Title: Double Doors

Author: Melima8788

Rating: Pg-13

Summary: 'Handsome man save me from the monsters.' I think, remembering what she said to me when I saved her. A sob snatches my voice away as I take the next thought. Handsome man didn't save her.

Author's notes: Set in the summer after S5 (Buffy) and S2 (A:ts). I don't know where this idea came from. I think I was just...sitting, staring at my computer screen, when my inner-Angel popped up and started talking about kiss of sunlight. Sounded good, so I thought about it, and viola! here we go!!

(And, please, do not tell me that all you you think I am weird because I have little inner conversations with people...)

Disclaimer: Not mine! GAH.

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I reach for the double doors to my hotel. A big grin spread across my face.

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

"Say what?" Asks Wesley behind me.

I push the big double doors open, and stride into the lobby.

"There's no place like..." My voice falters; I realize in an instant what that funny, hollow feeling I've had in my stomach since the first day in Pylea meant.

"Willow." I whisper. That cocky smile, the pleased one I almost never show, is gone from my face as if someone slapped me. She's sitting, crunched into one of the lobby chairs. Seeing me, she stands, her face composed of stones. Nervously, she rubs her palms on her pants. She doesn't have to say anything. Her eyes never leave my face.

"What's…?" Cordelia asks, coming in beside me.

"It's Buffy." I whisper. Willow nods, and her jaw trembles. Behind me, I can hear Cordelia stifle a gasp of shock. I don't care.

"She's dead." Whispers Willow. Not that she needed to say it. We all knew the minute I said her name.

"How?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears as my brain frantically attempts to process this information. Dead. I hate that word.

"Apocalypse. It was either her, or Dawnie. She ju-jumped into the wormhole. There was this thing…with blood…and a Key…" Willow trails off, her eyes cast towards the ground. I know at this instant, for the rest of my life I'll walk through those doors and see Willow, and hear those words over and over. I stumble over to the couch that surrounds a planter and collapse into it. I feel the tears streaming down my face, and I'm helpless to stop them. I remember a time when she was helpless too. I bury my face in my hands. Someone tentatively touches my shoulder. Fred. I forgot about her.

'Handsome man save me from the monsters.' I think, remembering what she said to me when I saved her. A sob snatches my voice away as I take the next thought. Handsome man didn't save her. Fred sits down at my feet. She doesn't know what to do, or what to say, and I want to tell her she doesn't have to say anything. I can't find the words, my throat hurts and I can't talk.

There are only a few times I remember crying, truly crying. Once was when my pet dog, Robert, died. I remember my mother pulled me into her lap and rocked me while I buried my face in her neck. My father entered, and told me, at age 6, I was far too old to be crying about such trivial things. I think that was the last time I cried when I was human.

Except for that time I became human.

She made me cry again. Only she could. That time, before she sent me to hell. I held her, and cried. Whenever I think of that, all I can think of is a headache. Everything is a blur, all I remember is knowing that something is wrong, I did something wrong, that's why she's crying. What did I do? I know now. But still, even without knowing, I cried. I hurt her.

I remember crying to myself, when I told her I was leaving. She didn't hear me, she didn't think I cried, thought I was being cruel, and selfish. I wasn't. I couldn't stay. I had to have the courage to leave her. Let her have a normal life. I lied through my teeth, the inside of me screaming, my soul telling me how cruel I was being, how selfish, and knowing she was right.

She doesn't know that I spent three months being drunk over her. And she doesn't remember the Mohra demon. Doesn't remember the ice cream, or the kiss in the sunlight, or her crying and telling me she'll never forget. Doesn't remember me crying, either.

Willow takes my hand.

"Angel." She tugs on it gently, making me look at her. I force myself to remember that I'm not the only one crying over the loss of this beautiful creature.

"Will you come to the funeral?"

Dumbly, I nod. Cordelia would make me anyway. She'd claim it was closure. I don't want closure. I want to die. Again. In 248 years, I've only loved one person. I certainly don't recall loosing my soul over anyone but her. I stand, pulling my hand from Willows.

"I'll go get Fred settled in." I nod at Fred, and she stands.

"Okay." Cordelia says, her voice a whisper. Wesley has disappeared into his office. He's having a discussion with Gunn and Lorne; I know he's explaining to them who Willow is, who Buffy was, and just what the hells going on. I wish he'd explain it to me. I sure as hell don't know.

I climb the steps with Fred in tow. She's walking quietly behind me, pausing as I disappear into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Cordelia sometimes keeps spare clothes in here, incase the ones that she's wearing become covered in demon gore. That happened to Buffy a lot. I don't remember her ever caring. She'd just wash it out, sew up the rips, and go back to her job.

"Cordy keeps spare clothes in here." I mumble to Fred. I yank out Cordy's duffle bag. I don't want to bother rifling through it to find clothes.

"Come on. There's a room down here. You have a number preference?" My brusque behavior is probably scaring her a little bit. I make a mental note to apologize.

"No."

"Okay. 212." I open the door. The beds are still covered in sheets. A large mirror covers one wall.

I remember a Jewish couple that I ate. I killed the husband. The wife, even though she was screaming in terror had the presence of mind to cover the mirror. I was still so new to this world; it was only a few years after my turning. I turned to Darla, confused. She explained that it was customary among Jews to cover mirrors when someone dies; keeps their spirits from becoming trapped. Then she scoffed and with a skilled twist broke the widow's neck.

On that thought, I snatch a dusty yellowed sheet off a chair and hang it over the mirror.

"Maybe another room." I whisper. Fred points down hall, at room 222. She says she likes double, well, tripled numbers. 'Safety in numbers' she tells me. I nod, smiling encouragingly at her. She's only been back in her world for an hour. She could use some encouragement. It's not locked, so I open the door. This room is probably the cleanest of them all. We started cleaning down this hallway before things got hellish and I fired my employees. I set the duffle bag on the floor.

"If you need anything, just go ahead and ask Cordy. Don't forget your room number." I turn to leave.

"When are you coming back?" She asks, the tone of her voice telling me she wasn't ready for me to go. I grit my teeth. I'm going to cry again.

"I don't know." She nods, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear a childish cry of joy as she turns on the faucet.

At least one of us can still laugh. I walk down the hallway, and open the door to my room. I know Willow is anxious to get a head start. I look at my rumpled bed spread, and am reminded how I haven't had a good day's sleep in three days.

She won't get to sleep again. Not like this. I think. I shuffle in, spying my own duffle bag in the corner. Absentmindedly, I stuff in some socks, and underwear. I add a few shirts, and pants. I stop when I turn to my bedroom to stuff in my razor. Buffy used to watch me shave my touch, provided she caught my before I had. She'd laugh when I missed a spot, and point it out with a kiss. Angry now, I hurl my razor at the mirror in which I do not see my reflection. Predictably, it shatters.

Now you'll have bad luck for seven years. Speaks up a part of my brain that seems to be running on a different thought strain.

"Tough shit." I say, uncaring. Bad luck has been following me since the day I was born.

I throw my bag to the floor, and leave the bathroom. Standing in the middle of the floor, I stare at the double doors that lead to a small balcony.

I'm weak.

I know this.

I don't—I won't deny it.

I snatch a small pad of paper off of my nightstand table. Grabbing a charcoal drawing pencil, I scribble a note.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't…"

My letter scribbling trails off as I hear Cordelia scream in pain. I know she's fallen to the ground, and I bitterly think, Great. Another woman that I wasn't quick enough to catch.

I don't dawdle. I know the Powers that Be have intervened. She's screaming at Wesley, and Gunn to get upstairs, screaming through her foggy haze of pain, screaming them to get to me. I turn towards my balcony doors, swiftly running and opening them. I hear Gunn screaming at me, his voice deep and booming.

"ANGEL! What are you doing?" Willow's joined them too. I smell Fred. Her door's opened and she's sneaking out to see what the entire ruckus is about. They slide into my room, almost comically. I would have laughed, if I wasn't feeling so damned angry. I stand on the balcony, awaiting the deadly kiss of the sun's rays.

"Angel! Get away from there!" Gunn and Wesley have grabbed my arms, and are struggling to pull me away from the window. I fight them, punching Gunn into a wall. Wesley snaps his fist out, but he knows he's no match for me. Willow is the only one who thinks at all. She snaps her wrist at me, and I find myself flying into the door on the opposite side of the room. I see Fred, out of the corner of my eye, crouched into the wall, crying. Willow hurriedly throws a blanket over me, patting it. I hear her swearing, and then finally smell a smell that Lorne compares to bacon. Feeling comes last. The feeling of seared flesh, already blistering.

Lorne's in the doorway, holding a bucket of water. He throws it over me and Willow, soaking the both of us, but succeeding in dousing out the flames that have threatened to char my fingers. Willow slaps my burned face.

"You can't do this to us—to them. Do you know how angry she'd be, if she heard about this? You're supposed to be strong!" Her angry voice melts, and she's crying, hugging me tight. I hug her back, crying into her shoulder.

I'm not strong.

I've never denied this.

Strong is fighting.

I don't want to fight. I don't want to be strong. I can't be strong. Not anymore. Not without knowing she's in the world, fighting in some unseen way beside me.

Cordelia's angry with me. She's stumbled up the stairs, first-aid kit in hand. She's yelling. My head can't take it. Gunn and Wesley have pulled me into my bed, rumbled bed sheets and all. My seared flesh burns and pulls as Cordy slaps antiseptic on them. She puts a bandage on the worst ones. She hands the kit to Willow, and tells her to take the others back downstairs. Give her a few minutes; they'll come up with a game plan later.

Even in my grief, I am amazed with Cordelia, how much she has changed from the shallow girl I knew back in Sunnydale. How she just takes charge like this. I know it's foolish to think she'll be reduced to a quivering mass of tears, like I am. She was never that close to Buffy, and still has a strong dislike for the girl even today. But she cries because I cry, and that's enough. She grumbles at me.

"Open your eyes." I don't. I don't want to. She taps me none-to-gentle on my cheek. Wincing, I pop open one eye.

"What?" I don't mean to snap. I take that back. Yes I do. I've known Buffy been dead for two hours. My head is still screaming inside, still screaming 'SHE CAN'T BE! IT'S NOT FAIR! SHE'S NOT! SHE HAD SO MUCH TO LI—' It's cut off by Cordelia holding up a glass of blood and a white pill.

"Here. Drink. Take."

"No."

"Yes."

"What part of 'no' don't you understand, Cordelia?" The pain of my burnt flesh begins to override my control center, the part that stops me from ripping out people's throats.

"Stop being a dumbass and just take the pill!" She shoves it in my mouth stubbornly. I consider spitting it out, just to piss her off. Why not? I'm pissed off. I swallow it. She sets the blood on the table stand beside me.

"Thank you." She turns, and leaves the room. I'm tempted to knock my blood over. I try to struggle out of bed, but that pill…I wonder if it's hers, for her vision pains because it sure as hell kicks in fast enough. I fall back into the pillows, just in time to see Wes and Gunn struggle by with a piece of chipboard for my broken balcony doors. The darkness grabs me, pulls me in deeper and deeper.

It's beautiful here, is my first thought as I open my eyes in this dream world. The walls are white, with big windows in the front of the room. The light is filtered somehow, giving the room a look of sunset. I notice it has a plush carpet when I awkwardly switch my weight and feel it crumble beneath my bare feet. I look at my hands, and see they are unhurt, and sigh. It's another dream. I hate dreams. I notice what I'm wearing. It's a loosely knit white sweater. The pants are black, the same ones I wear all the time. I pick at the sweater, picking off a piece of fuzz and blowing it off my fingertips. In the process, I lift my head. For the first time I am not the room's only occupant.

"Buffy."

She's wearing a loose white sweater, and a pair of khaki slacks. Her blonde hair has fallen loosely around her shoulders, with a bit of a curvy wave to it. I didn't know her hair did that. A small cut is above her eyebrow, and she's regarding me with amused hazel eyes.

"Took you long enough." She says. She pats the couch cushion beside here, where she's sitting.

"Come sit with me." She says. My tongue is thick, I can't think of anything intelligent to say. So, I sit. And open my mouth. Naturally.

"I-I thought you were dead. Bu-but you're not."

"'Course I am, silly. Dead as a doornail, in fact."

"Oh." I'm confused, and I turn to face her. Buffy smiles warmly at me.

"I know it's confusing. You'll figure it out. I'm dead. Kinda pullin' a limbo here, until I can get to my next destination. It's almost refreshing, being dead. Things make sense. Like, this riddle, that Faith told me. Little Miss Muffet, sitting on her tuffet, counting down until 7-8-9, or something like that." She knits her brows, and I smile at her. I missed it when she does that. She dismisses her confusion with a wave of her hand.

"Not your fault, you know."

"Yeah." I admit, softly.

"I'm not sorry."

I look at her.

"I'm not, really. Dead's been this, this cloak I've been wearing since I was fifteen. Not very fashionable. 'Sides, black? Doesn't look good on me. I like white." She grins, and points to her sweater, and then to mine. "See? All white, all clean. But soiled, soiled, soiled dark and dirty when the big light goes away and the rock comes to play."

"Buffy, what are you talking about?"

She shrugs at me.

"It's the whole dead thing. Mucho on the onslaught of info, and mucho cryptic on what it means. Just kinda popped out. Happened to Faith, too. Only," She pauses here, and places a finger to her lip.

"Faith wasn't dead." She finishes.

"Are you here? I mean, really here. Not just my imagination?" Buffy smiles at me.

"What do you think?" There's a loud clap of thunder, and I jump. Buffy looks at me sadly.

"They're calling me. I have to go."

"No." My voice falters, and I force out the last vowel.

Buffy smiles at me again.

"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm not watching you. Go. Time for my reward." She pauses, and then adds, "I'll love you always." She kisses me on the lips. It tastes like strawberries, with vanilla, or is that peanut butter? I awake with a start, feeling the tears streaming down my face.

I don't ever think I'll sleep again.