Night spread its fingers throughout the Summers home, sweeping across the surfaces of each piece of furniture, peeling light away from the reflections in windows, scraping away the sweet warmth of day. Buffy stood in front of the counter, her hand hovering, wavering over a jar of stale cookies, baked weeks ago in a caption of Saturday afternoon joy that had, for a moment, captured the extended Summers family. The house had brimmed with merriment as Willow and Tara licked cookie dough from the ends of wooden spoons, and Dawn and Xander munched vivaciously on extra chocolate chips. Anya had rambled tirelessly about the way that chocolate chip cookies were baked before she was a demon, and, at last, Joyce had pulled two dozen scrumptiously soft sweets from the oven. The majority of the baked goodies were devoured within the first day of their creation, but a few had been left for nighttime munchies. Sadly, with all that had happened since the baking of twenty-four chocolate cookies, they'd been forgotten, left to harden and crackle, and lose their yummy goodness and fond memory.
Fingers shaking as though freezing, the Slayer's hand fell away from the cookie jar's lid and onto the smooth white tile that covered the counter. It was cool, cold even, to the touch, and did nothing to alleviate the shiver that coursed through each trembling digit nor the patterns of gooseflesh that snaked along the pale skin of her forearms. In only a month, Buffy's world had gone from pleasantly peaceful, even if plagued by some strange beast calling herself Glory, to completely chaotic, out of control, off the beaten path. And despite the large circle of friends and family that surrounded her, not to mention the devotion of a certain Riley Finn, the Slayer felt alone, the ringleader on the path toward Hell. Obstacles loomed before her, casting shadows in every conceivable direction, ominously haunting her dreams, her nightmares. There was no path toward freedom, and not a day went by that Buffy didn't feel as if the entire world was caving in around her, and it was her job, as the Slayer, to put the pieces back together.
Now, it was barely held together with Scotch tape and a prayer.
The gooseflesh and accompanying shivers traveled from her arms down to her knees, and the countertop felt as though it might crumble under the pressure of her hand. Shivering increased to full-on shaking. The floor rose up from beneath, throwing her from balance, then dropped out completely, pitching her violently toward the ground. The darkness ran like blood as tears clouded her vision, tearing away any remaining sense of reality. Buffy's hands grasped wildly at anything within reach, and a wailing ring rang out from the telephone as she pulled the receiver from the wall and down into her lap. The floor was colder than the countertop, like porcelain left out in the snow. Icicles seemed to cling to every extremity, weighing her down, holding her beneath the surface of some immense body of murky water. There was nothing visible, nothing available to hold on to. Hiccupping through her tears, Buffy punched a series of numbers into the phone and shoved the plastic receiver against her ear.
It rang four times, and then, at last, picked up.
"Angel Investigations." The voice on the other end of the line was weary, tired and obviously frustrated. His breath came slowly, as though he were already asleep, and only answering the phone in his dreams. His attentions were only directed at the caller by a small percentage, less than a quarter if one had to guess. The remainder stared intently at a passage of text written entirely in some ancient demonic script.
"Angel," Buffy wept into the phone, her speech barely decipherable. She continued to tremble as she spoke, so much so that even her lips wobbled, catching tears like an eager tongue catches snowflakes. Whatever else she might have desired to say came up only in a series of hiccups and quiet sobs, which sounded like quivering sighs through the phone line.
"This is…Buffy? Is that you?" Angel blinked suddenly, listening to the voice, the pitter patter of tears, tearing his eyes away from the scribble of runes and darting his gaze to the small caller identification device that Cordelia had installed the week before he'd fired the staff. The Summers' phone number beamed back at him.
It had been months since they'd last spoken, since Angel and Riley had had a run-in of fists. It had been so difficult to get over her and both parties had thought it best to avoid all contact. But whatever it was now, he was all ears, attentive and filled with concern. Rarely did the tough-as-nails slayer find the strength inside herself to be vulnerable, and tears were rare. Angel swept himself out of the desk chair and moved to the wall to flick on the overhead lights. He leaned back against the desk, stood, and then leaned again. It was difficult to know what to do. The urge to console her grew with every shed tear.
"Buffy, what is it?"
"I…I can't…not…" Buffy stammered in return, struggling to find the words.
"Breathe," Angel frowned, clenching his fist and nearly slamming it into the desk in frustration. He could feel her soft blond curls in his hand, the way she shook as she wept in his arms, her fluttering heartbeat warm beneath her skin. "Just take a deep breath, and let it out again."
"I can't," Buffy stuttered, but managed to inhale an ounce of oxygen and release a gasp of carbon dioxide. "I can't be strong anymore."
"Tell me everything," Angel frowned, sitting on the edge of the desk once again, balancing the toe of his shoe against the floor. He hung on her every exhalation, staring, for some time, at the car keys hanging on a peg beside the office door.
Buffy leaned back against the cabinet door, brushing strands of hair from her face that had been plastered there by falling tears. Even with her breath ragged and scarred by trembling lips, the Slayer managed to get out the entirety of her story. In vague detail, she outlined the tumor that now hindered Joyce Summers' ability to distinguish pain from daily life. She talked about Dawn, and how difficult it seemed to keep the precious Key afloat, and happy.
"And then there's Riley," Buffy whimpered, the shivering of her throat fading to a slightly stammering croak. "It's like, when I'm with him, he isn't really there. I can't tell him anything, and I can't let him know."
"Let him know what?" Angel winced, trying not to imagine the buck of a kid with the love of his life, sharing her bed, kissing her lips, trying to protect her as if he ever had a chance.
"That I'm weak."
"Buffy, you're not weak." Angel frowned. The image of her broken, beaten body cradled against his chest was nearly too much to bear. "You're the bravest person I've ever known."
" I can't let him see me this way. Crying, falling apart. They can't know how hard it is. If Mom or Dawn saw me like this, or if Riley… How could I tell them that I can't take it anymore? How could I tell them that I'm scared?"
"Buffy, I…"
Angel paused, a sigh approaching his lips but not escaping over the threshold. Three little words hung on his lips, the world's heaviest weights lingering on his tongue. This wasn't the time to profess his love to her. This wasn't the time to burden her with yet another problem that she couldn't quite handle but couldn't turn away either. He froze, unsure of what he could offer her, condolences or a shoulder to weep against, or a bench to discard her burdens upon. From a distance, though he assumed that even if he were three inches from her, he could offer no aid to the distressed young woman curled up on her kitchen tile.
"Take a deep breath. Remember who you are, and what you are. You're the Slayer, Buffy. You're a hero."
"I'm a hero," Buffy mumbled in repetition, pushing her free hand against the floor. The wobbling had subsided and the ground seemed solid once again. Even the darkness that had transcended upon the Summers' house seemed to waft away like a passing fog, bringing a bit of light to the dim room.
"I can be there, if you ever need me." Angel frowned on the other end of the line, almost reaching out a hand to grasp the keys from their hook on the wall. He'd be on his feet in a second for her, out the door and speeding north to Sunnydale if she ever needed his help.
"No, I…" Buffy frowned, the temptation like a bolt in her brain. For a moment, his arms seemed so welcoming, so comforting in even the darkest of nights. "I'll be okay. I'm the Slayer."
"Take care of yourself." Angel frowned, pressing the phone at last against its cradle. His love, he expressed in silence, moments after he'd hung up and once again let the Slayer drift out of his life, stowed away in his heart like a secret.
"I'm a hero," Buffy mumbled, pressing the phone against the countertop as she pulled herself to her feet. With the back of her hand, she brushed away the remnants of her weakness, tucking the sensation away, hiding it from the people that needed her most. "This is what it's like to be loved."