Authors Note: I do not own Buffy, Angel (once more with the wishing) or any other BtVs or AtS characters: they are solely the property of Joss Whedon &etc.
Setting: Just after Season 2 of Angel.
Plot: Angel's recount of his three months after Buffy dies in Season 5 of Buffy. Not sure if I'm going anywhere with this one, just conjecture about how I think it would have gone down - except that my laptop hard drive doesn't have enough disk space to cope with Angel's brooding. ;)

Willow was waiting for him. She sat on the lounge outside his office, not looking at anything.

"Can I say it? I wanna say it."

"What?"

"There's no place like..."

Willow stood up. She was here, in L.A. There were few things serious enough that would require her to tell him in person. Something panicked in Angel begged her to tell him something else than what was plain on her tear blotched face. All of Angels' friends except Cordelia looked confused, she was the only one who understood.

Seconds passed wordlessly; Willows movements were slow and telling. She was explaining with her movements, her face... her eyes. Oh God; her eyes; they confirmed it. She stared at him, her features distorted in pain. She didn't want to say it out loud.

"... It's Buffy," he said softly. It was an affirmation more than a question.

She nodded in silent acquiescence with his words and indicated for him to follow her into his home. His feet took him there without any purposeful intent. His friends followed, still unsure of what was happening. Cordelia looked at him worriedly.

"Who's Buffy?" Fred asked Cordelia quietly. Cordelia ignored Fred and followed Angel.

"Angel, Willow, why don't you guys sit down and we'll just ... Go. Fred, you can stay with me tonight, we'll move you in tomorrow," Cordelia said. Both Angel and Willow were frozen where they were with what looked like no conscious intention of ever moving and conversing with their eyes. They sat mechanically when she told them to. Still no words were spoken.

Angel absentmindedly noticed his friends leaving.

"How... Did it happen?"

"It'll take a while to... Explain."

"Okay."

"Do you remember Dawn?"

"Yes." Buffy's little sister. The two were hilarious to watch together. He remembered Dawn walking in on a few compromising situations more than once before he lost his soul. Situations that were now incomprehensibly painful to think about. He was sure that if his heart hadn't already stopped beating, it would have in that moment.

"She was actually created by monks six months ago; she was originally a mystical ball of energy that could be used to open portals between dimensions. There was a – an ex Hell-God, Glory -"

"Glorificus?" he knew of her. Neither he nor Willow had looked up yet, they were both staring at their laps as their optical conversation ceased.

"Yes. She was trying to use the energy to open the portal, so the monks made her... I guess the only way to put it is that they created her from what Buffy...was," Willows' face unconsciously twitched from the use of the past tense. "Glory found out Dawn was the key and kidnapped her."

So that was it, she must have gotten killed trying to save Dawn.

No, Angel backtracked, there must be more or we'd all be in a human-hell dimension hybrid right now.

"Spike tried to save her but..." Willow trailed off, looking up at Angels' face at last. Spike had been there, he could have done something – but then again, why would he? Absolutely concentrated rage filled him. "One of Glory's followers stabbed him," with a stake, Angel hoped,"he couldn't climb up in time. The follower cut Dawn and the blood flowed into the portal. 'When the blood flows, the portal opens, it will close when the blood flows no more', she was up there with Dawn," Willow intentionally left out Buffy's name this time. "Dawn's blood was exactly like hers. They were identical, whether the monks did that on purpose just in case..." she murmured to herself. "So she jumped. It stopped. She saved the world, again." Willow began sobbing; Angel knew that she was reliving the moment when Buffy died.

"I should have been there, helped. She should have called; I could have helped protect Dawn..." Angel muttered to himself.

"Dying with her wouldn't have done anyone any good."

Willow was an intuitive girl; she would have known what he was thinking.

"I'm going back. The funeral's tomorrow, I don't know if you can..." Willow stood, "It's near the lake out east of the original Sunnydale cemetery. It's during the day, but there should be shade for you and Sp..." Willow's voice phased out at the end of the sentence, disinclined to begin a conversation about Spike.

"I'll be there."

*

A quiet service with a few words spoken by a priest – who was unaware of the magnitude of the girl he was speaking about – was held aout 20 minutes before sundown, for Angels' – and Spike's, he thought bitterly – benefit. Petty rivalries aside, it was quiet where they were. She would have liked it. It was very peaceful.

No one moved after she had been buried (except for the priest who, after looking at Angel and Spike and realising that the sun had just set had to leave very suddenly), and Angel was incredibly glad that her tombstone hadn't been a cross. He recognised everyone there except for a skinny blonde girl holding Xander and Willow's girlfriend, of whom she had introduced as Tara. Giles looked older and Xander and Willow both looked matured now. Spike's face was sunken and Angel could have sworn he had been crying.

'And then there's the girl - woman' he corrected, 'in the coffin,' he thought, flinching.

"Good to see you finally made it, Dead Boy."

Angel looked up at Xander. He made no reply. He should have been here when she died: they both knew it.

Spike looked up, too. Angel wondered if Xander had adopted the same nickname for him, and why Spike was here; why he was crying. He remembered Spike as a soulless monster like the rest of them – and much better at killing Slayers. Maybe this had been a part of some plan. No, he would have gotten bored and just tried to kill her. This would take some explaining.

Spike hadn't said anything to Angel and Angel remained unconvinced of Spike's dedication to all that was good. Spike could be acting and planning to take the whole group out in their weakest moment, but Angelus had been the actor, Spike had just been... impatient and hungry.

The strangest thing Angel had seen that night was Spike embracing Giles whilst he wept - the most frightening concept was that it seemed sincere. Spike was weeping at Buffy's funeral. Spike was mourning her death.

... Spike.

Angel stayed when everyone else left. They had hugged (everyone else, anyway, although Willow had hugged Angel at several intervals), wept and discussed her. Her finest moments, her anecdotes, quirks, perks and jokes: so many things Angel had missed. So many things he wouldn't ever be able to see or hear again.

"I love you."

The words echoed in his ears; said a thousand times in a thousand places with a thousand different emotions. Sometimes she was angry with him when she said it, sometimes she was amused, pleading, sad, loving, desperate, hurt.

"No. It's not enough time. I'll never forget. I'll never forget. I'll never forget."

"I'll never forget," Angel kneeled by her grave, staring down at it.

"Why not? She did," Spike's now overly nasal voice rang out from the forest. He walked out into the open cemetery and towards Angel. Spike smiled, "Hey, don't get bent outta shape, you're the one who left her in the first place. Having a nice little party with Drusilla from what I hear."

"No," he just fed them a few lawyers.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd, Tall Dark and Forehead," Spike ploughed on, "that when she's alive there's no time, and now that she's dead you stop by for your annual annoyance?"

Angel had his hands wrapped around Spike's throat quick as lightning. "I left because I had to," he said through gritted teeth.

"And she died because she had to. Not that you should feel guilty, mate. I mean, what were you going to do: brood Glory to death? Then again, if I wasn't dead already I reckon you could have done me in, so -"

"I would have done a better job than you did," Angel interjected, attempting to kick Spike's feet from underneath him and expecting a very loud reaction. Spike, however, dodged the kick and stood where he was, his eyes glazed over and looking stricken. Angel didn't need to guess what he was thinking about but wasn't holding his breath for Spike to start spilling his most intimate thoughts to him. "Or was that your plan? Get in with the Slayer and her friends, seem like you're helping... let her die?"

"Shut it," Spike growled.

"I bet you had it planned all along. Well, good for you Spike; three Slayers. Should I warn Faith?"

"SHUT YOUR GOB!" Spike took a swing at Angel, his fist colliding solidly with Angel's jaw. The two of them began pummelling each other, channelling all of their grief into their physical bombardment.

Spike was a good fighter, spirited, but Angel had been fighting a lot longer. The even fight continued for a quarter of an hour before Angel threw Spike over Buffy's tombstone and raised his fist.

"Is that what you call respect for the dead? Pummelling me on her tombstone; right gentleman you are."

"At least... I didn't..." a punch filled each pause "Let... Her... Die."

Spike looked up at him with a bloodied face and a stomach churning smirk drew itself across his face. "No, I think you gone one better. Or did you forget all of the times when you tried to kill her? You must remember; each tear when you did the nasty and said you didn't love her, when you killed her friend, when you tried to slash her good and proper with a sword. Do you remember? If you remember those – which mate, from the look on your face I'm guessin' you do – then you must remember each feeling that went along with it: amusement, joy, happiness: revelling in her pain, and when you tried to suck her dry; remember that?"

"You have no idea what happened Spike," Angel tightened his grip around Spike's throat.

"No, I don't fancy I do know what game you were playing. All I know is that everything you did to her scarred; that was just the only visible one."

Angel rammed his fist down into Spike's face again, revelling in the satisfying crunch his nose made. "Where'd this sudden insight come from, William? Last time I checked you were trying to get the ring of Amara to destroy the Slayer, now what; you're moping? Did you finally learn to love something other than Drusilla?"

Spike's black and blue eyes pierced Angel and quickly confirmed his sarcastic remark. Reversing what Angel had said to him earlier somewhat, Spike spat: "I would have treated her a damn sight better than you did," and with that Spike punched a stunned Angel in the jaw and strode away with what little dignity a beaten man can withhold.

"And for the bleedin' record, 'Angel', I may be soulless, but I still loved her; somethin' I don't exactly remember you doin'. What's your excuse?"

And then when all but his shadow was visible; "Sod."

*

Spike was, unfortunately, right. Angel was still, however, determined not to think of him as thus. He was a soulless creature; it just so-happened that he had loved Buffy somewhat better (or... at all) in that state.

"Man, I say we blow this scene and go to Vegas," Gunn encouraged.

"Gunn, I don't think that bright lights and bimbo's are what Angel needs right now," Cordelia disagreed adamantly.

"Au contraire, Madame," Gunn grinned. "So, whatchu say Angel? Bright lights and bimbo's?"

Angel looked up from his rummaging through his drawers - for a certain elusive black and white photograph his dead friend Doyle had once discovered - distractedly, "I... don't think that Vegas is the best idea - right now," he struggled through the sentence. Buffy may not have been in his life at that time, but she was still more a part of him than anyone else he knew. He felt like there had been a light inside him that had been put out, leaving only darkness in a dominant section of him. This, accompanied with shock, left him ill-prepared to deal with Vegas.

"You're gonna be eatin' those words, I tell you man," Gunn promised cockily. He had been playing the role of cool detached guy - lighting up the other guys' gloom with snippy one liners and abrasive innuendoes. This was not what Angel needed right now.

"So where are you going to go, Angel?" Cordy asked, always the affectionate one... Of late, anyway. He doubted very much whether anyone from Sunnydale High (or... It's remnants) would believe that this was the same Cordelia Chase from the class of '99.

Sunnydale.

Buffy.

Buffy, dead.

All of Angel's thoughts lead him back to that one point.

Buffy's dead. Buffy's dead. Buffy's dead.

"I don't know. I heard about some Monks..." he trailed off. Aha! He'd found the picture. The longing ache in his chest made him wonder why he'd been bothered to find it in the first place.

"Don't forget to uh... Write," said Gunn uncertainly. Angel gave the closest thing he could to a smile - it looked like a grimace.

"Say goodbye to Wes for me," Angel said, leaving with only the photograph in hand.

"Do it yourself," Wesley said, smiling sadly at Angel. "They're not the only one's who'll come back uninvited."

"No, I guess that'd be just me," Angel almost laughed at his own joke. His tone, however, retained its sombreness. A glance down at the photograph in his hand ensured that tears were on their way. "I'm sorry guys; I have to go."

And with that Angel strode out of the hotel and towards his car. He pulled out his not-so-frequently-used mobile and dialled. "Hello? Directory assistance? I need the quickest route to Sunnydale."

And the rest is pretty much Demon-Monk spankin' history. Feel free to comment, really. ;)

Well, there you go. I actually had a lot of fun writing out the scene with Spike, because I never write anything too integral about him. What a refreshing change. Tall, Dark and Forehead still gets me, but sadly I couldn't work in a scribbled drawing of Angel on a boxing bag into this one. *Snickers* Oh well, maybe next time... *Looks into distance longingly*