Author's Notes: Chapter 27 went up earlier today, so make sure you’re caught up before reading this one. I’m posting these so close together because I know they’re painful to read—and it’s kind of like pulling off a band-aid. Do it fast so it doesn’t hurt as bad.

Thank all of you who left such wonderful comments on the last chapter. It means a lot. That was a hard chapter to write and hopefully I did some justice to what is, really, one of the best episodes of any TV show, ever, (IMHO). This chapter only contains a little bit of canon—most of the rest of it is me filling in blanks.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Forever" written by Marti Noxon.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae

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Chapter 28

Forever

I wake up.

The light on the ceiling is strange, but I watch it for a while. Tree branches move across it, breaking it up into tiny pieces of light, like shattered glass.

You'd think I'd forget. That I'd wake up and think it was all a dream. That I'd wonder why I'm in this bed, in this room.

But I didn't forget.

It's still there, like the coat I'm still wearing from last night. I just choose not to think about it yet. Time enough for that later.

Right now I just want to lay here, in the quiet, and watch the light on the ceiling.

There will be things to do today. Lots of things.

Phone calls. I need to call Arlene, and Lolly, and Dad.

I need to find out when they are releasing the…the… and how we make arrangements to transport it to the funeral home.

I need to pick a funeral home, which… isn't hard. Brown. I like them. They rarely have vampires and the room where they work on the…on the bodies is really clean, and they actually have crosses and holy water on hand.

Um… what else?

Probably…probably official things. Giles might know or… my mom's attorney.

There was a…a file she put together, back before the surgery that had, um… it had cards and numbers and… stuff I'd need, in case. It's downstairs, but I'll get it later, when I get up.

What's today? Saturday. Lot of places will be closed. I could put off some of it ‘til Monday.

Not the phone calls, though.

Downstairs there's a knock on the door. I should answer it.

Instead I watch the light move.

After a few minutes I hear a key in the lock. Which means it's probably Giles or Willow or Xander. There's a murmur of voices below.

"Buffy?"

Willow.

Footsteps on the stairs. The light on the ceiling moves. Tiny scattered bits of light that move apart then together, then apart again. Rearranging, forming something new.

The key, I think, is to keep moving.

"Buffy?" I hear her stop in the doorway. "Did… did you sleep?" she asks.

I swallow. My mouth is dry and my head aches a little, like I was crying all night. Which I was, but not really. "Yeah," I say, finally. "I slept."

"Do you… do you want breakfast? Um… Xander brought donuts, and…and… um, Giles got coffee. Or, or maybe you want some tea instead? We could make tea?"

"No," I say, tracking the light on the ceiling. "Coffee is fine. I… um, I need to shower. Change."

"O-okay," she says. "Do… do you need anything? Um… "

"No," I say. "Thank you."

"I'll just… we'll be downstairs, when you're r-ready," she says.

"Okay," I say, then turn my head and look at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed and nervous, and she's twisting her fingers in her sweater sleeves. "Thank you," I tell her, meaning it. She relaxes a little and nods. "I'll be down in a little bit."

***

In the bathroom I'm careful not to touch anything of mom's. I work around her things, not wanting to accidentally disturb them. I never thought of showering as a ritual before, but today it feels like it. Steps that have to be performed in a certain order, in a certain way. Wet the hair. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body Wash. Face cleanser. Shave. Dry. Lotion.

I dress carefully. Do my makeup. Hair. I put myself together piece by piece. Little bits of Buffy, done up like a row of tiny buttons.

Today I will do things. I will make a list. I will keep moving, and hope the pieces of me stay together.

I'm strong. I can do this. I can get through. It's like fighting. You empty your mind and keep moving, roll with the punches, get back up, do it again.

Downstairs the others wait in the kitchen, crowded around the island. There is a box of donuts on the counter. Xander has a little bit of jelly stuck in the corner of his mouth. He's the only one eating.

We hug, one at a time. Arms open and enfold me and as I go from Giles to Xander to Tara to Willow and finally very tentatively, Anya, I feel like I get bigger. Taller. Stronger. I can do this. I just have to keep moving.

***

They stay all day. I make a list. I find the folder and try to ignore the lump that rises in my throat when I see mom's handwriting.

Finally, I pick up the phone. I call Dad first, but there's no answer. I expected that. I leave a brief message and ask him to call me back.

Then Arlene and Lolly, mom's sisters. They're the hardest. We talk as briefly as possible, and I promise to call them back with information about the funeral.

The art gallery is next. I don't know who I talk to. They transfer me to mom's second in command. That conversation is even shorter.

More calls. The bank, insurance company, funeral home, hospital. Some I stay on the line with, on hold, for long stretches of time. I listen to bad early 90's musak and watch the light move over the tile. When the wind chimes outside begin to chime, I ask Xander to go take them down and put them somewhere safe. He does without even asking why.

At lunchtime pizza arrives silently and appears before me. I pull it apart while I wait on the phone, putting the cheese in one pile, the pepperoni in another, each topping getting its own stack on the plate. I eat the crust because I don't know what else to do with it.

When the phone calls are done, I move on to the paperwork. I make more lists.

"Buffy?" Xander asks. I look up. At some point the sun has started to go down. "Do you want to take a break? We could… I don't know. Watch a movie or something? TV?"

I look at my lists. There's nothing on them I can do until tomorrow now. I guess that means it's break time.

"Okay," I say. I carefully put everything into the folder, piece by piece, then go into the living room. The others are waiting. They watch me as I come in. "I… I should patrol," I say, looking at the sun going down. I could move, if I patrolled. Keep moving.

"Oh, no," Giles says. "Ah, Xander and I will take patrol for you, tonight. You needn't worry about it."

Oh. "Where… um, where's Anya?"

"She went into work. She and Lydia will mind the store for… well, for a few days," Giles says.

Okay. "So, ah… d-do you want to watch a movie or… we could just talk?" Willow says.

"A movie would be okay," I say. I pick a chair at random. Giles and Xander are on the sofa. I'm not sure if that's okay, but… it makes it less weird. Xander pops in a movie, some sci-fi thing with Aliens and ships exploding that it's easy for me to tune out. I stare blankly at the screen. We all do.

When it's over, I have no idea what it was about.

***

Xander and Giles leave for patrol. Willow goes to make tea. Tara sits with me in the living room. We watch a TV show of funny videos. People fall off their bikes and get hit in the crotch with wiffle bats. Neither of us laugh.

"When your mother died," I say, after awhile. "Did… how did you, um… how did you keep moving?"

She looks at me. She has really kind eyes. "By staying still," she says after awhile. "I… I felt like if I moved too much, I would… I would fly apart. So, um… I would find a place and sit and… be still."

"That's not really working for me," I say.

"That's okay," she says. "Do you want to-to go for a walk?"

"Yeah," I say, and get up and get my coat. She talks to Willow in the kitchen for a second, then gets her coat, too. We go outside.

It's cold, but not snowing. The sidewalks are clear. We walk around the block twice. At some point I realize that Spike is trailing us. He's hovering on the edge of my range, but not approaching. I'm glad. Trying to handle Spike right now is beyond me, but… the tingles are familiar. Almost a comfort. So I don't really think about them. I just move.

When it's too cold to walk anymore, we head back. Willow has tea waiting for us. It's bitter, but I drink it anyway. "We can stay, if you want?" she says.

"Okay," I say, and I go up to bed.

This time I go to my own room. I do the ritual. I change into my pajamas and put my clothes away in the hamper. I brush my hair. I wash my face. I brush my teeth. I crawl into bed and turn off the light.

In the dream room, when Mr. Gordo arrives, he simply crawls onto the bed and lifts me, unresisting, into his lap. I wrap my arms around him, and he wraps his around me, and when the tears come it's almost a relief, as if it's all been pressurized inside of me all day and it's time to come apart. It's okay, though, I think. He's strong enough to hold me together.

***

Days pass.

I know because I keep crossing things off my checklists. I do things. I draw lines. I keep going.

My father doesn't call.

I leave messages. At his office. On his home phone. At the hotel in Spain where he's supposed to be staying but isn't.

He still doesn't call.

There are arrangements that have to be made. Arrangements. Like putting flowers together in a vase so that they're more pleasing to the eye even though, technically they're all still dead.

I have to pick a casket. That's what the funeral director guy calls it. He makes it sound special, but I know it's just a box.

I have to decide on the service. A headstone has to be ordered. I have to write the program.

So much to do. So many choices.

I make more lists. I cross more things off.

There's a bad moment when I need to pick out a dress for her to wear. Tara finds me in mom's room, staring into her underwear drawer and wondering desperately whether I need to pick a pair, and if so, what would she like? What's appropriate? How am I supposed to give a stranger a pair of my mother's underwear to put on her body? Black or white or… would she prefer red? Or… do I need to worry about panty lines and…

Tara finally pulls me away and sends me downstairs to do something else. She says she knows what to pick. I let her.

Then I have to write the notice for the paper, and… flowers. I have to decide on flowers for the service. At least I don't need to plan a wake.

My friends stay. They feed me. They put me to bed when I look tired. They wake me up in the morning and get me started for the day. They help me find things and buy things and make choices. Without them… I'm not sure what I'd do.

There's so much paperwork. Giles handles what he can, and he drives me over to the attorney's office and sits with me while the lawyer explains things about the house and my mother's will and bank accounts. Giles takes notes. He asks questions. I try not to sound stupider than I feel.

Then we go to the bank and do it all over again.

Flowers arrive at the house in place of people. Little sentimental baskets from those who knew my mom at the gallery. Distant relatives send traditional displays to stand in their stead. The more distant they are, the bigger the bouquet, sometimes stuffed with things they think I might need. Coffee. Cookies. Jelly jars. I send most of it home with Xander.

The flowers are pretty though. Even the rough little clutch of daisies and mums that are a bit frostbitten around the edges. Willow hands it to me wordlessly one night, but it doesn't come with a card and she won't tell me who brought it. Just that they're "for Joyce." They're the only ones that are. The rest seem to be for me, as if I have a use for all of these flowers, or as if they'll help, somehow.

After dinner, I walk. Sometimes Tara walks with me, sometimes Willow, sometimes Xander. Always, trailing far behind, is Spike, like a constant shadow. Every now and then, I'll sense another vampire or demon. The sense of Spike's presence will increase slightly, then the demon will go away. I don't know if he's killing them or chasing them off. I don't really care. I don’t mention it to the others. They’d just worry.

In a way, I'm glad it's just me, that I don't have anyone else to take care of right now because I'm barely managing myself. Through the day I keep moving. I hold on. I am strong because it's what I am. It's a careful illusion.

At night I crawl into Mr. Gordo's arms and cry. I talk to him about my mom. I tell him how much I miss her. I tell him stories about… everything. His silent strength lets me fall apart and put myself back together each day, a little stronger, a little less fragile.

***

The night before the funeral, Xander, Giles and Willow take patrol. Anya and Tara stay behind to finish up the dinner dishes. I go for a walk.

I walk down to my mom's gallery and stand on the sidewalk, looking in at the window display. There's a painting hanging under the lights, a pretty summer sunrise over a warm looking beach. The moon is reflected in the glass, and the snowy town behind me. I feel trapped between the two. One is reality, one is illusion. I can't tell which is which.

Spike waits in an alley, and I can feel him watching me. He's been trailing me since I left the house. I haven't spoken to him since the night before mom… the night with the snowball fight. I turn to look at him. It's funny, how vampires can be so… lurky. I know he's there because I can feel him, but in the shadows of the alley where he stands, there's nothing but darkness. Still, I can feel his eyes on mine, and after what seems like forever he steps out of the alley and into the moonlight and I wonder, not for the first time, how he manages to stay so hidden with hair and skin so white.

He approaches me silently and comes to stand beside me. His eyes are red rimmed, and he looks thinner, like he's not been eating. We don't say anything. Instead we just stare at one another for a long time, then turn to look back in the window. My reflection looks back at me, alone.

When it starts to snow, Spike shifts, tilting his head up to watch the falling white flakes. Then, tentatively, he touches my shoulder. I nod, and we turn towards home. He hesitates a little, when we get to Revello Drive. The lights are on in the living room, and I know the others are probably sitting around, waiting. I just go around back. After a second's pause, he follows.

The snow has pretty much stopped, and we sit on the back porch, side by side, like we did the night mom was getting ready to go in for her CAT scan. For a long time we stare out at the yard together, the silence between us peaceful. Unlike the others I don't get the feeling Spike is desperate to help me.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He frowns as if he doesn't understand the question. "Because. I want to be here," he says.

"No," I say, staring at the snow. "I mean… why are you here? Walking. Talking. Breathing. You're dead. You're over a hundred years old and you're dead and yet, you're still here, with me. And… and…" I feel the tears forming, but I'm not ready to let them fall yet.

"It's not fair," he says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "Believe me, pet, I know. It's not bloody fair. If the world were fair, I'd have been dust decades ago and your mum would still be here with you. And you wouldn't have to go out and slaughter my kind every night, and I…never would have killed anything worse than a few brain cells in blokes who didn't appreciate them to begin with." He takes a deep drag and holds it for a moment, while I blink away tears. "With all the crap that happens in this bloody town, seems so…insipid for her to have gone out so. You know?"

I think about all that for a while. People have been talking at me a lot this last week. They all try to say the right thing. The thing that will make it better, make the pain a little less. Make it mean something. Not Spike, of course. He doesn't sugar coat it or try to soften the edge. He just… says it.

And somehow, knowing that someone else thinks it isn't fair? It helps.

"Thank you," I say, and mean it.

He looks a little surprised. "Welcome," he says.

A few small flakes of snow drift to the ground. Not enough to send me inside yet.

"I should have been there," I say quietly. "I was… god, just, walking around thinking about me and my problems and… and she was…" I stare at my hands. "I imagine it all the time. If I'd been home…maybe…maybe I could have…"

Spike moves, he crouches in front of me and puts one of his hands on top of mine where they're twisted together. I frown at him, but he leaves it there. His nail polish is chipped, like he's been picking at it.

"Listen to me," he says softly. "There's not a doubt in my mind that… if you'd been there, you'd have managed it. You're a force to be reckoned with, Summers. But the thing of it is, you can't save everyone. You'll kill yourself trying. These hands…" He cups my hands with both of his own, lays them palm up across his. My skin is tan, where his is moon pale, small where his are large, warm to his cool, neat little nails compared to his bitten and torn. A study in contrasts. "These hands were made to fight my kind. To take some of the evil out of the world. To protect. You're a warrior, Buffy. Not a healer, not a…savior or a martyr. A warrior. And there are some things that… just can't be fought. Not with fists. Not with fangs."

I look at him, frowning. He huffs a sigh. "You're not the only one who's ever tried to save someone you love, you know. I'm selfish, and I'd rather keep the ones I love around. Believe me, sometimes… sometimes it's better just to let them go." His head tilts a little, as if he's listening to something I can't hear. "Should get inside," he says. "They're getting worried, thinking about looking for you."

"Yeah," I say. Reluctantly I stand and brush at the snow that's melted on my clothes. He gets to his feet, too, but steps off the porch.

"Buffy," he says. I turn back to look at him. He looks like he wants to say something, then changes his mind. Finally he says, "Eat something, will you? You'll hold together better if you're not just skin and bones."

Surprised, I just stare for a minute. "Yeah," I say. "Okay. Goodnight, Spike."

The look he gives me is unreadable. His hand twitches for a moment, then he stuffs both fists in his pockets. "Goodnight, Buffy."

***

Maybe it takes standing on the other side of death to be able to talk about it with any sort of… honesty. I think about that a lot as people come up and greet me before the service. I wonder if there's a list somewhere of Approved Things To Say To The Bereaved.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," seems to be right up there. At least it's heartfelt, even if the words make no sense.

"She'll be missed," is another, and usually from someone who couldn't possibly miss her more than I do right now.

There are the ones who tell me, "At least she didn't suffer." As if they know.

I try not to punch the people who tell me she's in a better place. Maybe I'm as selfish as Spike, because I'd rather she was here with me instead of somewhere "better."

The service goes by in a blur. The snow has been cleared around the grave, but it's still cold. I hate the idea of putting her down there, in the cold hard earth. I hate the idea of cremation worse. Ashes are for vampires. If I were smarter, maybe I'd understand why that feels ironic. The priest's voice is somber, but I barely hear it. The sound of the dirt hitting the coffin is loud, though.

When it's over, I hug people; there’re so many of them that I start to feel bruised.

Finally no one is left except for my friends, and Giles.

"It's getting colder," Xander remarks.

"You guys go ahead," I say. "I just… want to stay a little longer."

Slowly they slip away. Finally, Willow and Tara are all that remain. "Do you want us to wait?"

"No," I tell them. "I'm fine. Thank you." And then they leave, too.

I stand there for a long time, looking down at my mother's coffin. I know they'll wait until I leave to fill it in, and I'm not quite ready for that, yet.

The sun goes behind the trees, and I feel the first of the tingles. Spike, defying the last of the sun, as always, hovering just at the edge of my senses. I wonder if—if it hadn't been for Mr. Gordo—if I would know he was there? I wonder if he knows that I'm aware of his presence?

In the end, it doesn't matter.

When the sun is gone completely, the second set arrives. Powerful, and achingly familiar. I don't know who called him. I… hadn't even thought to. He and my mother had never been comfortable with each other.

Angel doesn't lurk. He comes up beside me. "I'm sorry," he says. "I couldn't come sooner."

I wonder if that means he just got into town, or if he's been here all day, waiting for sunset? On the edge of my awareness, I feel Spike shifting, restless, and remember that I've never told Angel that Spike is here. Now isn't exactly the time, either.

Silently we stare down into the grave.

"Um, miss?" I glance up. The guy whose job it is to fill in the grave is standing a few feet away, looking nervous. I notice he's wearing a huge cross around his neck, and he's fiddling with it absently. Guess not everybody in this town is clueless. Angel makes it a point to not look directly at him.

"Uh, I hate to hurry you but… um, it's getting pretty dark, and… and cold, and I've really got to… and you know, graveyards… it's not the safest place, at night? You know? I mean, I'll wait, a little longer if you … if you want but… um…"

He looks scared, glancing at the nearby graves out of the corner of his eye.

"Have you buried anybody in the last two days?" I ask. None of the nearby graves are fresh.

He looks at me, surprised. "Uh, ten, this week, but… uh, nobody in the last two days. Except… well…” he glances at my mother's grave.

"You're probably okay then," I tell him. "But go ahead."

Angel and I wander over to a nearby oak tree, watching as the man gets his machine ready. It has crosses on it, too, I notice.

"How are you doing?" Angel asks softly.

"I don't know," I say, leaning back against the tree. "Holding together, I guess. Everyone's been… really supportive."

"I should have called," he says, and I can hear the self-reproach in his voice.

"No," I say. "I… I'm pretty much phoned out. I wouldn't have been much good, on the phone. This is better."

It's good to have him here, if only for a moment. I know he can't stay. I know he won't. Still, this is… good.

We're silent for a long time, watching as the grave is filled in. I'm trying hard not to think about what's being covered. It's not her, I know. Not really. She's gone, and all that's left is the part that couldn't go, too.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No," I say. Then, "yes."

So I tell him how it happened. I've had a lot of practice, lately, and it comes easier this time. I tear up, but… I don't fall apart. He listens and nods, and murmurs the appropriate words in the appropriate silences. It's Angel, and… he knows me. Knew me. Knew the Buffy that was before. I'm not sure what kind of Buffy I am now.

"The funeral… was brutal," I say. "But it's tomorrow I'm worried about."

"What's tomorrow?" he asks.

"That's exactly what I don't know," I say. "Up until now I… I've had a road map. Things to do every minute, having to do with Mom." I sigh. There are still lists, but they're shorter now, and some of them… I'm stretching. Looking for things to do.

"Tomorrow the stuff of everyday living resumes," he says, sounding sort of like he's quoting something.

"And everybody expects me to know how to do it," I say. "Because… I'm so strong."

I've heard that so much these last few days. The only ones who haven't said it are my friends, but I can tell they're thinking it. And Spike, probably because he's the only one who can sense that I'm not. If there's anything old enemies are good for, it's knowing when you're at your lowest. At least he's not using the opportunity to tear me down. He would have, once but… he's changed. And I'm kind of grateful. 'Cause as good as Spike is at seeing through me, he could do a lot of damage right about now.

"You just need some time," Angel says. "I'm sure everybody understands that."

I frown a little. "Time's not the issue. I can stick wood in vampires… but Mom… Mom was the strong one in real life. She always knew how to make things better…just what to say." Mom was my anchor. She believed in me. She… she held me when I was upset. She always gave good advice. Without her…

I have my friends, and Giles, and… Mr. Gordo. But they don't fill the void. They can never fill the place in my life where my mother was. I don't want them to.

"Yeah," Angel says. "You'll find your way. I mean… not all at once but…"

I sigh. I know. I know that's true. Logically. But in my heart… it aches so much, having her gone. I think about what Spike said, last night. About not being able to save everyone. Logically, I know I couldn't have saved her, but it doesn't stop me from wishing that I'd had the chance to try. "I didn't even start CPR until they told me," I say. "I fell apart. That's how good I am at being a grownup."

"Buffy," Angel says. "You were in shock. It's understandable—"

"Not to me," I say, softly.

He puts his arm around me and holds me close. It's… comforting and strange, being held by Angel. Like… putting on an old jacket that doesn't quite fit anymore, but is still worn in all the right places. I used to think he was it, that we were supposed to be together. It's a lot harder to believe in destiny when your mother dies from an aneurysm.

I think about Giles and Lydia and our messed up prophecy. They have a way of coming true, but almost never how you think. Maybe destiny isn't just events set in motion that we're powerless to stop. Maybe it's the little choices we make, too. Like staying with a robot girl while her battery is running down, so she won't be alone. Or choosing to leave someone, when you could stay instead.

"It's getting late," I say. It's cold, too. There's not much snow here under the heavy tree branches, but…

"I can stay in town as long as you need me to," Angel says, his eyes soft and sincere.

"How's forever?" I ask. "Does forever work for you?"

He just stares at me sadly. He's leaving again. Tomorrow, or the day after. This isn't where he belongs anymore, and… I can't go with him. He loves me. And I love him. But not enough to stay. Not enough to go.

"Never mind," I say, before he can explain it. "That's a bad idea. I'm just… seriously needy right now."

"Let me worry about the neediness. I can handle it," Angel says.

I know he can but… it would just hurt more, I think. To lean on him now, knowing he's leaving. No. I can do this. I've managed all week, haven't I? Yeah, I tend to fall apart in my dreams but… I can there. No one can see me, except Mr. Gordo and…with him, it's okay. Maybe that makes me crazy, but it's what I need. I know Angel's offering because he loves me, and…he wants to be here for me.

Only he doesn't, really. Not enough to stay as long as I would need him to.

Cause I'd need it to be forever. I can't take losing much more.

***

Angel walks me home, but he doesn't come inside. I'm glad; it's better this way. The kiss he gives me before he goes is bittersweet and chaste. I'm glad for that, too.

Giles is waiting for me, in the living room, half-dozing with a glass of something alcoholy in one hand. He wakes up when I close the door.

"Angel?" he asks, blinking at me.

"On his way home," I say. "He can make it back before sunrise, if he leaves now."

"I'd have thought you'd want him to stay," he says softly.

"I do," I say. "But what I want and what… is? Not really meshing so well, lately."

"Buffy…” he says, standing up and coming to hug me. I hold on to him for a little while.

"I'm glad I have you, Giles," I say when I pull back. "It makes it… better." And it does. My dad hasn't called but… in a way I'm okay with that. I'd rather have Giles anyway.

He nods, tears in his eyes. "Get some sleep," he says. "We'll figure out tomorrow when it comes."

When I go to sleep, I find Mr. Gordo waiting. I climb in, and then curl up beside him. He wraps his arms around me, stroking my hair.

"Don't leave me," I say softly.

His arms tighten around me. He taps twice on my hand. It should mean no. But… I feel like it means never.

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