The Ruby Slippers

Part 4



By Gem

& PJ

Angel froze as Buffy reached out to him, her hand curling up around his neck.

He wasn't supposed to be here, and she certainly wasn't supposed to know he was here. To wake and find him hovering over her in all his ectoplasmic splendor would do her untold damage. Inwardly he cursed himself. As usual, his best efforts to help the love of his life would only end up wounding her further.

Her hand began to slide down his back as her eyes opened further. She was still half-asleep, rather more than half actually, but in a moment her fingers would leave his temporarily corporeal neck and discover nothingness. It was a sensation sure to awaken the soundest sleeper.

He slipped out from under her arm, shifting the focus of his concentration to his hand once again. As she uttered a quiet cry of distress at his abandonment, he laid a cool finger to her lips.

"Shsh, sweetheart. Go back to sleep," he whispered. Quickly Angel brushed his hand over her forehead and down the bridge of her nose. As expected, her eyelids instinctively closed in self-preservation, and willpower ceded the struggle to gravity.

"Stay with me," she mumbled, reaching up to clasp his hand and pull it to her cheek.

Angel closed his eyes, trying to remember the feel of her skin, the warmth and the scent of it. Perhaps in heaven one might touch and smell and taste again, but in this twilight corner of the world, it was more memory than actual sensation.

Even that was enough to tear at his heart.

"Sleep," he repeated softly, in command and prayer. "Sweet dreams."

"You," she promised with a drowsy smile. She sighed deeply as memories of happier days, and dreams of those destined never to be, claimed her. A few moments later, her deep breathing told Angel she was safely ignorant of his presence.

Angel vanished, and all was silence once again.

* * * * *

Buffy awoke slowly. She was exhausted, much more so than she could ever remember being, and she didn't know why. She'd been having a nightmare earlier, nothing new there. Angel dead, forever lost...it was a familiar theme. But when she woke up, finding him safe and sound by her side, she realized it must have been just a bad dream. All was peaceful after that, and yet she was still so very tired.

Her eyelids flickered, stubbornly fighting the voice inside of her that commanded consciousness. In those fleeting moments when the outside world telegraphed images to her brain, she realized she was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. She blinked more vigorously now and forced her eyes to stay open longer.

Still unfamiliar, but she was getting the feeling she should recognize it. It was a very bad feeling.

She cautiously turned her head, examining more of the room. It was a bedroom, she realized, which made sense since she was lying on a bed. Dark colors. Heavy curtains blocking the windows.

It hit her in a wave, striking low and sweeping her away in the undertow. This was Angel's room, and she was here because he was not. Would never be again.

She sat up quickly, pulling her knees up to her chest as a shield. One arm wrapped securely around her legs to hold the armor in place while her other hand curled into a fist. A low moan was beginning in the back of her throat, threatening to claw its way to open air as a scream. She fought it back savagely, thrusting the fist in her mouth to smother it unborn.

Not now, and not here. She would not give in.

Surrounded by his journals, and the scent from the sheets and the blanket, left in darkened solitude by well-meaning friends, she desired nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and wait until it was time for her to join him again. A noise from downstairs reminded her of why she could not.

Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn were down in the lobby, waiting for her. They were not the "faceless masses" Angel spoke of in his journals; they were his friends, people he treasured. People he gave up his life to protect.

Now they were her responsibility.

She knew they only wanted to help. They were waiting for the tears and the endless reminiscences and the multitude of regrets; they even expected these from her. They were waiting to comfort her and suffer with her and heal with her.

But she was the Slayer. Comfort was not in her forecast, suffering was what she was supposed to protect others from, and her own healing was irrelevant in the grand scheme of the universe.

And in the end, whatever they expected of her, deep down they depended upon her to be strong. The world, unmindful of her loss, depended on that as well. She would be strong because there was no other choice. Sacrifice for the greater good was part of the Slayer Tour package, and she was signed up for the full ride.

Slowly she crawled off the bed, abandoning the stolen moments of solitude. She had people who loved her and needed her. She had people who didn't even know her, but needed her anyway. She had a sacred duty to perform, day in and day out. She had a purpose in life and the ability to carry it out.

And if she lacked an active interest in the outcome of her actions or her life, it need not slow her progress. Caring was a luxury reserved for those left with something yet to lose. Duty was an equal opportunity employer.

* * * * *

"Okay, I'm going up there." Cordelia slammed her coffee cup down on the end table, sloshing coffee on the glass top. She felt the cool liquid splash against her hand as it went over the side, but it barely registered in her overwrought nervous system.

"Yes, perhaps now would be a good time..." Wesley's voice trailed off as he looked up the stairs. The Slayer, and he could think of her in no other terms at the moment, was descending.

She moved steadily and without hurry, gracefully trailing her hand along the banister. Her eyes were swollen and red, but calm within, and somehow remote. She did not smile, but she was not visibly upset either. She was cool and collected...but frighteningly disconnected from the others surrounding her.

She was a small blonde statue, made flesh but not blood.

"Buffy? Are you...how are you?" Cordelia hurried over to take Buffy by the arm and guide her to a chair. "You still look kind of, umm, tired. I think you need to sit down for a few minutes. Then we can talk, when you're rested."

The Slayer submitted docilely to the mothering, but her polite behavior unnerved Cordelia more than it soothed her. Nothing good ever came from a quiet Buffy. Cordelia sat down on the sofa and drew a deep breath, calling on all of her acting skills to project perky and uplifting vibes.

"Okay, you sit right down and Wesley is going to get you a nice cup of tea. Won't that be nice? A little caffeine, a lot of sugar and the whole world is a brighter place, right Wesley?" She looked sharply at Buffy's former Watcher, hoping for assistance, but he was too busy staring at Buffy.

"Wesley," she prodded him. "Tea. Now. Here."

"Tea, yes, that would be just the thing. I'll just go, umm, make some, shall I?" Wesley cravenly fled from the room, curiously disturbed by Buffy's unnatural stillness.

"So, you were certainly upstairs for a long time. Did you get any sleep at all? Because you don't seem to have your usual case of pillow-head going, so either you were too tired to move or you actually remembered to bring a comb with you." She glanced back at the hallway that led to the kitchen, hoping Wesley would miraculously appear to help her out. Miracles being in short supply that day she was forced to carry on alone. "Umm, did you do any exploring while you were up there? It's a really big hotel. Never five-star or anything good like that, but it used to have its own demon, so I guess you would have felt right at home. Not that you need demons to feel at home or anything but..."

Buffy was oblivious to Cordelia's nervous chatter. Her attention was focused on the lobby; carefully noting details she had missed in her earlier passes through the room. The walls were chill stone, intricately carved to draw one's attention, yet ultimately unyielding. As for the decorating scheme, the only terms she could think of to describe it was "old," but it seemed to flow together naturally. The spaciousness was typically Angel, providing ample room for retreat to a man who never walked away from a necessary fight or responsibility.

If he had been here beside her, she would have found it beautiful, but now...it was cold and barren and hollow, lacking the man who gave it purpose and a second chance.

It was her home.

"Buffy, do you want us to...Buffy. Earth to Buffy." Cordelia's voice was a little sharper than she'd intended, but she was getting seriously unsettled sitting next to a person who wasn't even in her own body.

Buffy blinked and turned her head slowly to meet Cordelia's eyes.

"What?"

Cordelia waited for more, for some scathing Buffy-like comment, for a sharp look or tone, but there was only a blank wall.

"Do you want us to call someone? Maybe Giles, or Willow?" Cordelia spoke very slowly, torn between her urge to blurt out the question before she lost Buffy's attention again, and the certainty that the Slayer would only understand the simplest phrases and concepts at this point in time. "They could come get you."

"Why?"

This one was a stumper for Cordelia. She glanced helplessly from Gunn, who was perched on the checkout desk, to Wesley, just returning with a pot of tea and several cups.

"Sorry that took so long, but here we are. Tea all nice and fresh from the microwave. Not quite the same as in a kettle on the burner, but in the interests of speed...what's wrong?" Wesley stopped halfway through the lobby and his nervous chatter, warned by Cordelia's face that something was again awry.

"I was, umm, just asking Buffy about someone coming to get her and..."

"And I said why."

Wesley gulped. She was honestly, if only mildly, curious.

"Okay, well we're getting complete sentences now. Shall we try for multiple syllables?" Cordelia attempted a bright smile. "What do you mean why? You have to go home, Buffy. I mean, you don't have to leave right now; it's a hotel. We have room. But sooner or later..."

"Why would you want to hang with us anyway? We're not your family." Gunn jumped off the counter and sauntered over to the sofa, resting his elbows on the back as he leaned over it beside Cordelia.

"Yeah, I kind of thought that maybe you'd rather have your mom and Giles and Willow around to talk to and...you know." Cordelia gestured wildly in frustration, as though trying to physically pull the right argument from the air. "Even that useless Xander Harris might seem kind of homey right now."

"This was Angel's home."

Cordelia sighed heavily. "Got my wish, didn't I? Angel is definitely a two-syllable word. But we're still having trouble grasping the basics. You already have a home."

"You are," Wesley said firmly, "welcome, of course, to stay with us as long as you wish." He waved his hand to display the lobby. "Cordelia is quite correct; there is more than enough room for a guest. But none of actually live here. We could stay with you if you'd like...but I really think you need your family around you now."

"Besides, I think Rebou.ow, umm, ouch." Cordelia held up her thumb, feigning surprise. "My thumb, it hurts. Hangnail. What I wouldn't give for a decent manicure." Her deep sigh was only partially for effect. She was immensely relieved at her own quick thinking; clever lie concocted, severe disaster averted. "Anyway, what I was trying to say when the pain distracted me was that you have a boyfriend. Riley, right? Isn't it going to be the teensiest bit hard to explain hanging out in your ex's home, especially now that the ex is ex to the nth?"

"He left."

"And again with the 'See Spot Run' talk." Cordelia threw up her hands and sank back against the sofa cushions.

Buffy smiled faintly; as much as she had changed, Cordy was still Cordy at heart. "He left on a mission with his old Army group, but he's not coming back. We broke up."

"I'm sorry, Buffy." Wesley finally set the teapot down and began to pour her a cup. "You've been through more loss than anyone should have to endure, especially at so young an age."

"It's okay, Wes. Everyone at home seemed to think it was part of this great tragic pattern in my life but..." she focused inward, trying to recall the exact curve of Riley's jaw, the precise shade of blue in his eyes. It was no use; those details had so quickly receded into the mist that she was unsure they were ever fixed points in her memory. "His leaving really doesn't seem that important right now," she finished quietly.

"No, I should think not."

"So he's not an issue anymore, but there's still your mom. You said she was sick," Cordelia prodded.

Sick, yes, her mother had been sick. For months the thought Joyce dying had kept Buffy in a state of perpetual fear. But after reading some of Angel's journal entries, ones she was sure he never intended her to see, she was wondering if she ever even knew the mother she was so afraid of losing.

"Mom is fine now," she answered firmly, her lips tightening to hold in all the other adjectives she wished to use to describe her mother. "She can take care of herself and Dawn."

Dawn. She had to protect Dawn too.

"Or Dawn can come here," she quickly added. "You said you have room, and she doesn't take up much. No more than your average 14-year-old pack rat." She tried to force her cold lips into a smile, not realizing how much the effort behind it showed.

"Who's Dawn?" Cordelia and Gunn asked simultaneously.

"You don't know?"

Buffy was stunned, and strangely hurt, that the monks who did such a thorough job of insinuating Dawn into her life had left the LA portion out of the loop. Who were they to determine who mattered enough to deceive?

"Umm, no, drawing a blank." Cordelia shrugged. "And yes there is room, but once again I point out that you have a family and a home and classes and...oh, what the hell." She threw up her hands. "I'm trying to do what Angel would have done, minus the ass-kicking back to Sunnydale part because he was a little better at that than I am. But hey, if you want to stay, the more the moroser."

"Then it's settled."

"Nothing is settled," Wesley protested. "It isn't that we don't want you, but I feel the need to ask why. What earthly, or even unearthly purpose will it serve for you to turn the hotel into your refuge? He isn't here, Buffy. It's just a building; four walls and a mortgage surrounding piles of empty rooms."

"I'm needed here. The hellmouth is closed, Dawn would probably be safer here, and any demons who cross the Sunnydale town line can be fought off by Team Slayer." She looked from one face to another, recalling Angel's descriptions of their courage, their unwavering solidarity, their dedication to 'the good fight.' "But I've been reading Angel's journals. I know what you've been up against here. He's not...he's not here to fight with you, and that means it's my responsibility. I think this is where I'm supposed to be fighting now."

"No, you want to hang around here and be the 'widow of the owner,' that's all." Gunn stood up straight and came around to the front of the sofa to face Buffy. "He wouldn't want you to stay. That alone should send you packing, if you actually loved him as much as these two have been trying to tell me."

"And thank you Dr. Freud," Cordelia snapped. "Gee, did you remember to turn on the gas oven for her too?"

"She's hiding," Gunn protested. "Just one push away from sailing down the River Denial."

He leaned over, so that he was almost nose-to-nose with the Slayer. Cordelia reflexively reached out to save him from himself, but an instant later she changed her mind and let her hand drop to her side. Let him learn the hard way.

Gunn looked Buffy straight in the eye. The blankness he encountered there was frightening, but he held fast to goal. He owed Angel at least that much.

"I have been where you are," he said slowly. "Maybe not the exact same place, but in a real close part of town. You're looking to stay here so you can pretend that any second he's going to come walking through that door and say it's all big mistake. If you go home, you're admitting this part is over, for him and for you." He drew a deep breath, remembering the first few days after Alanna's death. "But he isn't coming back," he continued steadily. "It doesn't matter how long you play make-believe; all that's left of Angel could fit inside your compact, and that's never going to change."

Her hands clenched reflexively into fists, but only for an instant. A strange sense of detachment swept over her. No words, no actions could take more from her than she had already lost. All she had left was her duty, to Angel and so by extension to the three people in this room. She would not hurt them, or allow others to do it for her.

Slowly, silently she rose, forcing Gunn to make way.

"I will go, and do, what I choose to do. I will decide what is right for me, and I will decide where I am needed most." Steadily she drove him back, step by step regaining both her ground and her footing. " And I will probably save your ass more time than you really deserve, but that's what I do, so count yourself lucky."

After all, she reflected bitterly, wasn't that why the Powers didn't save Angel? He was no longer needed because she was here to carry on for him.

"Hey, we don't need you to rescue us, girl. Angel bailed on us weeks ago and we've been doing just fine." Gunn stopped his retreat, crossing his arms as he waited for her next move.

"Buffy, I'm afraid there is one other factor you must consider. When I was in the kitchen, I called Giles." Wesley looked apologetic as he stepped between she and Gunn. Gunn backed up a few paces, never realizing the imminent danger from which he was being rescued.

Her voice cracked like a whip. "You had no right."

"I was concerned about you, and I thought he would best be able to help you now," he explained, bravely standing his ground. "As it turned out, I didn't even get a chance to tell him. He kept nattering on about some creature you've been fighting, I believe he said her name was Glory."

"What did she do? Is everyone okay?" The ice was gone, replaced by stark fear.

"Everyone is fine, and apparently Giles has good news, of a sort. He's discovered what she is, and thinks they have a way to defeat her. He wants you back in Sunnydale immediately."

Cordelia frowned and took a few steps forward to take Buffy's arm. "Buffy, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going back into the fight so soon. You need a little down time." She looked quickly to Wesley. "You did say this Glory chick hadn't actually done anything, right?"

"Correct."

"Then this is more of a preventive measure, like flossing."

"She has to be stopped," Buffy said dully. "She's killed a lot of people, and she wants to kill..." she closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her sister as she had seen her last night. God, could it really have been only last night? "She wants to kill a whole lot more," she continued evasively. "I have to go."

Duty first and duty always, owed to both Dawn and the hellmouth. Even with Angel, she was not allowed to be a woman first and a slayer second. Now that he was gone, she need not even try.

"Can I drive you back, Buffy?" Wesley asked gently. "Or perhaps Cordelia and I could go with you, and Gunn could follow in An..." he paused to clear his throat, "in the convertible."

"Yeah, we can tell Giles and everyone what happened so you don't have to do it," Cordelia chimed in.

"Hey, I love road trips. And the Batmobile is a fine machine." Gunn smiled, hoping to make up for his earlier harsh words.

Buffy glanced from one kind face to another. They were trying so hard to make this bearable for her, pushing aside their own grief to assuage hers. She hated to ask one last favor, but she knew she must.

"It's okay; I can drive myself. I really need some time alone, before I have to face everyone. But before I go.I'm taking the journals with me, but I also want to take...where is he? His...ashes."

She couldn't believe she said it. His ashes. All that was left of the strong arms that used to hold her so tightly, the hands that smoothed her hair so gently, the hollow of his shoulder created to fit her cheek. All that was left of the power and grace that defined his every action was...ashes.

Wesley silently crossed over to the checkout desk and reached down behind it, retrieving a small carved wooden box. Carrying it carefully in both hands, he brought it to Buffy.

She stretched out her hands to receive it, and almost broke when its slight weight pressed against her palms. So small a box to contain all that was Angel.

"I'll bring the books out to your car," Gunn promised, moving swiftly to the stairs.

"Buffy, about those journals..." Cordelia grimaced, trying to think of way to ask the question without tipping her hand. "Was there anything really.surprising in them? I mean, you know how Angel felt about you and all, so that stuff couldn't have been much of a shocker, but was there anything...else, that you really didn't see coming? That you didn't remember going?"

Buffy looked at Cordelia silently for a moment. No one was supposed to know; it was a secret shared between dead men. And yet somehow, it was now a secret shared by the women who loved them.

"There were a lot of things I wasn't expecting," Buffy answered slowly. "But I think I know what one you're talking about."

Cordelia winced. She wasn't sure if it was a bad thing or a good thing that Buffy knew the truth. The only thing she did know for certain was that she was left in charge of damage control. "Is it anything you want to talk about? I know most of the details, or at least the details Angel was willing to share with Doyle. I'm willing to listen if you need to, you know, vent."

A noise from the stairs made Buffy glance upwards. Somehow she expected it to be Angel, hurrying down to meet her, but it was only Gunn. From the looks on Cordelia's face, as well as Wesley's, she was not the only one tricked into a false hope.

It wasn't him. It would never be him. Any words still unspoken between them would have to remain unspoken.

"There's only one person I need to talk to about what I read, and that's not going to happen," Buffy answered, in what she hoped was a steady voice.

"This is all my fault," Cordelia burst out, flinging her arms around Buffy. "I never should have suggested we use that damn scroll. We know Angel and spells don't mix."

"You wanted to help him, all of you," Buffy said softly, patting Cordelia on the back before gently pushing her away. "He was in pain and you hurt for him. If you made any mistakes, it was because you loved him." She wanted to look away, but forced herself to stare straight into Cordelia's eyes. "Believe me, I did worse to him for the same reason."

It didn't matter now that what Cordelia had done was stupid and reckless; she had acted out of love and concern, and a strange faith in the fairness of the universe. If she had asked Buffy first, the Slayer would have been set straight on that last score, but now it was too late. The damage was done, and they would all have to live with it.

And so she would tell herself every night, as she stuffed a pillow in her mouth to silence the screams born in her sleep.

* * * * *

It was a long quiet drive back to Sunnydale. Buffy couldn't remember the details of last night's journey; fear had chased her every mile and its shadow looming over her was all that she could see.

Tonight, as she drove through the early winter twilight, she saw everything with painful clarity. Every signpost she passed, every streetlamp or guardrail was one more reminder that she faced this journey alone.

It had been over a year since she and Angel were together, and yet she had never put aside the habit of capsulizing her day for him. The hours apart were harder on him than on her, since his were spent in enforced solitude. During their time together, she had learned to mentally catalogue all the silly details that he so missed being a part of.

Things like the deliberately confusing signposts and the misplaced streetlamps and the guardrails that jumped out at you from the side of the road and scraped your mother's car. All were details he would have treasured, even as he was trying not to laugh for the sake of her pride.

Suddenly she realized she was in front of the Magic Box. Her friends were inside, ready and waiting to share their news, and hers. She knew they would be sympathetic, no matter how she said it, but she was so afraid it would all be directed at her. Would any of them see the true tragedy here, not hers but his? Would any of them sense the scope of future lost and potential wasted, or would they just see "poor Buffy;" queen of the unlucky at love?

She needed their friendship and their loyalty, but not their pity.

She didn't have to tell them anything yet, she decided abruptly. They didn't want to see Broken Buffy, the girl who lost her lover to the whims of Fate more often than most people brushed their teeth. They needed the Slayer, and the Slayer was just about all she had left to give.

That was it, then. Time to do or die.

Or if she was lucky, maybe both.

* * * * *

-To Be Continued-