A/N: Happy Friday, folks! Have a good weekend!

Chapter Nineteen: Epitaph of a Love Affair

the night before in the Rosenberg residence...

Sheila Rosenberg was going to throw the bowl of peas at her husband if he sighed again. They ate on opposite sides of the small square table, but she never felt further away from him. She had loved him for decades and bore his child, she could have been dining with a stranger. The features were so familiar, but it was as if she was seeing his wire glasses, dark mustache, and hazel eyes for the first time.

She took another sip of her wine as she stared at the man who wouldn't meet her eyes. Dinner had come to be her least favorite time of day, but they both agreed that keeping a regular familial routine would be best for them and their emotional states. It was the sort of logical and rational decision that they prided themselves on making. Just like the logical and rational decision to let Willow have the space to find herself at a young age, to hire a succession of Hispanic nannies, and to let their research take them around the world for much of their daughter's life. Dinnertime was comforting in the beginning, then as the days went by as their hope decreased, the conversation morphed into even toned arguments then muttered accusations before being replaced with silence. She raised her chin and downed the rest.

Statistics. She had never hated them more. Over a third of marriages hit the rocks after a child's disappearance, she thought as the white wine flowed down her throat. Snippets from articles and studies, she had read over the years, plagued her with their depressing reality and cold numbers. Over half of teen and adult females were sexually assaulted during their abduction. Willow was in the demographic with the highest rates of homicide during an abducted. Sheila was sick of statistics. She reached for the bottle of wine.

"Another one, Shelia?" Ira asked, voice whiny from exasperation, breaking the purgatory of silence.

"Yes, Ira, another one. I'm sorry that having wine with my dinner upsets you." She poured her glass.

"No, the vodka you sneaked into your orange juice this morning upset me. This is just disappointing considering your family history." He took a bite of mashed potato.

"My family?" She sputtered, shook her head before tossing her napkin on the table. She sat up, taking her wine, as she said, "I'm not in the mood for this argument again."

"Fine, lets just avoid the subject again." He set his fork down with a clatter.

"Thank you," Sheila said over her shoulder. "You don't comment on my wine and I won't comment on your arsenal."

"Its one handgun." He threw up his hands as he stood. "For protection. Its obvious that we need one."

"Oh, don't lie to me." She slurred and held up two fingers. "You got two. I've seen the receipts for the shooting range. You're turning into Charleston Heston." Sheila jabbed her finger in the air at him.

"I think you ought to lie down and sleep it off. There is no use arguing with you when you're drunk." Ira crossed his arms and looked away, mustache twitching as he struggled to remain calm and silent.

She hated his Mr. Cool act and glared at him. His sweater vest was stupid, Sheila decided. "Good night then, John Wayne. Have fun filling out your NRA membership form." She swayed as she stepped onto the foot of the stairs.

Her hot temper cooled into grief, Sheila couldn't help but look at the pictures of Willow on the wall. They chronicled her from pudgy baby hood to high school. She liked the kindergarten picture the best. Her little girl's smile was so bright and she seemed so happy before years of institutional, white-washed American education wore her down. Willow's pictures seemed to grow more somber through the grades. She stopped at the last school photo and touched the frame. Her daughter's face, features so familiar and like her own, was a mystery to her. Where are you, she asked the photo silently. Sheila gulped her wine before moving on with her nightly routine of grief.

She liked to imagine that Willow had simply ran away in revenge for all the times they had left her alone and had destroyed her room in a grand gesture of teenage rebellion. Maybe she had gone to Austin to become a documentary film maker or to Minnesota for the spring to live in a cabin by a lake where she carved driftwood to sell at summer music festivals. Sheila was well aware of how delusional her daydreams were. Willow was a sensible and level-headed girl who wouldn't leave for an day trip to Los Angeles without calling them.

Sheila forced herself to past Willow's closed door. She couldn't handle passing out in there and waking up again to Ira with that concerned expression on his face. Even worse was how that concern turned to frustration and disappointment. She didn't need to be in Willow's room to be overwhelmed by memories and guilt.

They had missed the police's initial investigation so they were alone when they pulled down the yellow police tape and walked into their violated home.

Ira let go of her hand when they reached the destroyed room. His jaw dropped. He was the one to tear up first as his eyes darted around at the torn clothing, ripped books, and fine layer of fingerprinting dust that covered every surface.

She crouched down and picked up a shredded stuffed hippo that looked at her accusingly with its one and only eye hanging on by a thread. Ira had bought this for Willow the first time they had went to the LA zoo. Willow had been crying because it had been so hot and the polar bears kept swimming in circles. She had tried to throw her floppy orange hat to one to keep the sun out of its eyes. She kept saying that they needed to go back to their homes. Willow had been a sweet girl from a young age, Sheila reflected.

Ira tipped the bookshelf back up and bent over to pick up a tattered copy of Alice in Wonderland.

They cleaned up the ruined remains of their daughter's childhood together until sleep and despair claimed Ira. Sheila had sorted, cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, and decorated until past dawn. Forcing sleep at bay, she drank Irish coffee after coffee as she labored over her broken home. She kept telling herself that Willow would be back soon and would need her room as close to normal as possible. Picking up the pieces of her daughter's life, she worked through the tears. She hadn't cleaned Willow's room since she was small. As she cleaned, she didn't know what was worse. The items that had memories attached or the ones that didn't.

The boxes and trash bags were still sitting in the corner of the garage.

She couldn't bring herself to put them out on the curb.

Sheila stopped at the threshold to the master bedroom, tipped her head back to drain the glass and decided that she hated this house. It wasn't a home anymore. Sheila went through the motions of grooming, ignoring the sad drunken woman reflected in the mirror, before picking up her bottle of sleeping pills. It was empty. She shook the bottle then chucked it into the trash with a sigh. Her doctor wasn't going to fill her prescription so soon after her last bottle.

Getting into bed, Sheila watched the red numbers on her alarm clock for an hour before dozing.

Wrapped up in Granny O'Shea's quilt with baby Willow in her arms, Sheila watched the snow fall outside the window as she sat in the rocking chair. The room was so warm and her mother's famous gingerbread cookies were almost done. She could smell them.

Willow had fallen asleep long ago, but Sheila didn't want to let go. Her baby was so small and it was so cold outside. Somehow she knew that something was out there, in the dark forest, and it was after her baby.

A loud crash shook the house. Cracks ran up the walls. It woke Willow up and she cried, face all scrunched and red, waving her tiny fists.

Sheila tried to stop it and run, but her feet couldn't touch the floor. The rocking chair glided back away from the window with the blue curtains, the overstuffed floral sofa, and the rack of rose-printed TV trays straight out of the living room of her sixties childhood home and into the upstairs hallway of her adult house. Sheila didn't wanted to be here, she thought, tightening her hold on her child. They were getting too close to the danger. Willow wasn't safe here.

The chair stopped in Willow's doorway where the door lay off its hinges. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, as she tried to scream. Her arms were empty.

It looked like a wrecking ball had taken out the wall and the balcony to reveal a dark forest of ancient trees only a dozen yards away instead of their sleepy suburban Californian street. Snow piled up in the ravaged room.

Sheila saw teenage Willow, barefoot and in her nightgown, start to walk up the mound as gusts whipped through the room sending loose paperback pages and snow swirling in the air. Snowflakes melted on Sheila's face and mingled with her tears.

Willow looked back at her mother and spoke words lost in the harsh wind. She faded with every step up the pile of snow.

Sheila felt something that she could only describe as a malignant blight that set her teeth on edge and rose goosebumps on her skin, before she saw a shadowy male silhouette form beside her daughter. Throwing herself out of the rocking chair, she sprinted to Willow and reached the ruined threshold of the balcony seconds too late.

Willow, translucent enough to see the falling snow behind her, jumped off the jagged edge and disappeared.

Sheila woke up crying.

000

Angel had been dreading and yearning for this moment since he became himself again. His last memory before he lost his soul had been the feel of Buffy in his arms when he realized that maybe redemption was this golden girl by his side. Now, he knew better; he didn't deserve redemption. He had worked to destroy her. He wanted her tears and her nightmares. He wanted to punish her for loving him. She hadn't just made him feel like a man-she made him feel like a worthwhile man. Angel, in return, had traumatized her and her loved ones.

Buffy had been standing outside the door for a full minute before knocking.

Angel couldn't blame her, he thought as he opened the front door to his old lover half hidden under a red umbrella.

Buffy's breath caught in her throat as she raised the umbrella to looked at him. The ax in her hand belied the vulnerability on her face as she took a deep breath before meeting his eyes. She was so beautiful in the weak light,

He heard Giles' Citroen puttered to a stop at the curb. Stepping aside, he let her in. "I don't know where to begin."

"Maybe you shouldn't," She said, words almost a whisper as she gazed at him. The light that made him fall in love with her at first sight had dimmed. Pain filled her hazel eyes. He couldn't reconcile his memory of the newly chosen girl in her puffy orange jacket and cheerful leggings with the young woman, clad in a black cardigan and jeans, that stood before him. The differences in clothing were the least of the metamorphosis. Buffy had been a girl then, but now she was a woman who had known more than her share of heartbreak and he could see it on her thin face.

"I'm sorry." He continued, "After this--"

"We can chat and cry later." She looked away, the words more flippant than her tone. "Willow's waiting for us."

Relieved, he nodded before walking to the basement door. Angel had nothing else to follow 'after this' because what could he say to Buffy, who had opened her heart and soul to him, after all that he had done? "Stay out of sight until I say." Opening the door, he strode in.

The minions slept on a mix of cots and bare mattresses close to the door in the spartan basement that was decorated with a hodgepodge of posters, knickknacks, and goodwill furniture. The minions were newly turned and their sleep would be deep.

He hoped the sensation of their sire's entrance didn't rouse them. Sneaking upon the closest on a dirty cot, he looked into the freckled face of the college kid he had turned after following him back to his dorm after a game of night volleyball. He couldn't even remember his name. Angel crouched and staked him quickly. He moved to the couple curled up on a twin mattress whose names he did know-- Diana and Roberto. He first spotted them on a date at the Espresso Pump, laughing over foamy coffees, affection for each other clear. That hadn't died with them. He staked her first; her blonde hair turning to dust. Roberto awoke and Angel staked him before he understood his love's fate. Looking into the faces of his victims, the ones that he took even death away from, Angel knew for certain that redemption would never come for him.

The last three minions stirred.

"Buffy," he said, standing, knowing that he would and could stake Lawson, but Drusilla... Angel clenched his fist around the stake, telling himself that he would do what he had too. "I'll leave these to you. I have other vampires to wake up."

"Bring them downstairs and keep them away from her." She reminded him as she walked in, ax raised, every inch a Slayer.

Angel nodded, backing away to leave her to her calling, pained by his own guilt that seemed to increasing in weight by the minute. Forcing himself to shake it off, he walked up the stairs. There was no time for brooding-- He had a G.I. To kill.

000

Penn couldn't stop thinking of Angelus as he walked through the dank sewer towards the small parking garage where he kept his sedan. He shook his head with a snarl. More than a century as companions and that was it? They had escaped death, caused mayhem, and made sadistic merriment with one another for generations. Did that mean nothing? It wasn't always that way, Penn thought as he raised his bag over his shoulder.

The cobblestones had shifted in the muck as he stepped into the cafe. Penn had straightened his dark wool waistcoat, smiling at the feel of the shillings in his pocket. Smoke enveloped him as he walked between the small rough hewn tables occupied by boisterous clerks in plain breeches and jackets. He greeted a pipe-smoking friend, who was debating philosophy alongside three other earnest young men, with a clap on the back. A group of men played cards in his usual table. He recognized most, but there was a stranger the dark corner.

"Well, Penn, however did you get the good reverend, your father, to let you out?" A friend asked, taking a mug from the serving girl.

"More than a few quick words and promises, I assure you." Penn laughed. "I am to reflect on Scripture if I am confronted by temptation."

"Finally going to gamble or will you just sit in and make smart commentary?" Another asked, shuffling a ragged deck.

"Take a chair, play a hand, lad." The stranger leaned froward, his handsome features emerged from the shadows, and gestured to the empty seat."What your father doesn't know won't hurt him."

Penn met his eyes, deep and dark, and later he would realize that was the beginning of his end.

He climbed up out of the sewer, moving the manhole back into place, before looking for the dark corner where he stashed his car. Every step felt heavy as he walked to his gray sedan with its dark tinting. He patted himself down and pulled his keys out to unlock the car, got in, and threw his bag in the passenger side before starting up the car. Shrugging off his jacket, a silver pocket watch fell out onto the seat. Penn picked it up and gently put it in the dashboard compartment before slamming it shut with a growl. Angelus gave in to him on the last and best night of his human life.

Penn stormed down the darkened street in a drunken fury, his ears still ringing from his father's words, towards Angelus' townhouse. Muleteers cursed him as he staggered in and out of the road. He roared back at them with all the obscenities he was taught never to say. The walk was a dark blur as he walked through the decrepit streets of London with pickpockets and prostitutes lingering in alleys waiting for the next victim or john. Belligerent, he yelled at street urchins and pissed on a fine carriage before he reached Angelus' stately neighborhood. Sobered enough to remember the right house, Penn stumbled on the stoop and knocked.

"Such anger in your eyes and such cheap gin on your breath." Angelus said as he opened the door. "Your father has vexed you again, I presume."

"Aye, he says he won't have a vice-ridden, gambler under his roof."

Angelus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Mine said much of the same about me. Come in." He stepped aside before closing the door as he looked him up and down with a glance that practically caressed. "Does he know about everything-- all the debauchery?"

Penn reddened at just the thought of the sinful pleasures he had found in Angelus' bed despite his drunkenness. He shook his head.

"Then you'll be free to go with me to the Continent." He brushed his finger's down Penn's cheek. "Let me finally take you away. You never belonged at a desk in a dusty merchant house."

Penn opened his mouth.

Angelus silenced him by swiping his thumb across his lips. "I'm leaving for Italy on the morrow. Will you be at my side?" He wrapped an arm around Penn as he tipped up his chin. "Forever?" Angelus asked, voice more serious than Penn had ever heard it.

"Of course. I'd like nothing better."

Angelus pulled a pocket watch from his waist coat. "This is a humble trinket of my eternal affection, but it is the first of many."

"I shall treasure it forever more." Penn didn't know it then, but only one of them had told the truth.

Penn came to a fork in the road, he could take one way out of town or back to the mansion. He couldn't stop mulling over all the things he wished he could have said when he walked away. It was pathetic, but Angelus had been his first love. Penn opened up the dashboard compartment and pulled out the watch, rubbing his thumb on the Rococo detailing, as he thought of the centuries that were behind him.