disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
-----
THE END

Wakefulness always had certain levels. There was the hyper-
alert level, in which blood screamed only for battle, and
scent was only for the kill. And there was the simple
period between waking up and going to bed, where one went
about his or her daily activities as they usually did,
without a particular care or excitement towards anything
except maybe the mere fact that he or she was alive. And
many, many more betweens.

Angel hovered just above the too tired to sleep, uncaring,
dull stare level, dancing along the razor-tip line between
that, and whatever painful depths lay below. His eyes
drooped into a dispirited gaze, the blaring red numbers on
the digital alarm clock beside his bed blurring into a mess
of color, like an artist had spilled his bucket of red paint
across the air that hung thick and still before his face.

He didn't eat, nor did he breathe, or ever once shift his
draped position, but every once in a while, if one watched
close enough, his eyes would blink when the burning pain of
dryness became too severe and biting, or a finger would
twitch as his mind went into the throes of some waking
nightmare. Hallucination, more like.

Buffy the vampire came to him, once every once in a once in
a while, just to greet him and thank him for turning her...
To taunt him for getting so worked up at the funeral. To
goad him with warm, gushing bags of donated human blood. He
merely shrugged her away, back into the misty nothingness
from which she had come.

Buffy the slayer visited him once, and only once. The
latter, he was sure had been a dream, because she had
smiled, and said that everything was going to be all
right, and that his gift was coming.

< Death was her gift. Her gift to you. It takes time... >

Cordelia, Wesley, Fred, and even Gunn all stopped by from
time to time, worried looks on their faces, sometimes hushed
conversation as though they didn't realize he could hear
them quite clearly nor even assemble what they were saying
into perfect, coherent sentences.

He just didn't care.

And, with the cold, stark oblivion that was developing in
his chest, seeping out through his arteries and into his
dead cells, he began to wonder.

When.

Such, was the way of things for what seemed like an eternity
barely shorter than the one he had spent in the torturous
grips of Hell. But things were never as they seemed.

The red smear of time hovering before him was suddenly a
green one. And it was moving, back and forth. Back and
forth. Back and forth. A windshield wiper on turbo-speed.

He blinked as the disturbed air fled into his eyes.

"I think you left part of your aura back on the stairs,
because there's a big hole in it the size of Momma Cass..."

The green blur changed back into a red one, and then the
red started bouncing all over his view field like a drunken
fly. He blinked again, and the hands that were shaking him
stopped.

"Angel cakes, the point of this discussion is exactly that.
To discuss. I don't want to hear suicidal depression as an
excuse..."

For the first time since he had let his eyes slip lazily
open, Angel took a deep, monstrous breath, bones and muscles
crying in protest at that small, token movement. "Go away,"
he whispered, sounding just shy of an old windbag's great
grandfather windbag.

Weary, and cold.

"Nope. The Powers have flagged you like a neon sign in
Vegas, sweetie. You're stuck until we've had a nice one-on-
one."

"Go away," he repeated, curling onto his side, a leaf drying
in the sun. Drying out and dying, brittle and shriveling
into the light that was supposed to feed it. He wrapped his
arms around his calves and pulled his head in towards his
knees in a tight fetal position.

"Fine. Then I'll talk, and you'll listen. You're
_supposed_ to stay, you're in all of the important
prophecies. The apocalypse of apocalypses rests entirely on
the fact that if you're not fighting for the good guys, Hell
will suck the world into one giant nightmare."

Angel stared at the lamp, this time, watching with an
absence of curiosity as it melted into a white, rippled
blur of nothing. White. Like the sanctuary had been. It
had been warm there...

Would he go there?

"And I know that, right now, that may not seem all that
important, but you have to trust me. Powers don't flag
people for nothing. They want you alive."

Grunting, Angel clutched at his calves and thighs. At his
self. "Then they can bring Buffy back."

"No. They can't -- that would be counterproductive. I
don't think you're getting this whole concept of 'death was
her gift.'"

Feeling bled back into him for that one moment, that one,
precious moment. Numbed muscles and bones creaked, and
shifted, and groaned, but he unfurled like a mummy peeling
off dressings and turned towards Lorne, eyes narrowing with
pain. "What kind of fucking gift is that? Is that the
Power's idea of some sick joke? DEATH IS NOT A GIFT."

Except to me. Right now... He closed his eyes and wished
the Host would go away and leave him to rot.

"No," The Host replied, shaking his head, "Death was her
gift TO YOU. Emphasis on _you_. And if you can just _not_
think about walking into the sun for a while, it might
actually sink in..."

"How is Buffy dying a gift for me?" he asked, rocking up
onto his knees as he gazed at The Host emphatically.

"They know how much I love her. They can't just kill her
off like a damned cockroach or some other freak of nature,
label it as a favor to me, and expect me to act like it's
all right. I'm _not_ fighting for them anymore. As far as
I'm concerned, _They_ can go shove their stupid apocalyptic
plans up _Their_ godly asses," he snapped.

His eyes rolled up a bit and he let loose a sigh, letting
what little life had returned to him rush out of his system
with his fleeting, unneeded breath.

"I'm not fighting for anyone." With the last of his breath,
left the last of his cares, and the last of his hope.

The last of everything.

He collapsed onto the bed and resumed his commune with the
lamp. He was out of tears. He was out of pain and guilt,
and hunger and want and everything else he used to have. He
was already dead.

And he began to wonder again.

When.

"Angel cakes, as much as I love you, heads just don't come
any denser than yours... Trust me. One of these days
you'll wake up from this nightmare that is Woodstock '99
and realize what she's done for you... Just... hang in
there, buddy. We're rooting for you..."

And then, he was gone.

Gone.

Just like Buffy, and not at all like Buffy. Because Lorne
could come back, if he wanted to. The Powers seemed to have
put Buffy on their permanently deceased list.

Permanent.

A silence of silences, he lay there, draped over the bed
like a jacket tossed aside. He didn't care. He didn't even
care enough to pull the covers over him and hide in the
soft, almost-warmth that they provided him.

And still, he wondered.

When.

Beyond that, he didn't care. Just... when.

The weight on his shoulders grew, and grew, and grew, until
he could feel every inch of every pound of every vestige of
grief he had ever felt, all compacting on him, crushing him,
killing him.

When.

"Angel, I need you to hang on for me just a little bit
longer. I'm almost done... Please, please hang on..."

Slayer Buffy stood there, misty, shimmering in the light of
some otherworldly haze.

He felt something cool and soft trace from the knob where
his neck met his spine, all the way down into the small of
his back. Like the touch of some lost spirit, trying to
gain direction. "It's coming, Angel. It's coming," she
whispered, and even as he felt the brittle pain of want and
need for her to be real settling in on top of all that
grief, her lips curled upwards in a reluctant smile.

He heard the door ease open.

Soft, tiptoe footsteps as Buffy gazed at him and faded away
into the void.

Fade away...

Peaches and wisteria. The comforting scent of Cordelia,
wafted over his inert body.

"Angel?" Cordelia whispered, her voice tiny, and afraid, as
if she expected to find him somehow dead, despite the fact
that he wasn't dust.

Her hand was on his shoulder now, warm and fleeting, but he
didn't turn to face her. She was there, and he _knew_
innately that he should care, that he should respond to her
plea, that he should leap up to his feet, smile, and tell
her to never mind, that it was all okay, and that he would
force himself to live, if only for her. But he didn't.

He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care...

Warm little drops of wetness spattered across his back as
he felt her lean across him. She spread out, lay against
the length of him, and he felt her arms snake around and
grasp his midsection, clutching him tightly. "Angel, Angel,
angel, angelangelangel," she breathed into the nape of his
neck, and he could feel her salty tears, streaming down his
skin.

"Please..." she whispered, as she sobbed into his back. Her
body shuddered against his, like the beating of a
butterfly's wings. "Please, please..."

But he couldn't bring himself to respond.

Dead.

Dead, he was dead...

And cold.

For an hour or two, she stayed like that, until her sobs
were dry and nothing leaked from her eyes, until her grip
couldn't possibly tighten any more, her halting breaths,
unable to draw any more ragged gulps of air into her body.
Until the soapy smell of his skin had abandoned her and all
she had was the knowledge that it should be there.

Her long fingers unclasped, and she let her desperate
embrace melt away. For another long while, she stayed like
that, just laying there like something as dead as he was.

And then she stood -- a warm statue in a cold, cold room.
Time stretched into an eternity of silence, equal that of
her previous positions.

And then, even that semblance of peace collapsed, and her
feet shuffled on the floor. He thought she was going to
leave, then, but her hands were suddenly at his wrists,
fumbling about. Her fingers were trembling so roughly that
she couldn't accomplish her task, and she was forced to keep
trying, over and over, until finally, she managed.

The small click as the locks disengaged echoed through the
stillness, resonating against every pore in his body. His
arms flopped back down to the bed as she let them go.
"Goodbye," she whispered, bent down and kissed him on the
cheek. "Visit me sometime, ok? Say hi to Buffy."

The wetness in her tears returned as she shook her head and
turned to leave. She had already reached the door when she
paused to take one last look back at him.

He blinked, and turned, meeting her with his sad, mourning
stare for the first time since the nothingness had begun
expanding around him. "Thank you."

Her bloodshot eyes widened a bit. She took a few, quick
breaths in short succession, nodded, and then he was alone
again.

He wondered, then, if he should have said anything at all.

But it was too late, now.

A heaving sigh brought him standing. Another, and he was
walking towards the door. Stealthily, he stalked out into
the hallway, hugging the shadows like he would a lover.
Despite his emaciated and weakened body, he still had the
strength to be a predator, one last time.

"Is he any better?" Wesley was asking as he set a cup of
coffee down in front or her.

Cordelia was just staring. Cold, and dead, and staring.
"No, he's not."

He could hear the tears in her words, even if she wasn't
crying.

But he didn't care.

He couldn't.

He turned towards the end of the hallway, towards the
stairway, not even pausing when he heard Cordelia scream
in agony, in the throes of yet another vision.

It would be a thousand this time. A thousand Mohras versus
Wesley, and Gunn, and what was left of Gunn's gang.

He didn't care.

He reached the roof, stared out at the sky, felt the wind
ruffling past his gaunt body, whispering against his skin.

Peace.

The sky lightened, and he raised his arms upwards,
outstretched as if he were trying to bring the wispy
cirrus clouds back down in his grasp.

Peace.

Navy turned to royal blue turned to lighter blue turned to
pink.

"Angel! WAIT!" Buffy the Slayer. His figment.

And only that.

A figment.

He stretched his arms up higher and fought to grasp the
burning sliver of sun the moment it graced the horizon with
its kiss, wavering with refracted, Los Angeles heat.

Wisps of smoke spiraled up from his skin, but the pain
didn't matter.

He was going home...

continue