Auld Lang Syne

by carlyinrome

R. Sex, violence, dirty words, character death, noncon. Buffy&Angel, with a full cast behind them. 2017, Buffy and Angel are married, parenting . . . and haunted. WIP. Spoilers through Blind Date on AtS and Primeval on BtVS.

1. Prophecies

Christmas Eve, 1998
Sunnydale, California

Hmm. You think you can fight me? I'm not a daemon, little girl. I am something that you can't even conceive. The First Evil. Beyond sin, beyond death. I am the thing the darkness fears. You'll never see me, but I am everywhere. Every being, every thought, every drop of hate.

Sunday, December 10th, 2017
The Gryphons' Home

"Tape."

"Tape?"

Reagan looked up at her friend from behind a sheath of straight, dark hair. "Hand me the tape."

Chloe grinned sheepishly. "Tape. Right." She handed her the tape. "Sorry."

Reagan Nicole Gryphon was sixteen, tall, dark; pretty, with soft curves and lines, her mother's figure, her father's coloring. She had soft skin with a mother of pearl complexion, long, thick brown hair, and dark, almond shaped eyes. Her face was rounded and soft, lit up with her alert chocolate eyes and pretty, flirting mouth.

Her friend, the bright and bubbly blonde Chloe Elissa Rosenberg, was small and svelte, but more petite than Reagan, pale-skinned with straight honey blonde tresses cut short and falling around her head in a desperately unruly manner, blue-green eyes, a small, button of a nose, augmented by a spray of freckles across the bridge.

Reagan straightened the sheet on a crease, folded it over the edge of the gift box sitting contentedly in her lap, and pulled a piece of tape from the little plastic frame. She placed it squarely along the edge, smoothed it down.

Finished, she placed it on the floor beside her, stuck a shiny, red, pre-folded, sticky-bottomed bow on the top.

"Thoughts?"

Chloe rolled her eyes. "You are a present-wrapping czar. A god, even."

The raven-haired girl stuck out her tongue contemptuously. "Sarcasm gets you nowhere."

The honey-blonde laughed, green eyes sparkling. "But it's a lot of fun."

"You're impossible," she murmured, standing with the gift and settling next to her friend on the bed.

"That's true. But you love me, all the same."

"That's true," Reagan mused, sticking on a self-adhesive label and penning a quick message. "That just might be the reason . . ."

"Not my delightful wit? My stifling beauty?"

"Well, those things, too."

"Is that the last one?" Chloe asked, taking the present, putting it close to her ear and shaking it.

Reagan gently took the box from her. "Yes. And no peeking . . ."

"But it's not even for me!"

"I still don't want you to break it, Chloe."

"Okay . . . are you gonna tell me what it is?"

"The curiosity will kill you, won't it?"

She pulled herself up from stomach and came into a sitting position. "Probably. Tell me."

"No."

"But . . . that's not fair."

"You should have paid attention while we were shopping for it, hmm?" Reagan asked, sliding off the bed and taking the gift to her closet, where she placed it on the top shelf, closing the door and returning to the bed.

"But I wasn't. And I want to know."

"You whine a lot."

"And you . . . well, you do something a lot. Let me see!"

"No." She checked her watch. "We're late, anyway."

"But I want to know," the pretty blonde murmured.

"And I'll tell you. On the way there. all right?"

"Yeah . . . okay," she consented, following suit and rising after her friend.

Reagan grabbed her coat, slipped it on, and pulled her purse off her desk pulled it on, sliding the leather strap over her shoulder. Chloe took her coat and bag and followed her friend down the stairs.

"When are you leaving?" a voice sounded when the two sixteen-year-old girls reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Right now, Daddy."

Reagan's father emerged from his study at the end of the hall, entered the foyer. "What time will you be home?"

"Eleven. Eleven thirty," Reagan told him.

"Are you driving?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Chloe spending the night?"

"Isn't she always?" she grinned.

He smiled a little. "Do you have the necessary . . ." he cleared his throat. "The –"

Chloe raised an eyebrow. "Hey. I know Reagan's a Slayer. You can say 'stake,' Angel."

He smiled. "Don't your parents miss you?" he teased.

"They're getting ready for another expedition." She lamented.

"Where?"

She sighed. "Brazil, this time."

Angel frowned. "For Christmas?"

She nodded. "Yeah. For Christmas."

He sighed and took her into a quick hug. "You know you're always welcomed here."

She grinned as he let her go. "And even if I'm not, I'll still be here."

He chuckled. "Hmm." He turned to his daughter. "Stake?"

"Check."

"Cross?"

She lifted it off her chest to show him. "Check."

"Cell phone?"

"Check," she asserted, tapping her purse.

"Kiss your father before you leave?"

She went over, hugged him quickly, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Check."

He smiled. "all right. Get out of here. Have fun."

Sunday, December 10th, 2017
The Bronze

i don't want a lot for Christmas/
there's just one thing i need/
i don't care about presents/
underneath the Christmas tree/

Reagan stared out over the Bronze, hot lights on her face, smell and weight of smoke on her body. She closed her eyes and let the bass take her, the heavy burning sensation the music left on her enveloping her in its undeniable perfection of weight per square inch of her senses.

i just want you for my own/
more than you could ever know/
make my wish come true . . ./
all i want for Christmas/
is you . . ./

Reagan looked back briefly at Chloe, opening her eyes briefly. She was hammering on her bass, sapphire eyes on the strings.

Reagan took a deep breath at the rest, turned, closed her eyes again, and sang. As she did, issued the soulful, buttery alto forth, her muscles relaxed, she drifted somewhere far away, and immersed herself in the bass imbued sound. This was her release. Slaying – hunting – was life, now, and there was a kind of calm, the orgasmic relaxation of her senses, her body, after satisfying the kill, the adrenalin leaving her in a slackening of muscles and world, but this . . . this was the real peace, the only true niche she could cozy back into, make herself warm and safe within her own mind, her own world.

i don't want a lot for Christmas/
there is just one thing i need/
i don't care about presents/
underneath the Christmas tree/
i don't need to hang my stocking/
there upon the fireplace/
Santa Claus won't make me happy/
with a toy on Christmas day/
i just want you for my own/
more than you could ever know/
make my wish come true/
all i want for Christmas is you . . ./

In her domed peace of mind, the quiet in her head, she could hear Chris on drums, and felt that familiar fluttering in her stomach. She had been dating Chris Walker for almost two years now, and had been absolutely smitten with him since they'd met. She'd been singing at the Bronze, one of her first times singing in front of an audience like that, nervous, hands shaking as they gripped the cold microphone, eyes closed tight, to bring her to the quiet where all she knew was the music. Afterwards, she'd come around from the backstage to the main floor, moved through the mess of people in a clouded daze, the bitter aftertaste that fear always left floating around her. She was numb all over, not quite knowing why, or caring particularly, but the fact remained that her person felt made of rubber, or something not quite human. And Chris had come up to her, without apparent plan or reason, while she was standing at the bar; nursing a Sprite her stomach was too tense for. He'd looked at her, his hazel eyes shining earnestly, pushing stray strands of sandy hair from his eyes when they found their way into his line of vision, losing a perpetual battle. It was something she usually found annoying, but found desperately endearing in him. He'd looked at her, quite obviously flustered, and then spoke:

"You were really great up there."

It'd taken her by surprise. Apparently, it had taken him by surprise, as well. He grinned a little lopsided grin, embarrassed.

"I mean . . . well, I have this band, and . . . well, we need . . ." He'd stopped, extended a hand. "My name's Chris. Chris Walker. I play the drums in a band. We need . . ." he stopped again. "We need you."

you baby . . ./

She'd gone to meet the band, partially because she wanted to belong to one, and partially because she'd been taken by Chris. The band was hurting a little for variety, but included some talent. Chris was absolutely a prodigy on the drums, unusually skilled, not only with following written music, but with thinking up his own rhythms, creating impromptu ballads, things of that nature.

i won't ask for much this Christmas/
i won't even wish for snow/
i'm just gonna keep on waiting/
underneath the mistletoe/
i won't make a list and send it/
to the North Pole for Saint Nick/
i won't even stay awake to/
hear those magick reindeer click/
'cause i just want you here tonight/
holding on to me so tight/
what more can i do/
baby all i want for Christmas is you/

Scott Matthews, who was now Chloe's off and on boyfriend – much to the chagrin of one Julianna Wyndam-Pryce, Reagan's twin's best friend and long time admirer of the band's lead guitar – had been one of three of the band's guitarists, all of which refused to play anything other than lead. They didn't have a bassist, and Emily, Scott's sister, had been on vocals. Until she'd gotten her tonsils removed, at which point she could no longer produce even the simplest scales.

Reagan had shown up at practice in Chris's den, nervous, and listened to them play. Then Chris handed out new music and led Reagan to the microphone, her first shot at vocals with the band. First and last chance.

you . . ./
all the lights are shining/
so brightly everywhere/
and the sound of children's/
laughter fills the air/
and everyone is singing/
i hear those sleigh bells ringing/
Santa won't you bring me the one i really need -/
won't you please bring my baby to me . . ./

She'd sung, Fiona Apple's "First Taste," a song she'd loved since she was little. Most of her father's albums had become hers by the time she was twelve, a lot of older composers, those, the classics, but newer things, too, Billie Holiday and Tori Amos, the Smashing Pumpkins, Dollshead, a thousand lessons in bass and rhythm, deep bluesy things that formed her voice, helped her train it, and "Tidal" was included. She'd closed her eyes and let the words come out, let them flow the way she'd taught herself to while listening to the sirens that had captured her father's heart, and hers, as well. She got about halfway through before the band stopped playing and just listened. She didn't notice, certainly didn't stop, or slow until the last note.

oh i don't want a lot for Christmas/
this is all i'm asking for/
i just want to see my baby/
standing right outside my door/
oh i just want him for my own/
more than you could ever know/
make my wish come true/
baby all i want for Christmas is/
you . . ./

She'd opened her eyes, realized it was silent, and dread hit her squarely in the stomach. Had she been that bad? Scott looked at her, eyes a little wide, then at Chris.

"Where'd you find this girl?"

"Maybe I should go –"

She'd started to leave.

. . . all i want for Christmas is you . . ./

Chris had taken her arm, kept her there. "No. Stay."

"You . . . want me?"

He'd looked taken aback, mistaking her question. After realization hit him, he smiled, nodded. "Please?"

. . . all i want for Christmas is you . . ./

She had. The other two guitarists quit and formed their own band after realizing there could be only one lead guitarist, and Reagan had brought Chloe in after Chris had found out the girl was Hell on a bass. The four of them called the band "Faithless" and had slowly become the Bronze's pet band; the band people came there to hear. Chris had – finally – managed to ask Reagan out, and they'd been together since then.

Chris was . . . special. They'd both grown out of pure infatuation and into something deeper, something more, something better. They were happy together, good together.

It was love, and it was nice.

. . . all i want for Christmas is you . . ./

Sunday, December 10th, 2017
Angel and Buffy Gryphon's Bedroom

"Angel."

He didn't want to open his eyes. He was warm and heavy all over, pleasantly felled with sleep after making love to his wife, a woman he would never stop loving, cherishing, needing. Buffy was next to him; he heard the voice and took her hand. Asleep, she didn't say anything, didn't do anything, but her hand was warm and closed a little on his when he clasped it, and he felt safe.

"Angel. Open your eyes, Angel."

He opened his eyes, but he wasn't quite sure why.

"Darla."

He didn't remember saying it, or thinking of saying it, but there it was, said. He didn't understand why his thoughts were projecting themselves out into the real world outside his head, but he didn't let that bother him particularly, then.

She was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, one hand on the door he distinctly remembered closing. She was wearing all black, or some dark color; he couldn't tell. At forty three, a human forty three, his eyes were getting weaker, senses relaxing, but he was fairly certain it was black. It looked more like lingerie than anything else, bodice lacy and tight, tying rigid across her abdomen, her chest, pulling her breasts in hard and rising them up, making all of her stern and steel.

He looked at her a moment and realized she was wearing a corset; it looked as if she were preparing for dressing back . . . back when one would consider a corset a needed article of clothing . . . back when they both belonged. Her hair was long, longer than he ever remembered it, curled like he remembered it the best, falling over her shoulders and breasts in unruly cascades. She looked like she was preparing for dressing.

Only not in black. Why would she be wearing black?

There were other things, too, that weren't right. He was sure he'd closed the door. For that matter, he was also very sure that Darla was dead. But those things aside, he was mostly concerned with her sunglasses. Why in God's name would anyone need sunglasses in the middle of the night? Indoors?

They were sunglasses, couldn't be glasses, spectacles, reading glasses, not tapered and trendy like that, not painted black. They hid her eyes. He didn't like that she had something to hide.

Forgetting that he'd closed the door, and that Darla was dead.

"Hello, Angel."

"Darla," he repeated. He whispered, afraid of waking Buffy. He did say it, this time, but it didn't come out the way he'd said it. He shook that off, not able to deal with things of that nature just then.

"Things are going pretty good for you, aren't they?"

He didn't understand. And he certainly didn't say so, not aloud. But it came out.

"I don't understand."

He was beginning to become frightened. No one said anything about this, however, verbally or subconsciously.

"You're living your perfect 40's sitcom life with little Miss Bleach Blonde Homecoming and your charming Brady children. Far away from everything . . . from who you really are."

"I don't know what you're talking about." This was true, so he said so. She smirked.

"You think you can just turn your back and run away from your past, from the things you've done? It's who you are. It'll always be that way."

He started to protest. She came over to him, sat on the bed next to him, stroked his hair.

"Hush," she murmured, putting her fingers to his lips to quiet him. It worked. He fell silent.

"Now listen to me," she continued, still petting him, taking his other hand, the one Buffy was not holding, and taking it into her own, massaging his fingers. "Listen. Just sleep, all right? Everything's going to work out. You'll see."

"Nothing's wrong," he whispered, feeling very tired and every one of his years all of a sudden.

She kissed him softly. "You don't understand, but that's all right. It's hardly your fault. Now, sleep. Everything will soon be the way it always was, the way it was meant. You'll see."

He wanted to argue, but he didn't. He closed his eyes.

And woke up.

He sat up abruptly, looked around him. His body still felt heavy, still felt warm, and he was tangled in the blankets. His wife was beside him, sleeping quietly, holding his hand. The door was closed.

Darla was dead.

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep, squeezing Buffy's hand a little, just to make sure that she was there, she was real, this was not a dream.

So far, so good.

Monday, December 11th, 2017
New Sunnydale High School

"all right, the thing about Macbeth that you really need to understand more than anything else it the guilt that Shakespeare's characters felt. This . . . emotion . . . broke them down, stripped them of everything and left them what they really were and only that, or less." Angel picked up his copy of the book from his desk and took a step toward his students, looking briefly around the semi-circle of desks and the multitude of faces wearing varying degrees of interest. "I don't care if you walk away with this knowing themes, or characters, or lines . . . Hell, you don't have to know who wrote it as long as you understand that emotions, especially the purely volatile ones like grief, anger, greed, guilt can become more real to a person than everything else. I want you to understand that the mind and the heart rule a person, not –" He paused, blinked. Darla was sitting in an unoccupied seat in the very back of the classroom, dressed in black, a short skirt and a clinging top, stylish black heels making her long legs seem more so. Her nails were black, and she held a black rose in one hand, playing with it absently. She wore no make-up, and her hair was back, away from her face. Both were dimmed by the gauzy black veil she wore, coming over her hair and over her eyes to cover her nose and the indention at the top of her lips.

Angel blinked again and continued his lecture, avoiding looking at her. ". . . that the mind and the heart rule a person, not their genes, or their –" He paused again. Darla looked at him from her seat, smiled. She put down the rose, laying it gently on the desk, and pulled the veil up over her face. Putting the first two fingers of her right hand to her blushing lips, she kissed them softly and turned over her hand, bending it gently at the wrist, exposing the pale skin of her delicate wrist and the underside of her forearm. Blew him a kiss.

"Professor Gryphon? Are you all right?"

Angel closed his eyes for a moment, thought. Macbeth. Macbeth. God, why were her eyes black?

He opened his eyes again. The room faded in a way it never had for him, didn't drift away like a dream, but gradually grew more and more washed, the colors fading, draining from around him, leaving him with nothing but the grey. His head hurt. His chest. Was it getting hot? And why was it hard to breathe?

Why were her eyes black?

"Professor Gryphon?"

He didn't feel anything as he fell to the floor, bending at the knees and collapsing in front of his desk, everything going black, still, warm. Flowing to nothing.

Falling, his hand hit the desk, banging the wrist and forcing him to drop his book to the same cold floor that would soon receive him. The book hit hard, pages fluttering open as the spine cracked against the floor.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly.

Monday, December 11th, 2017
Sunnydale Interior Designs Studio

"Well, this color's really popular with heavier upholsteries," she tried, handing the finicky couple a sample of the burgundy.

"I don't know about this . . ."

"Well, I guess it really all depends on a matter of taste."

The couple looked at one another, then at the sample, not wanting to be thought of as having bad taste, which, after almost three hours with them, she had decided they most definitely did.

The door opened quietly. Her secretary, the tiny grey-haired Mrs. Salts poked her head in.

"Mrs. Gryphon? There's a phone call for you."

Buffy rose, went to the door.

"This'll only take a minute."

She left, rolling her eyes at the couple, and grabbed the phone off Mrs. Salts' desk.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Gryphon?"

"Yeah."

"We're calling about your husband."

Monday, December 11th, 2017
New Sunnydale High School

". . . you multiply the first x value with the second, and then the first y value with the second, and then – yes, Sara?"

She looked up. "Huh?"

"Can I help you with something, Miss Gryphon?"

She shot her eyes briefly from side to side, then brought them back to attention in the middle of the classroom. "Bathroom?"

She sighed. "Go ahead. Just hurry, please."

Sara moved her notebook – still closed – to the middle of her desk, grabbed her tiny plastic clutch, and made her way out of the classroom. Entering the hall, she threw back her hair, pulled back her shoulders, and walked confidently down the hall to the bathroom.

She walked in, scoured it with her eyes, then parked in front of the mirror next to a tall auburn-haired girl already busy with lipstick.

"You're late."

"Bite me, Jules."

Julianna Wyndam-Pryce, in a perfect mockery of her mother, rolled her eyes.

"How's the Creature?"

Sara glared, dropping her mascara brush. "You had better not be talking about my boyfriend."

Julie grinned. "Actually, I meant Miss Reynolds, your delectable Algebra teacher, but . . . how is King of the Jocks?"

"Stephan is fine, thank you."

Julie sheathed the cranberry sword and gave a smile for the mirror. "That reminds me. How's your dad? Is he gonna be okay?"

Sara looked at her, lowering the implement again. "What about my dad?"

Julie shrugged. "I just didn't know how bad it was. It sounded pretty bad . . ."

She was quiet a moment. "Julie . . . how bad what was?"

She looked confused. "He . . . fell. You did know, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't know. What do you mean, 'he fell'?"

"He was teaching a class, and he got sick or something, and blacked out. An ambulance took him to the hospital . . ."

"When?" She started packing her little purse.

"About fifteen minutes ago. I thought you would have heard . . ."

She hurried out the door. "Thanks, Jules."

She ran down the hall, past the Math Wing, then up the stairs to the Science Department. She burst in the Chemistry Lab.

". . . the reaction should –"

"Reagan!"

Sara's identical twin dropped her beaker. It shattered in the sink, an ugly grey smoke emerging from it. Startled, she looked a moment at her sister at the door, then turned the water on over the mess. The smoke quickly cleared away.

The Chemistry teacher sighed, wishing desperately he wasn't in need of a nicotine fix. "Another Gryphon. Fantastic. Young lady, have you got business here?"

"I need to talk to my sister," Sara shot at him, rather on the defensive now.

He removed his bifocals and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just leave, Reagan."

She started to protest.

"Just go, please."

She removed her goggles and apron, folded them delicately over the sink, and followed her twin out of the room.

Sara shut the door behind her little sister.

"Reagan –"

"What the Hell was that about?"

"I –"

"Do you realize how dangerous that was!"

Sara took her sister's arms. "Reagan. Dad's sick."

She looked at her. "What?"

"Something happened in class. He's at the hospital."

She was quiet for a long time. Sara tried to take her into an embrace, something to calm her, but she pushed her off.

"Don't."

"I'm trying to help," she said quietly.

"You're not." She leaned against the wall. "What about Eve?"

She looked at her. "What about Eve?"

"Have you talked to her?"

She shook her head. "No, I thought –"

"We should go do that now, huh?"

She nodded. "Yeah, maybe we should –"

The loudspeaker cut her off. "Would Eve, Sara, and Reagan Gryphon please come to the front office prepared to leave?"

They looked at each other.

"I have to get my bag," Reagan said after a moment.

"Chloe'll get it."

She nodded absently. "Yeah. I guess so."

Sara offered her hand. She took it, something she normally would not have done. She was worried and tense, and Sara was trying to help.

They walked down to the office. Eve was already down there, standing waiting for them, dark eyes flashing back and forth between the bustling people in the office.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hey," Sara echoed.

"Is Mom here?" Reagan asked.

The girl shook her head. She looked uncomfortable.

The door to the office opened; a short pretty woman with dark hair and a small child cradled in her arms emerged, another trailing her.

"Aunt Mary," Reagan murmured, going to her and taking the toddler from her arms.

The woman smiled. "Hi, guys. Everyone ready to go?" She frowned at the twins. "You don't have any bags."

"I didn't bring one," Sara said, "and a friend of Reagan's is going to pick hers up."

The woman nodded. "all right. Eve, you wanna take Michael in your car, and I'll take the girls in mine?"

Eve shrugged. "Fine." She turned to her ten-year-old brother, behind Mary. "Come on, 'kay? You wanna ride with me?"

He nodded and the two of them left.

Mary looked around. "Come on, crew."

They followed her out. Reagan adjusted the little girl in her arms. "Where's Mom?"

"At the hospital with your father."

She unlocked her dark green van, slipped in the driver's seat. Sara got in the front, and Reagan maneuvered into the back without waking her little sister.

"I don't have a car seat in here," Mary apologized, starting the car.

"You have two toddlers," Reagan said questioningly.

"I know, but the seats are in the garage. I had the entire back and middle seats out, moving some furniture, and I didn't put the boosters back in when I put in the seats."

"I'll just hold Lexi in my lap," Reagan murmured, pulling the seatbelt around both of them.

"We're going to see Daddy," Lexi murmured, then buried her face in her sister's shirt again.

"That's right," Reagan assured her.

"Everyone buckled?"

After receiving the affirmative, Mary turned, started the car, and backed out of the parking lot in her typical hurried fashion.

"Don't worry, Reagan," Lexi whispered. "You're awake now, and that's good."

Reagan wrinkled her brow. "What? Of course I'm awake."

Lexi looked up at her sister, tiny face drawn into a frown. "You don't know, yet."

She shook her head, smiled a little futilely. "Sometimes I don't understand you, Lex."

"But you will." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them briefly.

Her eyes . . . how . . . ?

Why were her eyes black?

"Soon you'll understand everything," the child whispered, a woman's voice issuing forth from the tiny body.

Reagan watched, gaping, as Lexi cuddled back against her as if nothing had happened.

"What did you say?"

She looked up, with a mask of annoyance. And blue eyes.

"Nothing."

Reagan frowned and adjusted her little sister on her lap.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded firmly. "Mm-hmm." And resumed her cuddle.

Monday, December 11th, 2017
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

"Mommy!"

Buffy Gryphon, looking rather worn, smiled wanly and took her four year old daughter into her arms, holding her tight and giving her a kiss on the forehead.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Lexi smiled. Buffy looked up at Mary. "Mary, thank you so much for . . ." she lowered her eyes. "For everything."

The woman smiled. "Sure thing, hon. How's he doin'?"

Buffy closed her eyes, stressed, for a moment, then opened them. They were shining with tears that had yet to fall. "Not real well." Her voice was giving over to emotion.

Mary nodded. After a moment, "Want me to take the kids home?"

The petite blonde shook her head. "No. They need to see their daddy first, know he's okay . . ."

"Where are Michael and Eve?"

"Sitting outside his room, waiting for me to come back."

Mary nodded again, taking it in. "all right." She turned to the twins behind her. "Okay, gang, let's head up there, huh?"

They nodded dully, because it was expected of them, not because they actually had something to add to the conversation. Mary smiled, turned back to Buffy.

"You wanna lead the way?"

She turned and started to go. The others followed.

"What room is he in?" Mary asked, mostly to fill the silence.

"Three-fourteen."

Buffy stopped at the end of the hall, in front of the harsh steel doors sitting contentedly there. She pressed the thick white plastic button marked with a '' and waited, as it lighted, for the elevator doors to part.

She didn't have to wait long. The chime sounded, the doors opened, revealing the dark cavernous innards of the contraption, and the small band of travelers entered. Buffy bent at the knees, leaned toward the door so Lexi could press the hard candy "3", and the doors closed, the chime sounded again, and they began their ascent.

The Gothic arrowed hand at the top stopped at three after an eternity encased in two minutes, and the doors opened. Buffy led the way down the hall, stopped in front of 314.

Eve and Michael looked up from the bench they were resting on, not looking any bit the same except for their apparent worry. Michael was tan and blonde, Buffy's coloring, heavily, and most of her looks. His father's figure, though, or the beginnings of it, was hidden under too baggy clothing. He was almost eleven and moving into puberty, awkward and long, loud and an outcast in his family. His parents had fought in the Apocalyptic battles, three members of his family were Slayers, all the women and his father experienced some level of clairvoyance, dreams mostly except for little Lexi, who had something more . . . and then there was Eve. Eighteen, tall and svelte, almost painfully thin, with bone china skin and straight, thick raven hair. Thin, Asian eyes and a tiny mouth, long limbs, hands, fingers. She was adopted, and therefore looked nothing like either parent. Her mother was Jeira, daemon princess, and a friend of Angel's. She was adopted when she was four, taken into the Gryphon's home from one of many foster homes, loved and cherished. She didn't remember her biological mother . . . she'd never met her. But, still half daemon, the constant reminder of the distant parent remained: hot flashes during her menses, and the dark blue power center running down her spine. But she considered the Gryphons her parents, and Angel had always been the only thing she'd had as a father, and she loved him as one, felt for him as one now. She's spoken to the doctors with Buffy, and she was scared. There were half moons bore into her palms from where she'd been clenching her hands.

Both children stood as their mother and her makeshift entourage arrived. Eve made a move to hug her mother, decided better of it, and drew back. Michael didn't. He ran for his mother, hugged her around the waist, nearly upsetting Lexi. Buffy smiled a little and put an arm around him.

"You guys ready to go in?"

They all nodded severely. Buffy gently separated herself from Michael and turned to Mary.

"I . . . can you stay out here and wait? I'll need to . . . talk to him and the doctors, after . . ."

She nodded. "Of course. Want me to take Lexi?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to take her in with me . . ."

"all right. Give him my love?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I mean . . . you can see him, just . . . there's some things I need to take care of, first . . . you understand?"

"Of course." She turned to Sara. "Let me take your purse."

She handed it to her numbly.

Buffy looked at her children for a moment, very apparently nervous. She was shaking. "Let's . . . let's go in, then."

She opened the door, made sure all of her children were in the tiny room before entering herself, closing the door behind her. All four of them stood in the far corner, away from the bed, a little bit taken aback. Buffy let Lexi on the ground, then went over and knelt by his bed. Lexi scampered to her side.

Angel was lying quietly in bed, oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, the sound of his breathing from it quite pronounced and easily audible. There were three needles in the pit of his left arm, running up to various IV bags and machines. The right wrist was heavily bandaged, from his knuckles halfway up his forearm. A little bit of his chest was visible, and showed several sensors affixed to the flesh. He was beyond pale, trembling and struggling for the little bits of breath the mask was giving him. He smiled when his wife sat next to him, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was too much pain there for anything else.

"Hey," she whispered, placing her hand on top of his bandaged one and giving it a light squeeze. His fingers curled around hers, returning the affection.

"Hey."

His voice was almost nothing, dry and rasping, forced.

"The kids are here to see you," she said quietly, keeping the hushed tone.

He smiled a little more. "I'm quite aware." He looked down to the tiny child eagerly awaiting his attention at the foot of the bed, bouncing and gripping his sheets with small hands. "Hi, Lexi."

She grinned. "Hi, Daddy."

He swung his gaze to the corner by the door where his other four children were waiting, indecisive on their course of action.

"Aren't you going to come say 'hi'? I'm not contagious, I promise."

No one moved, or said anything. Finally, Michael spoke.

"You don't look real," he whispered, on the verge of tears.

Angel wrinkled his brow. "I don't look real?"

The little boy shook his head, starting to cry, big, fat tears rolling down cheeks that had not yet lost all their baby fat. "You look like something off a movie, you know, those hospital scenes where . . . you're not supposed to be here, in real life . . . my dad . . ."

Angel struggled into a sitting position, removed the mask. Buffy opened her mouth to protest, tried to reaffix the mask to him, but he put one hand up to prevent her from doing either.

"Hey, hey . . ." His son looked up. "This better?"

He sniffled from the sanctuary he'd found in Eve's arms, but said nothing.

"Come here."

He didn't move.

"Come here."

He went, walked guardedly to the edge of the bed and stood at attention there, silent but for his sniffling. Angel slipped an arm around him, pulled him forward a little, and kissed his forehead softly.

"That better?" he repeated, voice still thin and forced.

He nodded a little, moved some out of the embrace. Angel flinched at the gentle movement at his side, then lay back down, slowly, and with his wife's diligent help. Michael stood at the edge of the bed.

"Are you okay?" Angel asked, looking rather concerned.

His son nodded somewhat numbly. Angel smiled a little.

"Good." He closed his eyes briefly. "Good."

"Are you going to die?" Michael asked after a moment, question meek and a bit halted.

He thought a moment. The silence was dreadful.

"I'm not planning on it," he mused gently.

"Promise not to?"

Angel smiled, lighting his eyes with it, a little. "Yeah, I promise. Okay?"

He nodded, smiled, and hugged his father again, very briefly.

"That all, young man?"

He thought a second before answering. "What's that for?" he asked, pointing to the faintly blue mask Buffy was desperately trying to reaffix to her husband.

"It's an oxygen mask. Helps me breathe, so I don't have to work for it so hard. There's medicine in it, too. The air, I mean."

"What about these?" Michael lightly touched the needles entering his flesh at the pit of his elbow.

"Those're from IV's. Giving me nutrients, medicine."

"And these?" He let his fingers rest on the shiny plastic disks on his chest.

"Monitoring my vital signals, heartbeat . . . that's that monitor, there," he informed him, pointing to a small black box with jumping neon lines. "And other things, respiration rate, temperature, things like that."

"That's what those machines are for?"

He nodded. "Very good." After a moment of quiet: "That all?"

"What happened to your wrist?"

"I blacked out, fell . . . when I did, I hit my wrist on my desk, and it's bruised pretty badly."

"Why's it bandaged up like that? You didn't cut it."

"It's padded, see?" he guided his hand to the padding. "So I don't hit it on anything and bruise it worse."

"Kinda like a cast?"

He smiled. "Kind of like that, yeah."

"You're really okay?"

"I'm gonna be fine, I promise." He looked over to his daughters, still watching from the doorway. "Coming to see me or not? I'm sure some very bad person will be in here shortly wanting to poke me with a needle, and I'd like to see you all before that happens."

Reagan smiled a little, went over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Hi, Rags," he murmured, using his pet name for her.

"Hi."

Buffy successfully reaffixed the mask to Angel just then, kissing his forehead to ease the frown from his face.

"You all right, hon?" he asked, once the annoyance had left his face.

She looked up at him, startled. "Of course I'm all right. I'm . . . worried about you."

He sighed. "Don't be, love. I'm gonna be okay. I promise."

"You've said that already," she told him, numb.

"Well, I meant it."

Sara walked quietly over to the bed, deciding it was safe. She stood behind Reagan, waiting, silent.

"Hello, Sara, love."

She smiled. "Hi, Daddy."

"I'm glad you've decided to come join us," he teased.

She blushed a little. "It's just . . ."

"You don't like hospitals?"

She shook her head, relieved that she didn't have to explain.

"Hmm. Neither does your mother."

Buffy didn't say anything, or even look up. Her eyes were in her lap, on Angel's hand, which she was cradling in hers, massaging the fingers, the only part visible with the gauze.

Angel strained a little to see Eve in the corner, alone.

"Eve, sweetheart?"

She looked up.

"I want to see you, baby. I'm going to have to stay here for a few days, and I'll probably not get another chance to visit with all of you."

"I talked to the doctors," she whispered, on the verge of breaking. "They told me everything."

He sighed, his eyes just pained again. "Honey . . ."

"I'm going to go sit with Aunt Mary," she mumbled, closing the door behind her as she went. Buffy made a move to follow her, but Angel shook his head. "Let her go."

Reagan wrinkled her brow. "Why –"

The door opened again. Buffy stood, thinking it was her daughter come back.

It wasn't.

A tall, light haired man in a white coat entered the room, one hand clasping his clipboard. He glanced down at the papers resting on the small board briefly then closed the door and took another step into the room.

"Mr. Gryphon? I'm Dr. Hughes, and I'm going to be taking care of you while you're here, all right?"

"It's Angel," he murmured.

The man looked confused, then down at his clipboard. "Pardon?"

"If you're going to be taking care of me while I'm here, I'd prefer to be called Angel."

He nodded. "Sure. I'm going to take a few readings, all right? Then we're going to give you a sedative, and I'll have a talk with you and your family."

"In that order?" Angel asked dryly while the doctor scribbled the numbers bobbing on the multitude of machines his patient was hooked to.

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to do things in that order?"

"Um, I suppose so," he answered mindlessly, distracted.

"Can I have the sedative after you talk to me?"

The doctor looked up. "What? Oh, yeah, sure."

He turned toward the small bed, clustered with people. "Is this it?"

"My daughter Eve is in the hallway."

"Maybe we should get her –"

"She said you'd already spoken with her."

"About you? I talked to . . ."

"She's Asian."

He nodded. "Pretty girl? In red?"

Angel nodded.

"Yeah, I spoke to her. She's your daughter?"

"Yeah."

"I thought she was a friend of the family's . . . she doesn't look –"

"She's adopted."

He nodded aimlessly, as if the information wasn't really important. "all right. So this is everyone, then?"

"I guess so."

"all right . . . um, everyone, I'm Dr. Hughes . . . I'm going to be working with Angel for the next little while . . ."

"How long is that?" Reagan interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"How long will you be working with him?"

"Well . . . as long as necessary . . ."

"And how long will that be?" she crossed her arms across her chest.

"Well, it's different with every patient –"

"Give me an estimate. You're a doctor."

Angel turned to look at his little girl. "Reagan, sweetheart, lay off, hmm?"

She didn't say anything further. The doctor regained his pride and answered the question as best he could. "Sometimes these things take weeks, sometimes months, or years. For sure, I'll be seeing your – father, is it? – over the next two or three weeks, at least."

She nodded.

"What's wrong with him?" Sara asked.

"Your father is suffering from –"

"Put it in layman's, please," Angel whispered, suddenly looking very tired, and closing his eyes. "They're children, not surgeons."

Doctor Hughes nodded, even though Angel was no longer attentive to visual stimulation. "Your father has cancer. To be precise, he's got a brain tumor."

Fall 2000
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

Your mother has . . . the term is low-grade glioma. It's a brain tumor. The clinical name is oligodendroglioma. It's in the left hemisphere of the cerebrum. In your mother's case the tumor seems to have started there. In other words, it hasn't spread from another part of the body . . .

Monday, December 11th, 2017
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

The silence was bitter and brittle. Buffy, who knew, was slammed with hearing it again, for the fourteenth or fifteenth time since she'd come to the hospital. The pain of it was never less . . . it hit her hard in the gut, a wave of gnawing pain and desperate nausea, and then the screaming in her head oh god oh god oh god please let this be wrong let it be a mistake. The children, who had not heard it, were struck cold by it. This wasn't real. This was something out of movies, something that shouldn't be living in their daddy. This wasn't right. This was a joke.

A horrible, tasteless joke, but a joke, nevertheless.

"That . . . he can't . . ." Reagan said suddenly.

Doctor Hughes looked at her. "I know this is difficult for you . . ."

"How the Hell could you know how this feels?" she snapped.

He put his hand on hers, trying to calm her. She drew it back violently. "Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me," she spit, recoiling further, shaking with shock and anger.

"Watch your mouth," Angel muttered, not opening his eyes, floored into fatigue by the last few minutes.

Fall 2000
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

I know this is very difficult, and, uh, because of the nature of your mother's illness . . . unfortunately, things may progress very quickly.

Things? What things?

Symptoms. There's a fair variety that might present. Loss of vision or appetite, lack of muscle control, uh, mood swings . . .

But what can we do?

Well, not much, until we determine if the tumor's operable. Which we are working on.

Is there something that I . . . I mean . . . can I help?

Well, there's some literature you might want to look at. If we aren't able to go in surgically, there are a number of new treatments that are very promising. Your mother's prognosis is a lot better today than it would have been only a year ago. Even if the tumor's not operable, she has a real chance.

What's a real chance?

Nearly one out of three patients with this condition does just fine.

Monday, December 11th, 2017
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

Buffy rose and took Reagan, held her close to her, stroked her back. The girl, made of stuff tough as nails, like her mother, made of steel like a Slayer was, collapsed against her, shaking hard.

"Sweetheart . . ." she looked down at her daughter in her arms. She could see how hard she was trembling. "Don't cry," she whispered, mistaking the rhythmic spasms for tears.

"I'm not crying," she whispered against her. "I'm just . . ."

"What?"

"I'm so angry."

Buffy raised her brow, shocked by the revelation. With more force than she'd meant, she took the girl by the hand and pulled her outside into the hall, down and through another door. The small chapel, place to pray. Buffy sat in an empty pew – the entire place was empty – in the back and pulled Reagan onto her lap. The girl fell against her like a rag doll, unwilling and unable to move, to make her muscles obey anything.

"Angry? God, why are you angry?"

This was not an emotion she'd considered. A hundred others, sure, all of those had drowned her the past few hours, but anger had not even crossed her mind.

"Why would God do that to him?"

Buffy looked at her incredulously. "What?"

"Why would God punish him?"

Monday, December 11th, 2017
Sunnydale Memorial Hospital

"Hey, you're awake."

Angel blinked several times in succession, trying to get the cottony sleep out of his eyes. With the steady flow of sedatives, pain killers, medicines being fed into him, he'd been sleeping off and on, in halted, uncomfortable cycles. He'd been dreaming that way, too, strobing, nonsensical dreams that woke him frightened and confused, fevered sweat clinging to his skin and desperate, unforgiving pain in his head, above his eyes, under the cast and at every point the cold metal entered his skin.

Buffy was still there, sitting next to him, holding his hand like a lifeline, massaging the fingers to reassure . . . well, she meant it to be him, he knew, that's why she was doing it, but her, as well. He could feel the distinct pinpoints of her fingers on his sweaty, bandaged palm, on his fingers, his knuckles. Her touch tickled where the skin at the mouth of the bandage breathed fresh air and her gentle stroking.

"How long have I been out?" He didn't recognize his own voice, and he thought it a blessed miracle that she could. It was almost nothing. Broken, cowering in the corner somewhere, rasping and forced.

Hadn't been like that since Hell.

But that was a different story.

"About three hours," she murmured, keeping voice at a hospital vigil. He did not like that, her talking to him like a terminal illness patient.

That's what he was, he thought dryly, but he certainly didn't want to be treated that way.

"Kids?"

"They went home with Mary . . . a couple hours ago."

"They okay?"

"They . . . they'll be fine, Angel. They're strong kids, and . . . children bend. They'll be fine."

"What about you?" he asked, knowing the answer in the timbre of her voice, the strict way she was sitting, back unreasonably straight, head bent, hands folded in front of her around his, hands a lotus flower creased in prayer.

"I'll be fine," she lied quietly, knowing perfectly well he was on to her ruse, and knowing, also, that there wasn't a goddamned thing she could do about it.

"What time is it?" he asked, suddenly wondering what had happened to his watch.

"It's quarter after nine in the evening."

"That late?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Where's my watch?" He looked down at his hands, felt the fingers with the neighboring digits. "My rings?"

"They took them off when you came in . . . it's policy . . . something to have to do with taking your blood pressure or something . . . I wasn't listening . . . I have them now, if you want them back."

"I want my wedding ring."

She smiled a little, knowing that was her Angel talking, gently getting back to the person he really was, not all this hospital blues and such.

She slipped the ring off her thumb, placed it on the ring finger of his left hand. "Keeping it warm for you," she whispered, kissing his forehead, as his mouth was currently unavailable.

He smiled a little. "Are you staying the night with me?" he asked, trying not to plead.

She nodded. "Yeah. I'll be right here with you, all night."

He was quiet a moment. "Buffy."

She looked at him, raised her brow a little in anticipation of his question. "Yeah."

"How are you, really?"

She laughed a little, sadly. Her eyes were brimming with pain; they were red-rimmed with old tears. She'd done it when she'd first come in, when they'd first told her . . . that's when she'd cried.

It was something she had to fall on her knees to do, cry in front of anyone, even him.

He'd held her.

"I'm dying, Angel," she whispered. "I'm not me anymore. I feel every one of those needles in the pit of my arm, I feel the respirator. I feel being helpless like that, breathing through a machine. I feel . . . I feel like I can't breathe, like I shouldn't be allowed, like I need to hold my breath until you're better. I'm part of you . . . we're one. If you die, I will, too." She lowered her eyes, then brought them back up to his, met them. "How the Hell do you think I am?"

He closed his eyes, lay back against his bank of hospital pillows, taking his count to ten, then opening them again, forcing himself up into a sitting position, pain, no pain, slipping the mask off, taking her wrists in his hands and drawing her to him.

"I love you."

He kissed her.

"That doesn't make any of this go away," she lamented, voice nothing.

"Yes it does," he argued quietly, unable to do anything any other way. "Because it's stronger than that, don't you think?"

"I don't know what to think," she admitted, averting her eyes.

He relinquished one of her wrists, and used the free hand, his battered right, to cup her face in his hand. Kissed her again.

"I've never in my life been this frightened," he told her, whispering against her shell of an ear, letting his body rest against hers. "I died and it didn't hurt like this. But I will be damned if I'm not going to fight it until the last skin of my teeth, do you understand that?"

"God."

She sobbed, just like that, suddenly, moving to the bed and holding him, letting him hold her, so that the two of them were entwined in some twisted yin yang on the sickly green hospital sheets, her violent tears shaking both of them.

They fell to the sheets, gently, holding one another, still trembling with fear and sorrow and a thousand other nameless emotions.

When the nurse came in for Angel's bihourly check, she found them cuddled and entwined on the tiny bed, warm and relaxed but for gently quivering muscles now and then, for breathing, sound asleep. Moving as one.

Monday, December 11th, 2017
The Gryphons' Home

"I don't want to go to bed," he insisted. "I won't be able to sleep anyway." He gave Mary a half-angry, half-pleading look, and she returned it with a doubtful one.

"Michael, I think the best thing now would be sleep . . . for everyone . . ."

"I'm not tired," he repeated stubbornly. The older woman sighed, not knowing quite how to deal with this kind of thing. How did one comfort a ten-year-old boy that had just found out his father had cancer? Reagan watched silently from the door, unable to intervene, hoping they wouldn't notice her. Not like she had a better idea of what to do . . .

Mary put a hand to her head. "I know this is hard, and the last thing you feel like is a normal schedule, but it'll help, I promise it'll make you feel bet—"

"What's all this?" Eve asked, entering from the opposite door. Her eyes lighted on Reagan, who abruptly found an elsewhere to be—namely, the kitchen. Her twin was standing at the counter, her dark head bent, some kind of food spread before her. She wasn't touching it. Unable to handle that talk at the moment, Reagan slipped into the laundry room and hovered there, uncertain what she was doing. She could hear Eve handling Mary and Michael. Ever the oldest sister, Eve liked to take care of people. Especially Michael . . . maybe because they were so completely different.

"Why don't you come lay down with me? We can watch . . . I have some Simpsons tapes."

"Are you sure?" Mary asked, her usually brash voice worried.

"Yeah, of course," Eve said, calm, collected. At the hospital she'd been the one telling Buffy to stay. It was so obvious she wanted to; so obvious she needed to be with her husband. Their father.

"They all need to be home, but . . ."

"It's okay, you can stay here Mom," Eve had said. "I can handle it. We'll be fine."

"Xander's got the kids," Mary seconded. "I'll look after things . . . You just stay with Angel."

"If you're sure . . ."

"We'll be fine Mom," Eve said firmly and that was the end of it.

Reagan wasn't fine. She wasn't fine at all. She felt like she was suffocating. There were so many people here, all in pain; all worried . . . She felt like she was drowning in their hurt. Lexi was asleep, thank God, Eve had Michael in hand and Sara . . . Sara would be all right, Reagan told herself. Sara could deal with stuff.

"Reagan!" Mary exclaimed, appearing in the doorway, one hand coming up to her mouth. "You startled me."

"Sorry."

"No . . . no, it's fine. What are you doing in here? Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm going to go for a walk . . . patrol a little."

A frown creased Mary's pretty face, a line appearing on her forehead. "You don't have to do that. Sunnydale will survive a night without you." Her tone turned gentle. "Why don't you stay home, we'll make popcorn and watch an old movie or something."

"No, no, I'm just gonna . . . I won't be long, I promise."

Mary's eyes were disapproving, as worried as they had been with Michael, but there was no Eve to stop Reagan from going. Maybe Sara, but she was in the kitchen, not moving. Reagan grabbed her coat off the pegs on the side of the wall and reached for the handle of the back door.

"Do you have a stake?" Mary asked. Reagan paused, realizing she didn't. No wait, she did. She pulled it out of her boot.

"Never travel without one," she said, aiming at flippancy. It didn't really work. She slipped out before she could say anything more idiotic. Difficult, but not impossible. Outside she breathed a little easier, Slayer instincts taking over as she walked, directly, her feet toward the graveyard, keeping her body alert as her mind wandered . . . shouted . . . screamed . . .

It was impossible. This whole thing was . . . impossible. Not happening to them . . . to her . . . to her father. Why? What had he done? What the fuck could he have done that he deserved this?

Nothing. He hadn't done anything. The father Reagan had grown up with was loving, kind . . . quiet, sure, had a little trouble opening up, but hell, so did she. Before she was born he'd fought the good fight. And now what . . . he got punished for being an exemplary citizen? No. It didn't work like that. He had to have . . . there had to be something . . . an explanation . . .

If there was an explanation maybe Reagan could deal with it. Could understand it. This way . . . it was just this thing . . . this thing she couldn't fight, couldn't do anything about. Her entire life she'd been able to do things and now . . . now her father was dying and there was nothing she could do . . . and she didn't even know why . . .

"Lovely night, isn't it?"

Reagan started, spinning around, her Slayer instincts leaping to the fore. She blinked at the blonde woman standing on the street corner, just outside the cemetery gates. Vampire? Her senses told her no.

"I didn't notice," Reagan muttered, moving to walk by. A hand touched her arm as she passed and she spun to look at the woman again. She was beautiful; all pale blonde hair and pitch black eyes. There was something strange about her eyes . . .

"Don't go, I was waiting for you," the woman said softly.

"Waiting?"

"I'm so sorry about your father, Reagan."

Her world spun a little, and her muscles tightened, ready to attack . . . but there was no reason to attack . . . her eyes were very dark, and her voice was familiar. She'd heard it before, recently . . . where had she heard it?

"What do you know about it?" she demanded fiercely.

"I used to know your father, a long time ago. It's terrible, really . . . but necessary. He has to be punished for what he did . . . But you already know that, don't you?"

She did of course . . . but punished for what?

"He never . . . he's a good man! He helps people!" Reagan exclaimed, half-pleading, half-defensive.

"Of course he does," the woman replied soothingly. "Of course he does. But helping people doesn't make it go away . . . all the terrible things he did."

"What things?" Reagan whispered.

The stranger's eyes were dark, very dark when she replied . . . more than black . . . a complete absence of anything. "You'll find out soon enough," she promised.

"What do you mean?" Reagan demanded. "What things? Who are you?"

"I'm Darla," she said. "I'll be around."

There was a sound from the graveyard behind them and Reagan spun to see what it was . . . Nothing. She spun back, and blinked . . . Nothing again. Except Darla . . . Darla had been there. And now she was gone.

Gone, with secrets of her father's past . . . . Terrible things, she'd said . . . . He had to be punished . . . .

Reagan couldn't go home. Not now. Not to see them all . . . answer their questions . . . be comforting or comforted . . . She swung open the gate and stepped into the graveyard.

He has to be punished for what he did . . .