A/N: The poem used in this chapter is "maggie and milly and molly and may" by E.E. Cummings.

Chapter Twenty-Five: It's All Over but the Crying

One Month Later...

"Knock, knock."

Angel didn't understand why humans did that – physically knock with their hand while announcing their actions as well. It was redundant and simply made no sense. Of course, vampires did no such thing. Besides the fact that such behavior was usually a precursor to someone then entering without invitation to do so – something vampires couldn't do, creatures of the night also employed stealth in their actions. They weren't as... obvious.

Without having to turn around, he listened as Doctor Welby did just that – slipped through the door she had opened just seconds before to move slowly and what she believed to be silently into the room. Little did she know that, unlike his daughter, he could hear every single sound she made – the squeak of her athletic shoes' soles as they traveled across the floor, the rustling like leaves that her scrubs made as her limbs interpreted her brain's commands and moved accordingly, her easy, repetitive breathing, the steady metronome that was her heart.

Slipping a solitary finger into the book of poetry he had been reading from out loud, Angel marked his place, though such an instinctive action was pointless. He knew exactly where he was. In fact, he could recite the silly, innocent poem aloud if he wanted to. Not his usual taste, it was appropriate for children, something he thought his daughter might enjoy... if she were awake and didn't have to strain to hear every single word. He had been given just a few short weeks with the little girl before her hearing started to fade as well. Though he was resigned to the fact that Ash would never see his face, he feared that she'd forget his voice, too - raged internally against such a thought. Yes, the gift of sight was beautiful and worth treasuring, but, in his only child's final moments, he wanted her to be able to hear him comforting her, his voice a calm bath of serenity and reassurance in an otherwise unfeeling, cruel world. Angel felt as though it was the only thing he could offer her besides the lifeline of his touch – his hand holding hers in her final moments, but, now, that, too, was being taken from them.

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

Realistically, he knew that he couldn't blame Doctor Welby for what was just the latest symptom in the long line of Ash's deterioration, but he did anyway. In fact, irrationally, Angel blamed everyone – most of all himself, and he was furious with the physician for interrupting his alone time with his daughter. Coldly, without expression, he watched as the woman took a seat across from him, remaining silent as she, too, observed him. It was late, long past the point where he would have thought the doctor at home and safely tucked in bed... or, at least, as safely as any person in Sunnydale could possibly be, and, admittedly, he wondered why she was there – at the hospital, obviously wanting to discuss something with him instead. He knew, however, that she could not offer any good news about Ashlinn's condition, so her presence just felt like an intrusion, one he wanted to be rid of as soon as possible, humanly or not.

Due to the ever-present tension between them – something he regretted but simply couldn't push aside or hide from, he and Buffy had agreed to split Ash's time, each receiving twelve hours in their daughter's presence daily. While his time encompassed the night, allowing Buffy to work and perhaps grab a few hours of rest before returning to the hospital, he used the daylight to think, to mourn, and to drink. Though he had yet to become drunk again, sitting alone in his former apartment underneath the city in the forged darkness of the warehouse basement alone with his thoughts, the hours went by too slowly. The burn of whisky sliding down his throat had become his friend, the momentary bursts of oblivion his only joy. While he could have retired to the mansion, for it still stood empty, the apartment just seemed more appropriate.

And maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

Introspectively, Doctor Welby folded her hands, tilted her head, and narrowed her gaze in Angel's direction. "Compared to how long I've known Buffy, you and I have just met, but one doesn't do what I do for a living without learning a thing or two about reading people – body language, facial expressions... or lack thereof." As if pausing to allow her statement to sink in, the physician waited for several quiet moments before continuing. "You're an intelligent man. That, at least, I've been able to decipher about you, though I admit not much else, so surely you know that the end – her end – will be here soon."

It wasn't a question but a declaration of his awareness towards his daughter's impending mortality. When he didn't respond and simply remained impassively impatient for her to leave, the Doctor Welby pressed, "there are certain things that we need to discuss."

He assumed that she meant the preparations for Ash's death, and he turned physically away from her, providing her with a black clad shoulder instead of the pale white granite of his face. While he knew his daughter would soon no longer be a part of the living realm, it was still too soon to contemplate burial decisions and organ donation. While the doctor was merely being proactive, it felt as though she were asking him to give up on his little girl then and there, to unplug the machines and to cease the medications that were keeping his daughter alive.

Despite his rude dismissal, though, the doctor persisted, and the words that came softly from her mouth – almost remotely because of the overwhelming din of his own thoughts – were shocking in their unpredictability. "Buffy never meant for you to know about your daughter, did she?" Accepting his silence as admission, she said, "I'm not sure what would be worse: bearing the brunt of this disease alone and keeping such a secret or learning about it when it's already too late to wrap your mind around it. I don't envy either of you."

Doctor Welby stood then, pacing casually around the room as she continued to speak. Relenting somewhat, Angel pivoted to observe her, his features still guarded, though, against her watchful, curious eye. He knew that, despite her professionalism, the physician wondered about the history between himself and Buffy, and, though she'd never be as brash as to come right out and ask them, she wanted to know how two people, two parents with what were, at least, very strong feelings of some kind between them ever ended up in such an impossible situation. He wanted to know the same thing, too, but couldn't bring himself to ask either.

"Tay-sachs is never easy, most of all for the family left behind once the child dies." Once more, the woman shifted the focus of their conversation. Angel followed her dutifully. "I think it's the feeling of helplessness and the sense of responsibility that parents feel that hurt them the most. They blame themselves for giving their child the disease, and then they blame themselves for not being able to do anything about it... no matter how many times we as doctors tell them that they're not superheroes." But he and Buffy were... in a way. "I've seen the disease destroy marriages, drive parents to the point of illness, and cause a few suicides... and that was with situations much healthier than yours."

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

"Look, what I'm saying is this," Doctor Welby announced haltingly. The rapid alteration of her tone – from bitter reminisce to harsh accusation – made Angel pay particular attention, and he couldn't help but notice how tightly the physician gripped the end of Ash's bed when she turned upon him, the passion of her opinion draining the color from her otherwise healthy countenance and making her pale brown eyes spark with barely leashed intensity. "You – the both of you – need to snap out of it. I know it's hard, I know you're angry, and I know you feel as though you're dying right along with your daughter, but you're not, and that's the point. Somehow, someway, you have to find a way to survive this... if not for yourselves than for your daughter.

"I've never lost a child of my own to Tay-sachs, so I can't tell you that I've been in your shoes and understand how you're feeling, but I have lost patients, far too many for your daughter's death not to hurt me as well. I have made it my life's work to fight Tay-sachs Disease... as much as it possibly can be fought. Do you realize how humbling, how damn hard it is to get up day after day and go to work knowing that what I do doesn't really make a difference? Other doctors fight cancer, fix broken hearts, deliver babies; I slowly kill them. Oh, I know it's not really like that," she admitted with a sigh and careless shrug of her shoulders. "I didn't create the disease, and, with every case presented to me, I do everything within my power to ease the patient's suffering, but it's never enough. So, yeah, while I can't empathize with you as a parent, I still know that empty feeling that's currently inside of you, and, more importantly, I also know that you can't deal with it alone.

"I've told Buffy this, and now I'm telling you: you need to allow yourselves to seek help, especially if you're not going to be there for each other." At his narrowed gaze towards her perceptiveness, Doctor Welby laughed softly. "We're busy – doctors and nurses, but we're not blind, and we're certainly not dispassionate. I've seen – and so have the rest of the staff – just how distant you and Buffy are towards each other. You refuse to sit in your daughter's room together. At least, in the beginning, you were talking, probably angrily so, but any communication is better than none. Now, you barely acknowledge one another, and, what's worse, the distance between you is putting a strain on Buffy's friends and family as well. They don't visit nearly as much, and, when they do, they're more worried about the two of you than they are about dealing with their own feelings towards the fact that a little girl that they love, too, is dying."

and molly was chasing a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and

Taking a deep breath, the doctor pushed herself away from the bed and stood up straight. "But at least they have each other. They'll be fine. You and Buffy, on the other hand... I don't think you will be. There are support groups for people who have either gone through or are currently going through the very same thing that you are, people that will talk to you and who will listen if you feel like talking yourself. I've tried to get Buffy to go already, but she wouldn't listen, so, now, I'm going to try with you... even though I think I'm wasting my breath again.

"If you care at all about the mother of your child, get her to seek help, and, if you don't, at least care enough about yourself to go to these meetings. Maybe I haven't lost a child to Tay-Sachs Disease, and maybe I don't know your daughter as well as you or Buffy do, but I do know one thing about Ashlinn: she would not want you or her mother to die, and, if either or you continue the way you're currently going, then that's probably what's going to happen. The good news is that Sunnydale has a lot of cemeteries; the bad news: your deaths would be such a fucking waste and an insult to your daughter's memory. For a little girl who fights so damn hard to live for as long as she possibly can – enjoying each and every day despite the pain she's in and the bum hand that she's been dealt, I have no idea where she gets her strength of mind or character. Definitely not from you, and definitely not from her mother." With one last pitying glance in his direction, the doctor added, "think about what I've said," and left.

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

He already knew he wasn't going to attend a support group. Besides the fact that they probably met during the day, he wasn't one to share his feelings, and he certainly wasn't going to insult living, breathing, mourning parents with the mockery of his presence. He was death personified, an animated corpse who, though his daughter was innocent and undeserving of such a cruel death, should never have been granted such a miracle. He was still atoning for the chance to have his own life; a child was too perfect to be born from his sins.

But there was Buffy to consider; Doctor Welby had made some decent points. He wondered, though, if the slayer felt as alienated from even the idea of such a group as he did. They were creatures of action. They fought. They destroyed. They killed. They weren't given time to explore their own feelings or the luxury of self-expression. There was always the next battle to be waged, the next evil to conquer. While others might claim to be sympathetic and ready to listen to them talk, no one wanted to hear what it was they had to say.

Doyle was dead.

For three years, he had watched Buffy allow humans to fight alongside her, risking their tentative hold on life day after day with no little amount of worry but always managing to save them when necessary. Doyle had been with him for a little more than three months, and already Angel had failed to protect his friend. Was Los Angeles just that much more dangerous than Sunnydale? Given the fact that his former home was situated above the Hellmouth, he was pretty sure such an idea was mere wishful thinking.

It wasn't Los Angeles that was more dangerous; he was.

"This," Cordelia announced, stepping into his office and motioning between the two of them, "isn't healthy." For the first time since he had found the brunette and allowed her to work for him, Angel agreed with her. "You're like in this serious funk, and it's making my hair droop and my skin feel – thankfully not look – blotchy. It's like your brooding is a contagious virus in the air, and I have several auditions this week. I can't afford to look anything but my best."

Okay, so maybe they weren't on the same page.

Before he could respond, though, say whatever it was that Cordelia wanted him to say so that she would leave him alone once more, the secretary sighed heavily and collapsed into a chair across from him and his desk. "Alright, so maybe I'm in a funk, too, but it's all your fault," she persisted in blaming him. "You're the boss. You should do something to improve the morale around here. Give a speech. Redecorate. Buy me a present."

Relenting immediately, Angel asked, "what do you want?"

"Angel!"

"What," he bellowed, frustrated. Running a hand through his hair and then roughly scrubbing his face for several time-buying moments, he attempted to regain his control over his temper. Looking at her once more, he pointed out, "you said that you wanted a present. I'll buy you one. I'll do whatever you want as long as we can stop talking."

"But we need to talk."

"No. We don't."

"Yes. We do."

If nothing else could be said about Cordelia, she was stubborn. It was probably the only reason why the girl was still alive. By sheer strength of will and conviction, she could probably talk a vampire out of biting her, and that impenetrable will had also managed to save her from financial ruin, social homicide, and the cruel and dangerous world of show-business. If she wanted to talk, there was no way he was going to be able to get rid of her until she did so.

"Fine. Talk. I'll listen."

"While I would normally take advantage of such an offer, especially considering the fact that I'm pretty sure you usually block me out whenever I speak to you, that's not what I meant, Angel," she informed him. "This time, you're going to be the one talking, and I'm going to listen."

Aside from his doubts that his secretary was capable of such a miraculous feat, talking was the very last thing he felt like doing. "There's nothing to say."

"Of course there is," Cordelia persisted, standing up and leaning towards him over his desk. "Doyle died."

"I know that."

"Yeah, you might know it, but have you accepted it yet? I hate that he's gone, too, Angel, but at least I'm not closing myself off from what I'm feeling and shutting down. I allow myself to cry, and, when I go home at night, I talk to Dennis about him, remembering things he said and did and telling Dennis my favorite Doyle stories. You need to do the same thing."

"I'm Irish, Cordelia. You don't have to tell me how to mourn."

Popping out a hip and glaring at him, she argued, "well, apparently, I do, because you're about to explode with grief, and I can't take it anymore."

Acerbically, he snapped, "we can't have that now, can we?"

But she seemed neither insulted nor hurt by his comment and simply waved the barb aside with a casual flick of her wrist and a petulant roll of her big, dark eyes. "Claws and fangs, big boy." Retaking her seat, Cordelia said, "since we both know you don't have any friends, and I can't quite picture you having a conversation with yourself... probably because of the whole no reflection thing. I always find my best conversations with myself happen when I'm looking in the mirror, but anyway..." Waving aside her thought, she pressed on. "I guess, since there really isn't another option, I'll let you talk to me. Cry. Rage. Tell me a story about Doyle. Just don't sing, okay?"

"Cordelia, while I appreciate your offer..." He really didn't. "I'm a vampire."

"With a soul," she added helpfully.

"The point is that I have an eternity to mourn Doyle... and everyone else I've lost or killed. Talking about it isn't going to make me magically better. I will feel Doyle's loss and remember it everyday. You can't just snap your fingers and expect me to perform, talk to you for a few minutes and then be over it. I'll deal with my grief in my own way, and I'll thank you to mind your own business now and in the future."

Standing up, she looked down upon him. "Fine, but don't expect me to feel sorry for you."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

With a flourish of hair, perfume, and last season's designer clothing, Cordelia spun around and left his office, slamming the door behind her. It was an appropriate punctuation to their conversation, Angel felt.

He'd like to stand up and slam the door – any door in that moment, the doctor's words from minutes before and his memories of Cordelia's ringing in his ears, but Angel wouldn't risk causing such a disruption. Not that he feared doing so would wake his daughter, but he knew it would draw the attention of the light nursing staff, making at least one of Ash's caregivers come to check and see that everything was alright.

No, he wouldn't slam the door, but he wouldn't talk to anyone either. After all, moving on from a loss and getting back to one's life didn't quite seem that important when one was already dead and eternal anyways. However, Buffy's life was finite, and she was very much alive and would, eventually, be in need of a way to move on from the loss of their daughter. She would need someone to talk to, some form of a support system, something or someone to give her hope. Even if Angel was in a position to be that person for her, he wasn't sure Buffy would accept his help. If he were in her shoes, he wouldn't.

But that was something to worry about later. For now, Ash was still alive – still living, and breathing, and fighting right there beside him. He'd think about Buffy tomorrow, or next week, or in a month's time; for the moment, there was only room in his thoughts for his little girl, so Angel stayed firmly rooted in the present. The idea of the future, of an existence without his child, was too bleak and was relegated into the distance, everything else, including his concerns for Buffy, cast aside with it.

Picking up and opening his book of poetry once more, Angel finished reading the piece he had started what felt like hours before. "For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it's always ourselves we find in the sea."

Drowning.