from the top.

Willow Anne Rosenberg.

I stared down at the name for a moment, entranced for some odd reason by Willow’s handwriting. It struck me as odd, but I didn’t think that I’d ever seen it before that moment. The artist in me couldn’t help noticing the neat precision in which she wrote. Clean, scholarly, and yet it still had that gentle, flowing quality that was inherently feminine.

Shaking my head at my pitiful procrastination attempt, I picked up the pen and wrote my own name to the registry. I felt foolish just signing ‘Angel’, so I added the surname that I had abandoned so long ago at the end of my human existence.

For the second time that evening, I found myself pausing in a doorway. Glancing around the room, I took in the handful of people milling around, some standing off to one side, some seated in the neat rows of thoughtfully provided chairs. Unfortunately, I didn’t see Willow among them.

I felt several pairs of eyes fall upon me, the newcomer to the room. Not wanting to appear as out of place as I felt, I forced my feet to move forward toward the dais at the front of the room. With each step, my nose was increasingly assaulted by the sickly-sweet scents coming from the many carefully placed flowers arrangements. Dark ribbons flowed from each basket and stand, every one embossed to proclaim the names of the senders.

There, in the center of all those arrangements, stood the most sobering sight of all. It was beautiful as caskets go, some kind of light-colored wood, polished to an elegant shine. At least it was closed. Even when I was human, I never liked the custom of putting the dead on display. Personally, I thought the spray of flowers spanning the middle of the casket was certainly more tasteful, and the silver framed picture that stood off to one side was a nice touch.

Two last steps left me standing on the dais. I studied the photograph for a moment. The picture was in black and white, but somehow, the format didn’t detract from the woman it captured. Joanna Eisley was probably in her sixties when the image was taken. She was smiling softly at something out of the camera’s range. I didn’t see much in the woman’s face that reminded me of Willow, except perhaps for the eyes.

The sense of someone walking up behind me reminded me of where I was. Even without looking, I could tell that the person had stopped a few feet away, politely giving me a moment’s solitude. Falling back on the Catholic traditions I was raised upon, I reached out and placed a hand on the polished surface of the coffin. For what little it was worth, I silently thanked a woman I’d never met for her part in bringing a gentle soul like Willow into the world. With my respects to the dead paid, I prepared myself to do the same to the living.

I spotted them as soon as I turned around. I’d caught glimpses of Willow’s mother over the years, mostly through the front window of the Rosenberg home. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but I spent a fair number of nights hidden in shadows, making sure that each of Buffy’s friends made it safely home from either the library or the Bronze.

I lost count of how many times I found myself staring in through the windows of their houses. Some nights, I would tell myself that it was to appease my own curiosity, to get a sense of who, what and where these kids were coming from, of why these mortal children would risk their lives in the fight against evil. But that was only part of the time.

It was the other nights that haunt me still. How I would watch their families and wonder. I would imagine what my life would have been like had I been born into one of their families. Would I have gotten lucky and ended up in a loving home like Buffy’s? Or would I have had rich, uninterested parents like Cordelia’s? Or suffered the verbal and occasionally physical abuse that was Xander’s lot in life? Or maybe my parents might have been like Willow’s, good intentioned but often distracted by their own lives and careers?

It’s a dangerous game, ‘what if’? Maybe I inserted myself into their lives simply so I could avoid the most damning ‘what ifs’? of all. What if...what if I hadn’t killed my own family? What if I had never been turned in the first place?

I shook my head to clear it. This was neither the time nor the place for these kinds of thoughts. I had the rest of my existence to brood. I was at this funeral for a reason, and it was time for me to track that reason down.

Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg were busy speaking with an elderly woman. Not wanting to intrude on their conversation, I slowed my pace somewhat. It was only then that I saw her -- well, at least the back of her, anyway.

My timing was perfect. By the time I was a few steps away from the gathering of Rosenberg’s, Willow and her father were completely focused on the old women with whom they’d been talking. Catching sight of me walking toward their little group, Willow’s mother broke off from her current conversation and focused her full attention on me. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to figure out who I was and if she should have remembered me from somewhere.

“Hello,” she asked as she extended her hand. I almost smiled at her neutral greeting. Isn’t it funny how nobody in a social setting likes to admit that they might not remember someone?

“Mrs. Rosenberg,” I replied, accepting the hand that she offered. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

Had we been anywhere else, the next few seconds that followed would have been comical. About halfway through my condolences to her mother, I watched a jolt run through Willow’s slender frame as she recognized my voice. Jerking around haphazardly, everything -- from her saucer-like eyes to her gaping mouth -- spoke volumes of her total disbelief. There was a long moment where nothing happened. It was like time was standing still for all of us -- Willow, her mother, even myself. Then Willow finally spoke.

“A-angel?” she gasped.

“Hi Willow,” I replied. I tried to conceal my amusement, especially given the setting we were in, but I could practically feel my eyes twinkling at her reaction to my presence.

I knew it was rude, but I couldn’t help standing there and gaping at Willow for a long moment. So much had changed in the months since I had last seen her. Most noticeable was her hair. It was cut much shorter than I remembered. Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting, but even the colour seemed off from the mental picture I carried of her.

Then there was her clothing. She was, unsurprisingly, wearing black, and oh did it flatter her. Her skirt was long, the hem of it brushing against the lower part of her calves. The neckline was lower than she would have dared in her high school days, but still apropos for the occasion.

The clothing and the new haircut added something to the image Willow presented. It appeared that the shy, timid girl from Sunnydale High was gone. In that child’s place was this new person I had really yet to meet. I almost got worried there for a minute that she’d completely changed on me -- until she began to speak.

“Angel, what...what are you...why are you...how did...?”

I almost smiled the minute I heard that slight hesitant pattern of speech that was unique to my friend. ‘Willow-speak’ I’d heard Buffy call it more than once. It was a sound for sore ears. Then it hit me. I wasn’t hearing any more of it because Willow was busy waiting for me to answer at least one of her incomplete questions.

“I saw the ob...*notice* in the paper this afternoon,” I explained. “I hope you don’t...that I’m not...intruding.” I stifled a groan. God above, it never really occurred to me that Willow might not want me to be here. After all, we were never really close, and the whole me-being-a-vampire thing...

“No!” Willow’s exclamation interrupted my harsh descent into a full-blown brood. “I’m so glad...well, not *glad*.” Color crept into Willow’s cheeks as she shot her mother a guilty look.

“It’s okay, honey.” Mrs. Rosenberg soothed Willow with a gentle pat to her daughter’s arm. “This is difficult for all of us.”

“It must be a difficult time,” I answered, then kicked myself mentally for saying something so obvious and so very stupid.

“Forgive my manners, but have we met?” Willow’s mother was staring at me, obviously trying to place exactly who the hell I was.

“Sorry, Mom,” Willow said sheepishly. “Mom, this is Angel. He’s a friend from Sunnydale...I mean he used to be...from Sunnydale, that is...back when we were in high school.”

“Really.” The way the older woman dragged out that single word said it all. I was twenty-seven when I died, and while I haven’t aged a day since then, I still look like a twenty-seven year-old. Was it any wonder that Mrs. Rosenberg was instantly suspicious?

“Well, no,” Willow began, trying to correct her mistake. “Angel didn’t go to high school *with* us.”

“I did a lot of tutoring at the high school,” I interjected with the first thing that came to mind. Hell, Joyce Summers had believed that story when Buffy used it to explain my presence a couple of years ago. It had worked back then. I could only hope for the same thing now.

“Ah,” Mrs. Rosenberg nodded. “What subjects did you tutor?”

“History, mostly,” I replied, sticking with same story. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Willow stifling a giggle over my answer.

“Well, Angel, it was so good of you to come all the way up here.”

“Actually, I live here in L.A. now,” I answered honestly. “But I wanted to come to pay my respects. That reminds me,” I turned to face Willow, “Cordelia and Wesley send their condolences. They...ah...had to work tonight.” God, that was a miserable excuse. I mean, Willow knows I’m their boss. Fortunately, I was saved from any scrutiny.

“That’s so kind of all of you,” Mrs. Rosenberg responded with a tight, but well-meaning, smile. “I’m terrible sorry,” she began as another person approached us.

“I understand,” I reassured her. Playing hostess wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances, and this was hardly the best of circumstances. Besides, I was more than a little anxious to get out from under the microscope of her scrutiny. I was, after all, there for Willow.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Willow exclaimed as soon as her mother turned away. “Uh...I didn’t mean...”

“I know,” I soothed. “It’s okay.”

“I’m just really happy...to see you.” Willow’s eyes started to get misty as she spoke. By the time she had finished the sentence, her face had completely fallen and she began to cry in earnest.

“Hey,” I said softly. Almost two-and-a-half centuries old, and I still never know what the hell I should do when a woman starts crying in front of me. With nothing better in mind, I awkwardly reached out. After a moment of indecisiveness, I placed a hand on Willow’s shoulder.

The way she leaned into the touch prompted some kind of comforting instinct in me that I hadn’t realized I still possessed. Giving in to my impulse, I stepped forward and enfolded my weeping friend into an embrace. I guess it was the right move, because the next thing I knew, Willow’s arms were around me, holding on for dear life.

“Shhh,” I soothed repeatedly. “It’s going to be okay.”

I could feel the moist heat of Willow’s face where it was buried against my chest. Her tears were soaking through my suit, but I could have cared less. Willow’s comfort was the only thing that mattered to me at that moment.

I kept crooning softly as she cried, dredging up every memory I recalled on how to soothe despondent women. Pulling her tiny frame closer to me, keeping my hands busy by rubbing small circles on her back. In the end, I pressed my cheek down against the top of her head. And when her tears finally showed signs of slowing down, I pressed a soft kiss on her silky hair before easing my body back from hers.

“Better?” I asked as gently as I could manage.

Willow nodded sheepishly, keeping her eyes downcast. She sniffled once, then brought up a petite hand in a futile effort to wipe some of the tear tracks from her cheeks.

“Do you have a tissue?” I prodded softly. Willow shook her head slightly, her eyes never leaving the floor. “Do you want to go look for one?” Answering me with a barely perceptible nod, I put my hand on the small of her back and started leading her away.

Like most funeral homes, the staff of this one planned ahead. It wasn’t difficult to find a tissue box. Not when they had them planted as unobtrusively as possible at five-foot intervals around the room. I zoomed in on one in an otherwise unoccupied back corner.

Seeing that Willow was still a little dazed, I grabbed a couple out of the box. I held the tissues out to Willow, but she didn’t take them from me. I lifted a hand, fully intending to wipe her face a bit for her, but I guess that was too much.

“Thanks,” Willow mumbled, reaching out to take the tissues from me. “I didn’t mean to...”

“You’re entitled, Willow,” I comforted.

Sensing that she might want a bit of privacy in which to clean up, I purposely turned my gaze toward the rest of the room. The number of people seemed to have doubled since I first came in. Willow’s parents were talking to different groups of people on separate sides of the room. Although engaged in conversation, I saw Mrs. Rosenberg scanning the room, stopping only when she caught sight of us. Upon seeing Willow and I together, she looked directly at me and nodded her head, silently thanking me for looking after her daughter. I acknowledged her in kind by returning the gesture, then turned back to Willow.

By the expression on her face, I could tell that Willow had just reached the conclusion that there is only so much tidying that one can accomplish with a Kleenex. After making one last effort to wipe her cheeks, Willow pulled the now-tattered tissue away and looked at it in disgust. I leaned forward to grab a replacement for her, but stopped when she spoke.

“I don’t think this is going to cut it,” she explained. “Maybe I’d better go find a bathroom.”

“I passed one out in the hall on my way in,” I supplied.

“Okay,” she replied. She didn’t, however, make any move to leave. In fact, that embarrassed look I’d seen on her face right before she broke down was starting to come back.

It took me a minute to realize that she must not have wanted to go alone but didn’t want to say anything about it out loud. Well, I couldn’t help her out *all* the way, but I could at least escort her and keep her company to the bathroom door. Since it had worked a few minutes ago, once again I placed a hand at the small of her back. Once again, it was enough to get her moving.

“I feel like Scully on the X-Files,” Willow laughed as we headed out the door.

“Sorry?” I’d heard of the show and had a vague idea that it was somehow about the supernatural, but I’d never actually seen it. What can I say? I don’t watch a whole lot of television.

“Oh,” Willow chuckled, realizing my predicament. “It’s this show on T.V.. One of the characters is a small redhead, and her partner is always putting his hand on her back to guide her. Kind of like what you’re doing with me.”

“I’m sorry!” I instantly pulled my hand away, afraid that I’d inadvertently offended her.

“No!” she protested, stopping short in the middle of hall. “I didn’t mean...I...ah...that is...I kind of...like it.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “Well that’s no problem then. Allow me.” I replaced my hand with an over-exaggerated flourish. The grand gesture was worth it, if only to hear the sound of Willow’s laugh.

“I’ll be right here,” I said when we reached the ladies room a few steps later.

“Angel?” Willow called in a tiny voice.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Anything I can do for you, Willow,” I answered. “You know that.”




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