Crumbs

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing, including the poem,which was written by Frances Thompson. No copyright infringement is intended.

Genre: Future fic, angst, all the canon pairings (including Riley) are mentioned. If you are a true believer in B/A forever, you most likely won't like this. It's not bashing, but it doesn't portray their relationship as emotionally healthy. You have been forewarned.

Summary: Towards the end of her life, Buffy remembers Angel, Spike, Riley, and those that came after them. Meanwhile, the vampire that Shanshued grows old and gray happily.

---------------------------------------------------

From her room in the Serenity Pines Nursing Home, the oldest living Slayer in history watched the snow fall outside her window and wondered why The Powers That Be insisted on taunting her. Today was hard enough, as all weekends were, but the added memories ushered in by the falling snow made the day practically unbearable. Because nothing served as a greater symbol of why she was alone - not only today, but every Family Visit Day.

Buffy Summers stretched uncomfortably in her entirely too small of a bed, cursed at the protesting joints, and glared at the catheter bag that kept her confined. Of all the many things that ached, leaked, and simply didn't work anymore, why couldn't her hearing be one of them? Slayer hearing had never been more present than it was on Family Visit Days. Every other part of her may have felt each one of her 85 years, but those sharp ears enabled her to experience all the tiny joys of familial comfort that were forever beyond Buffy's grasp.

In the room behind her, for instance, Sarah Morgan was relishing the visit from her son, daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Buffy knew, because of that damnable hearing, that Sarah's son Gregory was just one of four children. The others found time to visit during the week, but Gregory could only come on weekends because of his very prosperous - and busy- career as an attorney.

"Here, Grandma. I made this for you."

"Why, thank you, Maggie. It's beautiful."

Buffy knew all about Sarah Morgan's family. She knew their occupations, their children's names, and even the names of their pets. If pressed, she could have divulged that little Timmy, who played soccer, was allergic to cotton, and little Danielle was a tomboy who believed herself to be allergic to pink.

But no one ever pressed Buffy for much of anything these days, except the nurses who scolded her for not eating her Jell-o. Buffy rather hated Jell-o,. The green looked too vulgar to touch, and the red reminded her of blood, taunting her as much as the falling snow did.

It was far easier, however, to focus on the snow, her blood-red Jell-o, or Mrs. Morgan's perfect life rather than hear the sounds emanating from Catherine Jackson's room across the hall. Mrs. Jackson, who was only in her sixties, was prominently visited each and every weekend by her husband. They'd never had children, which was probably fortunate, given Catherine's condition. No children had to watch helplessly as their mother's Alzheimer's progressed. Catherine Jackson's mutterings mostly focused on long ago loved people and things, yet Eddie's devotion never wavered.

It all seemed bitterly unfair to Buffy. She, who was able to appreciate the love of a husband, had never known it. At least, it seemed unfair, until she remembered why she had been denied the opportunity for a "Mr. Jackson" of her own.

There had, of course, been plenty of potential suitors. Their names tumbled through Buffy's mind as easily as the snow outside tumbled from the clouds. There were the random, unimportant flings - Pike, Scott, Parker, the Immortal, Aaron, Malachi, and oh, so many more- too many to list. But the handful that had mattered too much stuck with her, even after all this time.

Kenneth. (I've lived this long alone, surely you can't think I'll get married at my age.")

Christian. ("A family isn't part of a Slayer lifestyle. I won't have children, only to leave them behind.")

Owen. ("You dream too much. My life is unpredictable enough - I need stability.")

Spike. ("You're beneath me, William.")

Riley. ("And that's what this is about, isn't it? You can't handle the fact that I'm bigger than you.")

Which brought her to Angel. Alone in her room, Buffy gave a bitter little laugh. For every reason she had given for rejecting - ending - hurting - the men that had come and gone in her life, she could have summarized them all quite neatly by simply saying his name.

Oh, to be certain, it had never been a "conscious" decision. Never willingly had she ever said to them, "You are not Angel." But as clearly as she had never said it, she had always held them up against the greatness that had been her first love. No one had even had a chance.

And yet. . .

Angel had walked away. Spike had remained by her side until the end. Christian and Riley had wanted so badly to have a family; Angel couldn't have given her that, ever. Owen had loved to take long walks and just talk - her relationship with Angel had never been known for its overabundance of "conversation."

Hell, the only pleasant memories she had of Angel involved making out or sex. And those were heavily marred by the corresponding memories of Angel loosing his soul. So, in fact, there were NO pleasant memories at all.

Mr. Jackson, across the hall, was constantly relating very pleasant memories of time spent with Catherine. The tenderly murmured sweetlings of Eddie Jackson recalled vacations long since past. Buffy had never vacationed with Angel. But she and Owen had gone skiing once. He'd been such an expert, and she a novice.

("Well, well, Miss Summers. It appears that your stunning Slayer skills don't help much with the balance needed for skiing.")

("Funny, Owen. But ya know, I could make an effective weapon out of these skis.")

Oh- they'd had such fun on that trip to Switzerland. And Owen had enjoyed Rome so much. . .

Today, Mr. Jackson was reading to Catherine. Buffy reflected bitterly that she had never had any idea what type of books Angel liked. Riley had loved the military stuff, Spike had loved poetry so much. Well, William had. Somehow, the word "effulgent" rang distinctly in her memory tonight, as it always did when Eddie spoke to Catherine.

("I love you."

"No you don'. But thanks for saying it.")

("I gave you my heart, body and soul!"

"It really doesn't feel that way.")

Riley and Spike had both left her life knowing the truth - that she had punished them for the failure that her relationship with Angel had been. She hadn't done it on purpose, of course. But tonight, did it mater?

No, it didn't. Not when Eddie's voice rang so clearly and devotedly from across the hall.

"I fear to love thee, Sweet, because

Love's the Ambassador of loss;

White flake of childhood, clinging so

To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow

At tenderest touch will shrink and go.

Love me not, delightful child.

My heart, by many snows beguiled,

Has grown timorous and wild."

Oh, the powers were certainly laying it on thick tonight, weren't they? As many times as Eddie had read that particular poem, Buffy supposed it shouldn't have affected her at all. But when something spelled out her stupidity so clearly, how could it not have affected her?

Enough with Eddie and Catherine. Buffy was certain that she couldn't bear any more of them tonight. Instead, she turned her attention to the sound of the nurses in the hallway - the nurses that were all so happy. Buffy supposed, on the days that her heart wasn't entirely full of bitterness- days when it didn't snow - that they were entitled to a little bit of happiness. When she had been their age, she had known. . . Pretended. . . Thought she had known happiness. Dawn and her friends had still been alive, and it had been long before their descendents had severed ties to her. And Owen and Christian had taken turns trying futilely to measure up to Angel.

("The red in the cheeks. . . From the wine. . . Brings out the green in your eyes. You look positively lovely.")

("Okay, I admit that The Three Stooges isn't the most mature entertainment. But I love them.")

The nurses were singing along to the quaint little radio they kept at their station. Music. Memories came unbidden of Riley loving Garth Brooks, Spike and his Sex Pistols obsession, Own and his Barry White fetish, Christian rapping poorly alongside Dr. Dre, and oh, Sweet Kenneth and his Aerosmith infatuation. Buffy glanced bitterly at the snow and tried to recall what Angel's favorite music had been. Somehow, every genre, every artist she thought of seemed not quite right somehow.

Abandoning that train of thought, Buffy turned her attention back to the various sounds of happiness outside her empty room. Her favorite nurse, Susan, was speaking. Susan was, in all honesty, Buffy's favorite merely because of her age. When Buffy had been Susan's age, life hadn't been as carefree as it once had been - Xander, Giles, and Faith had all been lost to her - but there had still been the slightest tint of happiness left, just as he blackest toast is still edible. There had been Willow, and Dawn, and Dawn's children. And then, of course, there had been Kenneth.

("Are you sure you won't reconsider, Buffy? I've always heard that there's nothing worse than dying alone. ")

There might be worse things, but Buffy couldn't think of them. Sweet, Dear Kenneth had been her last chance at love. But she had lost him too.

For a moment, Buffy allowed herself to remember all of the sweetness of relationships of the past. She could account for their backgrounds, families, friends, favorite types of music, favorite colors, favorite genres of books, whether they preferred cats or dogs - a seemingly endless litany of personality traits that come together to make a person who they are.

But Angel - who had he been, other than the totem pole against which they had all failed to measure? When Buffy tried, and when she was honest, all she could come up with was that he had been the Tall, Dark, and Mysterious Stranger that had appealed to her sixteen year old self. And that "appeal" she had somehow twisted into "love," even though she had never known him as anything other than the Tall, Dark, and Mysterious Stranger. Emphasis on Stranger.

She wasn't sure whether she would have had a happy future with Kenneth, Christian, Own, Riley, or Spike. But she knew that there at least had been a possibility. She also knew that if she had chosen a future with them, instead of with the Tall, Dark, and Mysterious Stranger, there was a good chance that she'd had a faithfully devoted partner to talk and read to her. Somehow, that knowledge seemed in stark contrast to the memory of Angel walking away after graduation.

("I'm not going to say goodbye.")

Yes. He had walked away and she had only been eighteen . There had been plenty of times to grow up and get over it - to get over him - and move on, as any mentally competent adult is supposed to do. But she'd refused, not just once, but each time love had knocked at the door, she'd refused to let it in. She'd paid dearly because of that refusal - at 85, she had no love, no lullabies, and absolutely nothing except the loneliness that nothing offers. She hadn't ever needed a man - no, she was too enlightened for that. But she had needed - and desperately still needed - company. Because after having faced demons, hell gods, and apocalypses galore, Buffy was certain that dying alone truly was the worst thing she could have imagined.

Buffy's reverie was interrupted by the sound of Susan bringing in her lunch tray. Buffy remained quiet throughout all of Susan's pitying platitudes. When the nurse was finally gone, Buffy surveyed her lunch tray with disdain. Her teeth worked fine, but no one in the entire facility seemed to notice, as her trays were always full of liquids and strained solids. But today, oh, today there was a "treat." Cookies.

Buffy picked the oddly shaped pastry up with her still formidable grip, and watched as the brittle substance crumbled beneath her fingers.

("I'm cookie dough.")

The nurses at the nursing station were quite surprised, and very concerned, to hear the resulting bitter laughter that resonated from Buffy's room.

-------------------------------

Three thousand miles away, the vampire with a soul who had Shanshued threw a grateful smile at the nurse who was bandaging his aching feet. Three of his many great-grandchildren ran about in the yard in front of him, pretending to be aliens and cavemen, apparently based on some obscene new cartoon. The ensuing argument about which was better made him remember another vampire with a soul - the one who had not Shanshued - and the bittersweet memory of their argument made him smile. A slight breeze blew through the California afternoon, and the man pulled his sweater around him more tightly.

He'd rather grown to love the weekends. Though his beloved wife and soul mate had long since passed away, their numerous children, grandchildren, and great - grandchildren still congregated to the old house on the weekends. The result was a house full of joy, and a very happy old man.

His youngest daughter, Winifred, brought him dessert - a lovely cherry pie - and used the occasion to make certain that her father was doing well. Seeing the crinkled old man who resided in her father's lawn chair, with his gray hair and home nurses tending him worried Fred. Because it reminded her quite clearly of just how little time she had left with her father.

"Is everything okay, Dad?" she asked, kissing a wrinkled old cheek.

The former vampire glanced up at his beloved sunshine, listened to the many happy sounds of three generations reverberating throughout his home, and nodded confidently. "Everything's fine," he said.

-----------------

The End.