Disclaimer:  I don't own the characters.  They belong to Joss Whedon in all their glory.

Notes:  I wrote this more than a year ago after 'Sleep Tight' originally aired.  I feel I've seriously grown as a writer since then and since I really did like this idea I decided to rewrite it a little differently.  It was originally written from Cordelia's POV, but since I have become a die-hard Wesley/Fred 'shipper, that has changed. 

Also, this is only my take on what possibly could have happened after Justine slit Wesley's throat.  We all know now what really happened, so don't flame me because I 'don't have my facts right' or something. :D

Mahogany

By Bohemian Storm

            The rain fell softly around her, light and warm against her face.  The sky above her threatened to open and spill buckets upon her, but it didn't.  The rolling clouds simply sprinkled this rain on her head, a rain that she didn't deem appropriate for the task ahead.  She wanted it to storm.  She wished with all her might that it would storm.  She wanted to feel dark, like the sky.

            If it had been storming, maybe she wouldn't have memorized the exact colour of his casket.

            Mahogany.

            Through the tears that threatened to fall with the rain, it was the only thing she could see.  Cordelia stood on one side of her, her hand gripping her shoulder tightly.  Gunn stood on her other side, his hand wrapped protectively over hers.  She almost couldn't feel them and she could hardly see them at all.  All she saw was the deep reddish brown of the casket.  The colour swam before her eyes, twisting into shapeless things that she had never imagined before.  Beautiful, seamless things that floated before her eyes and made her wonder if he was trying to tell her something.

            The shapes disappeared abruptly and she blinked.  She bit back the call that had been on her tongue.  For a moment she had felt so certain that he was still alive, his hand reaching out to hold onto hers.  She knew it wasn't true.  She knew he was dead.

            He was just dead and all that was left of his life was a cold, hard, mahogany box.

            She knew that somewhere behind her, their champion was watching angrily.  She didn't understand why he was so angry and it frustrated her.  He had no right, none at all, to be as bitter as he was.  Angel had no right to try to stop them from being at this funeral.

            "You're not going," he snapped.

            Fred glared at him.  "You . . . you can't say that," she said defiantly, her hands on her hips.  She was shaking with anger, but she didn't want him to see that.

            "He tried to take Connor," Angel argued.

            "He tried to save him," she replied.

            "I can't forgive him."

            Fred's lip trembled, but she had made herself a promise that she wouldn't cry.  Not in front of their champion.

            "I'm going," she said.  "And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop being such a big . . . such a jerk and you'll come too."

            She turned on her heel and meant to leave the hotel, but paused a second later and turned back to look at him.

            "He loved you, Angel.  He would have done anything for you."  Her eyes bore into his.  "He died for you."

           

            His hand came down onto her shoulder and she stiffened.  He had come closer, risked her anger to come down to the casket.  She knew everything would be alright, she knew that Angel had finally forgiven what had happened.  Everything would be okay.

            She turned, hoping with everything she had that she would see sadness and regret in his dark eyes.  If she saw anything, any emotion other than his anger, she knew everything would be just fine.  Even if it was for a second, his sorrow would make her future seem so much brighter.  
            A bitterness she had never known lived within him was the only thing she could see.  She was startled speechless and her tears fell freely, hot rivers down her face that mixed with the light rain and disappeared.  He was so close and yet she felt that she couldn't even touch him.

            He didn't care.

             He backed away slightly, his dark eyes still brimming with anger.

            "Please," she whispered, curling her fingers toward him. 

            He shook his head.  "No, you don't understand.  It's because of him that my son . . . it's his fault."  The anger flared in his eyes again.  "It's all his fault."

            Her hand fell limply to her side.  She knew that she had lost him.

            She stared at him for a long while, trying to remember exactly what it had been about him that she had loved so much.  She remembered him riding in on his horse to save her, her White Knight dressed all in black.  She had really loved him then, thought that her love had meant she was to spend the rest of her life with him.  He had saved her after all and she loved him for it.

            There was so little of that White Knight left, so little of him left in those eyes.

            With a defeated look she turned back to the grave.

            As the casket was lowered slowly into the ground she listened for his footsteps as he walked away.  He was gone before the coffin even reached the soil bottom of the hole and she found that she was trying not to care.  She had tried to reach him and that was all anyone could expect from her.  She wasn't going to turn her back on the man who had died to try and save a child.  A man she had fallen for, completely without even realizing it.

            "You like him, don't you?"

            Fred flushed immediately.  "Who?"

            Angel grinned.  "You know who."

            "No," she replied defensively.

            "You do," Angel said, still smiling.  "I'm such a good matchmaker."

            "You didn't match anything!" she exclaimed.

            He just continued grinning, and then tossed a book in her direction.  "He likes you."

            "Really?  I mean, so?"

            Angel smiled.  "He does."

            She missed that man; the man who had acted as if nothing in the world could even be wrong, the man who laughed at jokes and who she sometimes caught staring at a picture of a beautiful girl with blonde hair.  She always wondered who the girl was.  She knew he loved her, whoever she was. 

            She missed him, but he was gone.  She had tried and it had gone nowhere.  The man she was burying had tried to save and life and all it had gotten him was a mahogany casket.

            She straightened her shoulders as the first shovel of dirt hit the top of the casket, thudding hollowly and sounding horribly final to her ears.  Eventually the grave was filled and the sod was replaced on top.  She walked toward the headstone and knelt before it.  A red rose that had been clutched in her hand slipped to the grass, taking beads of her blood on its thorns.  She touched the stone gently, the cool crevices sliding beneath her fingers.

            She smiled.

            As she walked back to the car with the others she saw him standing in the distance, watching them.  Watching over them as he always did.  She could feel his anger, even from so far away.  Her smile faded and was replaced by a frown.  She didn't know why he couldn't understand.

            He was their champion.  He was supposed to understand.  He was supposed to forgive.
            She ducked into the car and forced him from her mind.  She wanted nothing more than to sleep forever, lying in the cool room of the hotel and slipping into a deep, dark sleep.

            She wanted to forget them both, to be happy again, but the shadow of each man lurked unhappily behind a mahogany casket.

End