A/N: If I keep these updates coming, can I get some reviews? They're lovely, like hugs and puppies. Give the gift of hugs and puppies.

My stats say that chapter 4 is the least read chapter in this story. Any thoughts on why that is?

One last thing: Thank you so much for reading. I was so worried that no one would.

Buffy couldn't believe her eyes. So she shut them. Hard. She squeezed her lids so tight together her eyelashes hurt. She breathed slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth, and then she opened her eyes again.

Angel was still there, lying on their bed. He'd dressed all in black, his typical fare: slim pants and a close-cut button down shirt. His hair was done in his trademark style, gelled up in the front. Around his neck, above the silver necklace that had been her present to him on their third anniversary, was a length of black rope tied to the headboard behind him.

Buffy took in all this, but her gaze lingered on his eyes. They were open and staring sightlessly at her, an expression of surprise apparent in them. She doubled over and vomited onto the rug. Slouching to the floor, Buffy closed her eyes again, and went somewhere else.

Buffy walked along the beach, the sun warming her shoulders, with Angel beside her. He wore a white shirt and smiled at her whenever she looked up at him. It had been so long since they'd been out in the sun together. Working on this latest show had him up all night, every night painting in his basement studio. He never worked during the day anymore, and she was working at a small gallery during the day and TGI Friday's in the evening. But today, she had the day off from both jobs and Angel had just received his latest advance. He finished a piece early last night, he'd come back to their bed, and they'd made love until they both passed out. They both woke up covered in streaks of red and purple and the sheets were ruined. After a very long shower which had used up all the hot water, they'd packed up some cheese, bread and a bottle of wine and headed to the beach. This was the sort of life she had dreamed she'd live with him; wine and cheese and paint and sun, making love after painting, during painting. This was the sort of life they got to live, occasionally. When she wasn't scraping to make ends meet and he wasn't…not himself.

Buffy loved Angel with everything she had. He was her first love, her first everything, practically. They'd spent that one summer apart because Angel hadn't wanted her to miss out on really experiencing life, having the typical college experience. But when she started the fall semester at Sunnydale University, they just kept running into each other. and so they fell into an uneasy friendship until one night, at the end of the semester, they wound up being the last students at work in the studio. Angel was stuck on a piece he intended to submit for a final project, and he'd wandered over to Buffy's station to watch her work. One thing led to another, and he made love to her that night on the studio floor. They had been together ever since, through a lot of ups and downs. More downs than she'd anticipated, but hey, they were artists. Tempestuous relationships came with the territory. So many artists, amazing artists throughout history were also notorious for their bad tempers. Their mood swings. And Angel was an amazing artist. And he always made up for the bad times.

She didn't think he'd be able to make up for this one, though, she thought as she opened her eyes and found herself back in their bedroom. As she staggered to her feet, a hoarse sob echoed through the room. Buffy didn't realize that she was the one crying until the 911 operator had asked what her emergency was. And then she only sobbed harder.

"Hello? Are you hurt?"

"No," she managed to reply. "But you need to send someone right now."

"Ma'am, I need you to tell me what the problem is."

"He's…he's…oh, god, he's dead."

"Someone has died?"

Buffy nodded before she remembered that she was on the phone. "I came home and found him. He's blue."

"I'm sending someone right away. Have you checked to see if there is something blocking the airway?"

"No."

"You should do that now."

"No, he did it."

"Pardon?"

"He…he…did it."

"Are you telling me that this was a suicide?"

Buffy nodded again. She couldn't help herself. "He left me."

"An ambulance is on the way. If there's no pulse and they're not breathing, it's likely there's nothing you can do. Try not to move the body, all right? I know this is difficult for you…"

At this, Buffy gave a hollow laugh.

"Ma'am, I'm alerting the paramedics to give you several pamphlets and information on support groups. If your…friend has indeed committed suicide, I think you might find it helpful."

"I should have been here."

"That's a common feeling, ma'am."

"I could have stopped him."

"You don't know that."

Buffy was going to argue, but she heard sirens approaching. "They're here. Thank you for your help." She hung up without waiting for a reply.

Time passed in a blur, and suddenly it was one in the morning. Buffy was sobbing again, and Willow was holding her. She stroked her hair and shushed her like a child, and Buffy cried all the harder. Her thumb kept worrying the ring on her left hand. It hadn't been an engagement ring, not really. But Angel had given it to her when she'd graduated from college, telling her that someday he'd replace it with a diamond.

Buffy didn't want a diamond. Diamonds were cold, like he was now. She'd never want a diamond again.

Funeral arrangements were made. Angel hadn't had much family, but his and Buffy's friends turned out in full force. The wake was held at Buffy's father's house. She'd just sat on the couch, numbly accepting condolences, hugs, pats on the shoulder. Her father, the only person she knew who'd suffered a similar loss, hung back in a corner, afraid to look at her. Mr. Giles had come by, though, and he was the only one to break Buffy from her fog.

"Hello, dear."

"Giles." She'd leapt up to hug him, tears leaking again.

He'd handed her a handkerchief, motioned for her to sit again. He sat beside her. "I am so, so sorry."

She nodded. "Everyone is."

"You two were…very deeply in love. We all saw it."

"Thank you." So why did he leave me?

"I called William."

"Spike?" A frown creased her brow. They hadn't spoken in years…

"Erm, yes. He sends his condolences, as well."

"How is he?"

"Oh, he's doing very well for himself." The older man's face lit with fatherly pride. "He's got a very good job at a publishing company, and he's writing a column as well. He very much loves New York…"

"But not so much that he wouldn't come back if an old friend needed him."

Buffy turned her head to the foyer, where Spike stood in all his punk glory. Not even a funeral could get him to trade in the dark jeans and tee for a shirt and tie, apparently.

"Spike?"

"In the flesh," he said gently as he came to kneel in front of her.

"Long time, no see," she quipped, but it was without any humor. Or anger. Or any emotion at all, in fact.

"I'm sorry I missed the funeral, love. I would have liked to have been there for you."

A familiar sensation began to drill into Buffy's temples. 'Well, you're here now. Excuse me, won't you? I need a drink. Badly." She got up and ran out of the room.

"William," Giles said as he reached for his glasses to clean them, "what have you done this time?"

Spike's eyes were wide with confusion. "I have no idea, Uncle Ru," he said as he got up to follow her.