Apocalypse: Sunnydale, Part I, cont.
In time, Angel discovered, from Willow and from local legend, what had happened to all the other characters in the life he once shared with Buffy. Like his own motley family in Los Angeles, the violent years had taken them, one by one.
Oz had been the first Scooby to go. He was shot in his cage on the second night of a full moon, destroyed by some well-meaning citizen who had stumbled upon his hiding place in the graveyard, and misunderstood its meaning.
Joyce had been next to die. In the flu epidemic of 2004, she had caught a little bug while working in the gardens one afternoon. Two days later, she was dead.
Anya was the first to die in actual battle. Right before Jeremy was born, at home, it had taken an entire squadron of soldiers to keep all of the curious, magickal creatures, and the demons, out for her blood or that of her child, away. A straggler, a Red Cohre demon, had broken through the lines and attacked the house, making it all the way to the second floor landing before Anja set on him. She slit the thing's throat with a shard of mirror glass, which she handily knew was the only thing that would kill it. The fall from the top of the stairs broke her neck.
Riley, and Willow's friend Tara, had been killed together in the first days of the front's arrival in Sunnydale proper. He had been helping her and Willow escape from the city when the first air raid sirens sounded. They never even made it off campus, and Riley had never had a chance to see his daughter.
Xander was killed not long after, in the Great Battle of Golden Gate, which had brought the whole central part of California enough freedom to begin construction of the new underground -- the new civilization they now lived in.
But it was Buffy's story that told itself over and over again in his head. He had crystal clear visuals of her, each time he heard Willow's voice telling the story.
"The Spinners -- they're the magickal warriors, like Carol Blue -- and the Guardians -- the top soldiers, like Buffy and Spike -- take turns patrolling the immediate area around the city twenty-four hours a day. Back then, the demon army still occupied most of the territory, both above and below ground. Buffy joined the Black Ops team -- that's the Underground recon & demolition team Spike belongs to -- and they planned on destroying a particularly large nest under the old statehouse.
Apparently, word got back to Wolfram and the others, and they immediately sent a raiding party to the Black Ops Community, which is outside the city limits. They're there so if they're attacked or arrested, the rest of the community will remain secret and safe.
Anyway... the raiding party came fully armed with guns and magick, and took most of the team away, including Buffy. We never received any demands from the demons for the team's return, so we... we assume..."
She was dead. That's what Willow was implying. But Angel knew otherwise, in the deepest recesses of his heart. If Buffy were dead, he would undoubtedly feel it in his bones.
So she was still out there, somewhere, as far as he was concerned. And as long as that was true, his hope that he might see her again lived on. It drove him to work harder, and longer, in the fields, to spend more time with Willow and with Buffy's children... He wanted the world to be perfect... as perfect as possible... when she returned.
Months flew by, and soon the climatic generator that regulated the weather in Underground Sunnydale turned, and snow began to fall.
Angel rose at dawn on the first frigid December morning of the first snow storm.
He shuffled out of bed as he always did, meandering into the kitchen for his morning coffee and paper, before he got cleaned up and left for whatever work was needed from him that day. At three, he would meet Jeremy and Rhea at school, and walk them to Willow's in time for tea at four. From there until dinnertime, he would spend a couple of hours with them, and then it was off to his various committee meetings: Food & Shelter, Historical, and Defense Committee. He itched to be more active in the Defense Department, but his status as a former POW placed him on indefinite leave, making it impossible for him to take up arms again.
In mid-thought, he stopped short, and looked out the window, paper in one hand and coffee in the other.
It was snowing. Big, fluffy flakes that floated down out of the synthetic sky and piled by the billions, blanketing the ground in pristine white.
He stared at it. Angel hadn't seen snow since... 1998, the night he had tried to kill himself. Buffy had done her best to save him... to convince him that he was worth saving... that he belonged in the world. But it had really been the sudden snowstorm that spared his pathetic life.
Even when he spent all those years in Upper Washington, he never once saw the legendary snowfall there. Prisoners were never allowed to see the outside, even in pictures or vids...
He set down his breakfast materials and slid on his worn, heavy work-boots and his warmest coat.
The first flake that hit him as he went out the front door simply sat at the tip of his nose for a long moment before it melted away. Vampires weren't much good at defrosting things...
He looked all around his now-familiar neighborhood. The sun had only just begun to rise, and its soft, newborn light cast a warm glow over everything, and made the blanket of snow twice as blinding in its perfect white-ness.
Angel remembered his last snowfall clearly... not just the hauntings or the pain he felt that the First might have brought him back from Hell to kill Buffy... he remembered looking out over the twinkling lights of the city on Christmas morning... he remembered Buffy's tears as she begged him not to give up... But most of all, he remembered this. The deep grey that blotted out the sun he had wanted to take him; and the pure, wet feeling of snow on his skin and under his feet as he and Buffy had walked through it, hand-in-hand.
So many things had changed, since then... so much about his life, and about he, himself.
He looked out across the town, now a perfect picture of frozen wonder, and wondered if it snowed where Buffy was. And if it did, if she ever got to see it.
"Bloody great thing, winter." Spike said from beside him, "All those fat squirrels and chipmunks... the chubby, fuzzy little bunny rabbits, all nestled up in their cozy little holes like bottomless seasonal snack machines. Brilliant, really. Better than the Quickie Mart."
Angel looked up at him. Luckily, Spike's Black Ops work kept him away from the Community often, and for extended periods. To say he didn't enjoy his childe's company was akin to saying he didn't enjoy a stake through the heart.
But this morning, he felt sentimental and melancholy, so he let Spike's comments slide. He knew full well the vampire was more of a law-abiding citizen than he liked to admit. And since killing what little wildlife populated their underground world was a banishable offense, he sincerely doubted that Spike would be willing to risk his popular standing in the community for a quick snack.
Spike plunked down beside him on the porch swing.
"I always ask them, 'California never had a winter before... that was one of the things I loved about it. Why now?' " he said.
"It helps the fields to produce more when they're allowed to lay dormant for a few months every year." Angel told him, and sipped his coffee.
Spike leered at him, "Well, listen to Farmer Bob..." he drawled.
Angel shrugged, his special mood still unaffected by Spike's attempts to goad him. "It's my job." he said simply.
The two vampires sat, watching the sun rise.
"It's a kick, isn't it?" Spike said quietly, "Watching the sun rise? I never realized I missed it..."
Angel's head snapped around to look at him in shock. "When did you get sentimental?" he asked.
Spike looked irritated and embarrassed. "Hey! I never said I wasn't fond of this little rock we live on." he snapped, "Besides. You put your immortal ass on the line for a place often enough, and you get... rather attached to it."
Angel sighed, but said nothing. He knew how that felt, as California had become his home, too. And he had risked his life a thousand times, to save it... given up everything... Including Buffy. Including a chance at precious mortality...
But no matter how much he had grown to love this place and his part in it, it just wasn't truly home, without her there.
"I talked to General Miller about getting you in to Black Ops." Spike said suddenly.
Angel looked back at him again, "And?" He'd been trying to join the raiding units for months, figuring it would be the best way for him to help find Buffy.
"No go. Says you're too battle-weary." he snorted, "And you've got a job, and a family. They don't want to risk you again."
Angel scowled. He hated feeling like the elders thought of him as some decrepit invalid veteran.
"Sorry, mate." Spike said, almost sounding sincere.
Angel said nothing, but continued to stare out over the white-washed landscape. The swing creaked as Spike got up to leave.
"Maybe try again when the pups are older, eh?" he suggested.
Silence, still, from Angel. But his disappointment was almost tangible in the cold air.
"She's probably dead, you know." Spike went on, "The DF don't fool around with high level operatives. She was dangerous, to them. As an icon as much as a soldier..."
Angel raised his eyes to him. "She's not dead." he said flatly.
Spike shrugged. "I don't think so, either. Can't kill that Slayer... believe me, I've tried. You have, too. So..." he walked down the first couple of steps and stopped once more, "I just keep my eyes open. Just in case." he said.
Angel watched him disappear into the thick, snowy morning, and found himself surprised at Spike's words. How much so many things had changed....
He looked up at the Heavens... at the roof of the biodome, and wondered if the Powers could hear prayers from five miles underground.
At least someone was still out there, looking for her...