Disclaimer: Angel, Giles, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.

Thanks: To all the wonderful friends who have been their for me and my family through this difficult time. Your kind words, thoughts and prayers have meant the world to us.

Dedication: For my Mom. And for Nena.

Summary: Angel helps Willow through a difficult time. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Oh, why you look so sad? The tears are in your eyes,
Come on and come to me now. Don’t be ashamed to cry.
Let me see you through, cause I’ve seen the dark side too.
And when the night falls on you, you’re feeling all alone,
You won’t be on your own.’
I’ll Stand By You -- The Pretenders

It started out as a typical day. Okay, not that we get a lot of typical around here -- not unless demons, vampires and other miscellaneous forces of evil count as standard daily issues. Welcome to Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

What I meant by ‘typical’ was me waking up around noon. I showered and changed, into a black shirt and black pants of course, before heading down into the lobby that serves as our office. Gunn and Cordelia were already there, settled into what looked like an ongoing discussion on what the best thing was to wear when fighting Remorant Demons. I had to side with Cordelia’s ‘kevlar’ stance on that one. Remorant antlers are damn sharp when it comes down to it.

They nodded in greeting as I passed by. Both of them knew all too well that it isn’t wise to disturb me before I’ve had my first cup of blood in the morning. I always feel a bit sluggish until that first jolt of iron hits me. Throw a little coffee on top of that and I’m ready to face the day.

Well, figuratively, anyway.

Cordelia and Gunn were still arguing the finer points of demonic fashion when I returned from the kitchen. My destination was my desk, my task to sort through the stack of bills sitting on it. My wish, however, was to have a little peace and quiet in which to do it.

Funny, isn’t it, how nothing ever goes as planned?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’d been working steadily for about an hour when I was interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared. Not surprisingly, I looked up and found Wesley hovering nervously in front of my desk. What a shock, right? There are times I think that Wes only has two settings -- nervous and pensive. Maybe we should work on expanding his repertoire one of these days. Then again, maybe I’m not one to talk about extensive emotional repertoires.

“Wes,” I acknowledged. “What’s up?”

“I...ah...,” he stumbled. Not for the first time I wondered if stuttering was an English thing or a Watcher thing. Must be a Watcher thing. I’ve known a lot of Brits who haven’t stammered like Wes and Giles. “I...may I take it that you haven’t had the opportunity to peruse this morning’s paper?”

That’s British for ‘haven’t you picked up the Times yet, you lazy bastard’? See? Wesley isn’t the only one around good at translating things.

“No, I haven’t,” I answered. “Something’s up?”

“Not...necessarily,” he replied. Taking a few steps forward, our resident ex-rogue-demon-hunter set the neatly folded paper down in front of me. “Just something I thought you might want to know.”

I noticed right away that it was the obituary page. I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to be looking for, but Wesley helped me by tapping a finger against one of the lower listings.

“Has anyone heard any news from Sunnydale?” I asked, wondering if perhaps Cordy or Wes knew anything else about the situation.

“I haven’t, and I do believe Cordelia would have mentioned something like this had she received any word.”

I nodded my agreement with Wes’s assessment.

“Will you be going to pay your respects?” Wesley questioned.

“Tonight,” I nodded.

It was the least I could do for the girl who had restored my soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We called Giles after we told Cordelia. Rupert apologized for not informing us himself, but it seemed that the Hellmouth had been keeping them all rather busy lately. Nothing Buffy couldn’t handle, he assured me, but still, enough to place calling us with the news about Willow’s grandmother at the bottom of their ‘To Do’ list.

Given the situation in Sunnydale, Giles was uncertain who else -- if anyone -- from Sunnydale would be coming to the services in the morning. Rupert was definitely planning on attending, but so far it appeared as if he would be coming alone. It struck me as kind of odd that Buffy and especially Xander wouldn’t make the time to comfort their friend in her time of need. Then again, from what I’d heard, things had changed a bit among the old crowd from Sunnydale. Growing up and going on. It was sad, but it inevitably happened to everyone at some point or another. I was the perfect example of that.

I was a little surprised when both Cordelia and Wes declined to come with me to the viewing. I guess it was understandable from a certain point of view. Back when he was still a Watcher, Wes had been neither liked nor respected by the Sunnydale crowd. He’d been an ass back then -- he knew it and we knew it. But, like the rest of us, he has also gone through that growing up and going on thing. Or maybe not, I couldn’t help thinking as he tripped over a loose piece of carpet as he left my office.

Unlike Wes, Cordelia was nowhere near as diplomatic in her refusal to go. “I don’t go to funerals for people I *know*,” she protested hotly. “Besides, black is *not* my colour, unlike some people around here,” she just had to add.

If there is anything that I’ve learned about Cordelia in the past year, it’s that while she may appear caustic and shallow most, if not all, of the time; her callous attitude is quite often a facade over some deeper emotion. This time, I strongly suspected that my girl Friday -- sorry, my *Administrative and Investigative Assistant* -- was a little bit scared. While that whole mess with the Willow/Xander/Cordelia triangle happened almost two years ago, it left a great deal of longstanding ill will in its wake.

Although time and distance had turned a lot of the bad feelings between the two of them into water under the bridge; it had been a long time since Willow and Cordy had seen one another face-to-face. Perhaps Cordelia was being uncharacteristically selfless in thinking that a funeral might not be the best time for a class reunion. Still, I couldn’t help being a little disappointed with Cordelia’s decision.

We all went back to business as usual for the rest of the afternoon. About an hour before sunset, I slipped upstairs to get ready. I almost smiled when I realized that Cordelia did have a point -- finding something to wear to a funeral wasn’t much of a stretch with my wardrobe. If anything, the only trouble I had was choosing the *appropriate* black ensemble.

Fortunately, I had just the right thing. After our financial windfall from solving the David Nabbit blackmail case, Cordelia had insisted on taking me shopping. In between our stops at Nieman Marcus and a really scary place called Contempo Casuals, she actually did find some nice things for me -- the kind of clothing that was dark and simple enough for me, yet fashionable enough to gain Cordelia’s seal of approval. One of our last purchases that day was a suit. I was hard-pressed to keep myself from running out of the store screaming -- okay, maybe *stalking* out of the store in my usual calm, stoic manner. Nevertheless, Cordelia was in her ‘I Want’ mode and it’s not wise to deny her much of anything when she’s in that mindset.

I walked down the hotel staircase just before sunset wearing the results of Cordelia’s practiced eye. The suit was, Cordy had assured me that day in the store, ‘GQ worthy’. Too light to be black and too dark to be gray, the color was deep enough to suit my taste but not so morbid as to be ‘mistaken for an undertaker’. So sayeth my self-appointed personal shopper.

The sound of voices assailed me as I descended down the stairs. Although the noises were too muffled even for my vampire ears to make out, the tone still carried the unmistakable sharpness of a heated argument. Wanting to hear more of the actual words, I moved forward in the total silence I’ve mastered as a vampire.

“...for someone I don’t even know. *Not* that it’s any of your business,” Cordelia’s voice carried.

“It’s not about that,” Gunn replied. “It’s about respect for your friend.”

Their exchange ended when Wesley, catching sight of me, loudly cleared his throat. Damn, of all the times for his Watcher instincts to show marked improvement. Realizing that my eavesdropping game was up, I stepped out of the shadows...

...and watched as three jaws metaphorically hit the ground.

Pindrop, anyone?

The awkward silence that followed my entrance was broken by Gunn’s piercing wolf-whistle.

“My, my, my,” the latest addition to my ‘staff’ grinned. “Now don’t we clean up real nice?”

“I *knew* that suit would look good on you,” Cordelia crowed. “What’s up with that tie, though?”

I’d struggled with the damned thing for the better part of fifteen minutes. Ironic, isn’t it? I come from a time when cravats were all the rage, where you had to know more about knots than a damned sailor just to get one fastened, and yet I can’t even manage the simple grandfather style that is used these days.

“Here,” Cordelia said, coming forward to help me out. Her hands moved with swiftness and certainty, unfastening and reworking the black and silver patterned fabric. In less than a minute, she had the knot completely -- and perfectly -- redone.

“Thanks,” I muttered, embarrassed to have required her assistance.

“No biggie,” she replied, giving the silk one last pat with her fingers. Refusing to meet my eyes, Cordelia continued to stare at my chest as she spoke her next words. “Just...tell Willow that...I’m thinking about her, okay?” As she finished, Cordy finally looked up at me. For a brief moment, I saw something flash in her eyes. Guilt. Seeing such a thing in Cordelia’s expression was so rare, it was little wonder that it took so long for me to recognize it.

Cordelia broke the moment by turning and walking back to her desk. Gunn also moved, notably in the opposite direction to the one Cordy had taken. That left Wesley, who met my eyes with a sorrowful look.

“Please give Willow my condolences as well,” the ex-Watcher said somberly. “Tell her that all of our thoughts and prayers are with her family.”

I nodded in lieu of an actual spoken answer and headed for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thirty minutes later, I pulled the car into the parking lot of the Melvile Funeral Home. I would have been there a lot sooner, but an accident on the freeway had traffic tied up all over this part of the city. Oh the joys of living in L.A..

Saints above, how I hate funeral parlors. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? With me being a vampire and all? Simple truth of the matter is that most of the undead hate funerals and all the trappings that come with them. For most vampires, it’s the actual killing and carnage part that’s considered fun. Well that and the excitement of watching our fledglings struggle out of the ground that first night. It’s hazing of a sort, a right of passage kind of thing. But for the makers, it creates a special sense of anticipation that just can’t be duplicated.

Not like this. Not the dread and sadness that accompanies these human ceremonies.

I paused outside the door, taking a moment to prepare myself for the pomp and pretension I knew I would find inside. Once I was as collected and ready as I would ever be, I pushed the tinted glass door open and walked across the threshold.

The lobby was just as I had expected. Dark blue carpet, walls painted in eggshell white, furniture made out of cherry wood -- all carefully chosen to appear tasteful without being too somber. Funeral homes and chain hotels, two industries with one common factor -- a severe lack of imagination in interior design.

“Hello,” a voice greeted me. I turned my head and found its source. She was in her mid-to-late thirties, not exactly attractive per se, but one of those faces that instantly set most people at ease. She was seated behind a large table that tried too hard *not* to look like a desk. A receptionist then, I assumed.

“Hello,” I responded in kind. “Eisley?” I asked simply, not seeing the need for any additional words. I had a feeling I was in store for more than my share of polite conversation that night.

“That way, Sir,” the woman replied in a cultured tone. “It’s just on the right."

“Thank you,” I replied and headed off in the direction she’d indicated.

It wasn’t long before I came across the black sign with the harsh white clip letters proclaiming the name ‘Eisley’. One of the doors leading into the room was propped open, a few muted whispers spilling out to reach my vampire ears. I saw the wooden stand next to the door and crossed over to it. A reception book lay open on the slanted cherry wood surface. Roughly a dozen names had already been signed, and I couldn’t stop myself from scanning the signatures for the one I was hoping to find. Thankfully, it was there, third from the top.

Willow Anne Rosenberg.

I stared down at the name for a moment, entranced for some odd reason by Willow’s handwriting. It struck me as odd, but I didn’t think that I’d ever seen it before that moment. The artist in me couldn’t help noticing the neat precision in which she wrote. Clean, scholarly, and yet it still had that gentle, flowing quality that was inherently feminine.

Shaking my head at my pitiful procrastination attempt, I picked up the pen and wrote my own name to the registry. I felt foolish just signing ‘Angel’, so I added the surname that I had abandoned so long ago at the end of my human existence.

For the second time that evening, I found myself pausing in a doorway. Glancing around the room, I took in the handful of people milling around, some standing off to one side, some seated in the neat rows of thoughtfully provided chairs. Unfortunately, I didn’t see Willow among them.

I felt several pairs of eyes fall upon me, the newcomer to the room. Not wanting to appear as out of place as I felt, I forced my feet to move forward toward the dais at the front of the room. With each step, my nose was increasingly assaulted by the sickly-sweet scents coming from the many carefully placed flowers arrangements. Dark ribbons flowed from each basket and stand, every one embossed to proclaim the names of the senders.

There, in the center of all those arrangements, stood the most sobering sight of all. It was beautiful as caskets go, some kind of light-colored wood, polished to an elegant shine. At least it was closed. Even when I was human, I never liked the custom of putting the dead on display. Personally, I thought the spray of flowers spanning the middle of the casket was certainly more tasteful, and the silver framed picture that stood off to one side was a nice touch.

Two last steps left me standing on the dais. I studied the photograph for a moment. The picture was in black and white, but somehow, the format didn’t detract from the woman it captured. Joanna Eisley was probably in her sixties when the image was taken. She was smiling softly at something out of the camera’s range. I didn’t see much in the woman’s face that reminded me of Willow, except perhaps for the eyes.

The sense of someone walking up behind me reminded me of where I was. Even without looking, I could tell that the person had stopped a few feet away, politely giving me a moment’s solitude. Falling back on the Catholic traditions I was raised upon, I reached out and placed a hand on the polished surface of the coffin. For what little it was worth, I silently thanked a woman I’d never met for her part in bringing a gentle soul like Willow into the world. With my respects to the dead paid, I prepared myself to do the same to the living.

I spotted them as soon as I turned around. I’d caught glimpses of Willow’s mother over the years, mostly through the front window of the Rosenberg home. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but I spent a fair number of nights hidden in shadows, making sure that each of Buffy’s friends made it safely home from either the library or the Bronze.

I lost count of how many times I found myself staring in through the windows of their houses. Some nights, I would tell myself that it was to appease my own curiosity, to get a sense of who, what and where these kids were coming from, of why these mortal children would risk their lives in the fight against evil. But that was only part of the time.

It was the other nights that haunt me still. How I would watch their families and wonder. I would imagine what my life would have been like had I been born into one of their families. Would I have gotten lucky and ended up in a loving home like Buffy’s? Or would I have had rich, uninterested parents like Cordelia’s? Or suffered the verbal and occasionally physical abuse that was Xander’s lot in life? Or maybe my parents might have been like Willow’s, good intentioned but often distracted by their own lives and careers?

It’s a dangerous game, ‘what if’? Maybe I inserted myself into their lives simply so I could avoid the most damning ‘what ifs’? of all. What if...what if I hadn’t killed my own family? What if I had never been turned in the first place?

I shook my head to clear it. This was neither the time nor the place for these kinds of thoughts. I had the rest of my existence to brood. I was at this funeral for a reason, and it was time for me to track that reason down.

Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg were busy speaking with an elderly woman. Not wanting to intrude on their conversation, I slowed my pace somewhat. It was only then that I saw her -- well, at least the back of her, anyway.

My timing was perfect. By the time I was a few steps away from the gathering of Rosenberg’s, Willow and her father were completely focused on the old women with whom they’d been talking. Catching sight of me walking toward their little group, Willow’s mother broke off from her current conversation and focused her full attention on me. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to figure out who I was and if she should have remembered me from somewhere.

“Hello,” she asked as she extended her hand. I almost smiled at her neutral greeting. Isn’t it funny how nobody in a social setting likes to admit that they might not remember someone?

“Mrs. Rosenberg,” I replied, accepting the hand that she offered. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

Had we been anywhere else, the next few seconds that followed would have been comical. About halfway through my condolences to her mother, I watched a jolt run through Willow’s slender frame as she recognized my voice. Jerking around haphazardly, everything -- from her saucer-like eyes to her gaping mouth -- spoke volumes of her total disbelief. There was a long moment where nothing happened. It was like time was standing still for all of us -- Willow, her mother, even myself. Then Willow finally spoke.

“A-angel?” she gasped.

“Hi Willow,” I replied. I tried to conceal my amusement, especially given the setting we were in, but I could practically feel my eyes twinkling at her reaction to my presence.

I knew it was rude, but I couldn’t help standing there and gaping at Willow for a long moment. So much had changed in the months since I had last seen her. Most noticeable was her hair. It was cut much shorter than I remembered. Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting, but even the colour seemed off from the mental picture I carried of her.

Then there was her clothing. She was, unsurprisingly, wearing black, and oh did it flatter her. Her skirt was long, the hem of it brushing against the lower part of her calves. The neckline was lower than she would have dared in her high school days, but still apropos for the occasion.

The clothing and the new haircut added something to the image Willow presented. It appeared that the shy, timid girl from Sunnydale High was gone. In that child’s place was this new person I had really yet to meet. I almost got worried there for a minute that she’d completely changed on me -- until she began to speak.

“Angel, what...what are you...why are you...how did...?”

I almost smiled the minute I heard that slight hesitant pattern of speech that was unique to my friend. ‘Willow-speak’ I’d heard Buffy call it more than once. It was a sound for sore ears. Then it hit me. I wasn’t hearing any more of it because Willow was busy waiting for me to answer at least one of her incomplete questions.

“I saw the ob...*notice* in the paper this afternoon,” I explained. “I hope you don’t...that I’m not...intruding.” I stifled a groan. God above, it never really occurred to me that Willow might not want me to be here. After all, we were never really close, and the whole me-being-a-vampire thing...

“No!” Willow’s exclamation interrupted my harsh descent into a full-blown brood. “I’m so glad...well, not *glad*.” Color crept into Willow’s cheeks as she shot her mother a guilty look.

“It’s okay, honey.” Mrs. Rosenberg soothed Willow with a gentle pat to her daughter’s arm. “This is difficult for all of us.”

“It must be a difficult time,” I answered, then kicked myself mentally for saying something so obvious and so very stupid.

“Forgive my manners, but have we met?” Willow’s mother was staring at me, obviously trying to place exactly who the hell I was.

“Sorry, Mom,” Willow said sheepishly. “Mom, this is Angel. He’s a friend from Sunnydale...I mean he used to be...from Sunnydale, that is...back when we were in high school.”

“Really.” The way the older woman dragged out that single word said it all. I was twenty-seven when I died, and while I haven’t aged a day since then, I still look like a twenty-seven year-old. Was it any wonder that Mrs. Rosenberg was instantly suspicious?

“Well, no,” Willow began, trying to correct her mistake. “Angel didn’t go to high school *with* us.”

“I did a lot of tutoring at the high school,” I interjected with the first thing that came to mind. Hell, Joyce Summers had believed that story when Buffy used it to explain my presence a couple of years ago. It had worked back then. I could only hope for the same thing now.

“Ah,” Mrs. Rosenberg nodded. “What subjects did you tutor?”

“History, mostly,” I replied, sticking with same story. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Willow stifling a giggle over my answer.

“Well, Angel, it was so good of you to come all the way up here.”

“Actually, I live here in L.A. now,” I answered honestly. “But I wanted to come to pay my respects. That reminds me,” I turned to face Willow, “Cordelia and Wesley send their condolences. They...ah...had to work tonight.” God, that was a miserable excuse. I mean, Willow knows I’m their boss. Fortunately, I was saved from any scrutiny.

“That’s so kind of all of you,” Mrs. Rosenberg responded with a tight, but well-meaning, smile. “I’m terrible sorry,” she began as another person approached us.

“I understand,” I reassured her. Playing hostess wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances, and this was hardly the best of circumstances. Besides, I was more than a little anxious to get out from under the microscope of her scrutiny. I was, after all, there for Willow.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Willow exclaimed as soon as her mother turned away. “Uh...I didn’t mean...”

“I know,” I soothed. “It’s okay.”

“I’m just really happy...to see you.” Willow’s eyes started to get misty as she spoke. By the time she had finished the sentence, her face had completely fallen and she began to cry in earnest.

“Hey,” I said softly. Almost two-and-a-half centuries old, and I still never know what the hell I should do when a woman starts crying in front of me. With nothing better in mind, I awkwardly reached out. After a moment of indecisiveness, I placed a hand on Willow’s shoulder.

The way she leaned into the touch prompted some kind of comforting instinct in me that I hadn’t realized I still possessed. Giving in to my impulse, I stepped forward and enfolded my weeping friend into an embrace. I guess it was the right move, because the next thing I knew, Willow’s arms were around me, holding on for dear life.

“Shhh,” I soothed repeatedly. “It’s going to be okay.”

I could feel the moist heat of Willow’s face where it was buried against my chest. Her tears were soaking through my suit, but I could have cared less. Willow’s comfort was the only thing that mattered to me at that moment.

I kept crooning softly as she cried, dredging up every memory I recalled on how to soothe despondent women. Pulling her tiny frame closer to me, keeping my hands busy by rubbing small circles on her back. In the end, I pressed my cheek down against the top of her head. And when her tears finally showed signs of slowing down, I pressed a soft kiss on her silky hair before easing my body back from hers.

“Better?” I asked as gently as I could manage.

Willow nodded sheepishly, keeping her eyes downcast. She sniffled once, then brought up a petite hand in a futile effort to wipe some of the tear tracks from her cheeks.

“Do you have a tissue?” I prodded softly. Willow shook her head slightly, her eyes never leaving the floor. “Do you want to go look for one?” Answering me with a barely perceptible nod, I put my hand on the small of her back and started leading her away.

Like most funeral homes, the staff of this one planned ahead. It wasn’t difficult to find a tissue box. Not when they had them planted as unobtrusively as possible at five-foot intervals around the room. I zoomed in on one in an otherwise unoccupied back corner.

Seeing that Willow was still a little dazed, I grabbed a couple out of the box. I held the tissues out to Willow, but she didn’t take them from me. I lifted a hand, fully intending to wipe her face a bit for her, but I guess that was too much.

“Thanks,” Willow mumbled, reaching out to take the tissues from me. “I didn’t mean to...”

“You’re entitled, Willow,” I comforted.

Sensing that she might want a bit of privacy in which to clean up, I purposely turned my gaze toward the rest of the room. The number of people seemed to have doubled since I first came in. Willow’s parents were talking to different groups of people on separate sides of the room. Although engaged in conversation, I saw Mrs. Rosenberg scanning the room, stopping only when she caught sight of us. Upon seeing Willow and I together, she looked directly at me and nodded her head, silently thanking me for looking after her daughter. I acknowledged her in kind by returning the gesture, then turned back to Willow.

By the expression on her face, I could tell that Willow had just reached the conclusion that there is only so much tidying that one can accomplish with a Kleenex. After making one last effort to wipe her cheeks, Willow pulled the now-tattered tissue away and looked at it in disgust. I leaned forward to grab a replacement for her, but stopped when she spoke.

“I don’t think this is going to cut it,” she explained. “Maybe I’d better go find a bathroom.”

“I passed one out in the hall on my way in,” I supplied.

“Okay,” she replied. She didn’t, however, make any move to leave. In fact, that embarrassed look I’d seen on her face right before she broke down was starting to come back.

It took me a minute to realize that she must not have wanted to go alone but didn’t want to say anything about it out loud. Well, I couldn’t help her out *all* the way, but I could at least escort her and keep her company to the bathroom door. Since it had worked a few minutes ago, once again I placed a hand at the small of her back. Once again, it was enough to get her moving.

“I feel like Scully on the X-Files,” Willow laughed as we headed out the door.

“Sorry?” I’d heard of the show and had a vague idea that it was somehow about the supernatural, but I’d never actually seen it. What can I say? I don’t watch a whole lot of television.

“Oh,” Willow chuckled, realizing my predicament. “It’s this show on T.V.. One of the characters is a small redhead, and her partner is always putting his hand on her back to guide her. Kind of like what you’re doing with me.”

“I’m sorry!” I instantly pulled my hand away, afraid that I’d inadvertently offended her.

“No!” she protested, stopping short in the middle of hall. “I didn’t mean...I...ah...that is...I kind of...like it.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “Well that’s no problem then. Allow me.” I replaced my hand with an over-exaggerated flourish. The grand gesture was worth it, if only to hear the sound of Willow’s laugh.

“I’ll be right here,” I said when we reached the ladies room a few steps later.

“Angel?” Willow called in a tiny voice.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Anything I can do for you, Willow,” I answered. “You know that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scent of coffee tantalizingly wafted through the hallway as I waited there for Willow. It smelled fresh and, more importantly, nearby. In a strong test of my willpower, I managed to hold out an impressive two minutes before the allure of liquid caffeine grew too strong for me to resist. Hey, I spend every second of every day fighting against my inner-demon. At least this was one battle I could afford to lose gracefully. And gladly, for that matter, I mentally added as I walked toward the source of the aroma.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to go too far. There was a little alcove just past the restroom. Amidst a scattering of chairs was a refreshment table laded with two stand-up silver percolators -- one labeled regular and one marked as decaffeinated. Reaching for one of the cup-and-saucer combinations stacked toward the back of the table, I poured myself a cup of the former.

Politeness dictated that I should probably bring back a cup for Willow as well, but I hesitated as a memory surfaced. I’d seen firsthand what happened when Willow drank coffee, and the results weren’t pretty. Think hummingbird on speed. With that in mind, I wisely settled on decaf for my friend. Balancing the two cups, I headed back in the direction of the ladies room.

My timing was good. Willow came out of the door just as I walked back into the corridor. She looked a little better, but the slight swelling and lingering redness around her eyes betrayed her earlier tears. But her brief respite had allowed her to regain her composure.

When I held out the extra cup of coffee, Willow accepted it with a genuine smile and a grateful ‘thank you.’ By unspoken agreement, we both headed over to two of the classic-style chairs scattered through the hallway. Settling into our seats, we enjoyed a comfortable silence as we waited for the steaming hot liquid to cool down to a drinkable temperature.

“I didn’t know what you took in your coffee,” I apologized a few minutes later.

“That’s okay,” Willow smiled into her cup as she took her first sip. Her grin quickly faded into a grimace of disgust as the taste hit her tongue. Yeah, I didn’t care much for decaf either.

“Angel?” Willow’s question broke the silence that had settled over us. My eyes met hers, prompting her to continue. “Thank you...for being here.”

“Willow...,” I began, ready to reiterate my earlier response to the same statement.

“No,” she interrupted. “It just...means a lot. I know you’re usually pretty busy with work stuff. It’s just...I don’t really know any of these people. Well, except for a few distant cousins and stuff, but I haven’t seen any of them since that big family reunion we had when I was five. They all seem to remember me, saying how much I’ve grown up since then, but I don’t remember any them.” The pause she took for a much-needed breath also brought around the end of her ramble. “I’m just...so glad to see a familiar face. Especially since I don’t get to see you too often anymore.”

I smiled at her kindness, letting her know that the feeling was mutual. I didn’t realize it until that moment, but I *had* missed Willow’s presence in my life...unlife...whatever. She’d been one of the first to accept me into their circle of friends. Time and time again, she’d forgiven me for the missteps I’d made, even when I had hurt her -- both inadvertently and intentionally. Being there for her at that moment was the least I could do.

That thought made me resentful on Willow’s behalf. Why was I the only one there for her at a point where she really needed her friends? Okay, I could understand if Buffy was needed as the Slayer, but where the hell was Xander? Sunnydale was only an hour away. Surely he could have gotten away for just a few hours?

I could feel the demon within me growing restless as my temper flared. It was difficult, even with centuries of experience, but I kept my face from changing out of my human visage. Maybe a bit of a distraction was in order, and if I could help Willow in the process, so much the better.

“Were you and your grandmother close?” I asked.

“We used to be,” Willow answered after a moment. A wistful look came over the rich green of her eyes as she sank into her own memories. “My parents have always traveled a lot. They’re college professors, both of them. When I was younger, my grandmother used to come to Sunnydale to look after me.”

I nodded in understanding. Back during my time of trailing the kids home in Sunnydale, I’d noticed that Willow all too often came home to a dark, empty house. I’d wondered about that, but I’d never said anything.

“I used to love it when my grandmother stayed with me. She let me do a lot things that my parents either wouldn’t let me do or didn’t have time for. After dinner, she would let me camp out in front of the t.v. for hours. And she loved cards. She taught me how to play pinnacle and canasta and poker. I used to save my pennies so that I would have a really big stack in front of me when we sat down to play.”

Willow was grinning, lost deeply in her memories of happier times. She still met my eyes, though, as if checking to make certain she wasn’t boring me with her remembrances. I wasn’t bored, though, not by a long shot. I kept envisioning Willow as a precocious child doing all the things she was describing.

“Sometimes, she would take Xander and I down to the beach right before sunset. All the lifeguards would be gone by then so Xander and I would climb up on their towers and jump off over and over again. I think she must have always known that I had a crush on him, because she would take us out to dinner, only before we got there, she would give Xander money. Then when we would actually get inside, she’d let us get a table by ourselves. Xan and I would eat together, pay our own bill. We’d act like grown-ups, like we were there all on our own. Of course, my grandmother would be there the whole time, but she went along with it, acting like she didn’t know us at all, like she was a stranger that just happened to be at the same restaurant at the same time.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’?” Willow asked me a moment later. I was thrown by the non sequitor, but I still managed to nod in reply. I knew what it was. I’d even seen the movie once, albeit unintentionally. Back when I was nothing more than a derelict in New York, unable to function because of my guilt, I’d stumbled in a theater doing a midnight showing just to get out of the cold.

“Well, back when we were thirteen, Xander, Jesse and I first heard about it. We all wanted to go so badly, so we talked my grandmother into taking us. We were so young, the manager at the theater didn’t want to let us in, but my grandmother pointed out that kids under seventeen could be admitted with an adult, and didn’t he think she qualified? I mean, we were so young, we didn’t even get half the stuff in the movie, especially the...sexual...stuff. To us, it was mostly just a strange guy who looked funny dressed up in women’s clothes. Well, that and the fact that we got to yell words we weren’t even supposed to say back to the screen. The funny part was that she enjoyed it almost as much as we did. She ended up taking us back to go see it practically every Saturday night she was in town for the next year. She was so cool then, so... ungrandmotherly.” Willow’s voice took on a sad, almost melancholy quality as she finished her sentence.

“Did something happen?” I asked, prompted by the abrupt change in her tone. My question brought a sadness to Willow’s eyes.

“The year before Buffy came to Sunnydale, my grandfather died.” She swallowed hard, alerting me that whatever was coming next was painful for Willow to recall. “Something happened when he passed away. My grandmother...she just...changed. She stopped coming to visit and whenever my mom would ask if we could come to L.A. to see her, my grandmother would start to get...fussy. Like, ‘oh, my house is a mess’ or ‘oh, I have to get my hair done that day’. Really stupid stuff.”

“Sometimes that happens to people after they lose someone close to them,” I offered. Hell, as Angelus I’d driven people to *far* beyond that point.

“The worst part, though, was how she changed,” a haunted expression crept over Willow’s features. “After my grandfather died, my grandmother just got so...angry...at everyone and everything. It was almost like she built this wall between herself and everyone around her. She started criticizing everything, especially my mom.”

“Grief can be a strange thing,” I said after Willow fell silent. “Sometimes people get resentful, at life, or at the person who left them, or even at the people around them who just can’t understand what they’re going through.”

“My mom thought it was depression,” Willow replied. “She’s a Doctor of Psychology, you know?” Actually, I hadn’t; but I nodded anyway. “She tried to help, but my grandmother wouldn’t allow it. In fact, when Mom suggested maybe some outside counseling or a support group or something, my grandmother went ballistic.”

“You have to understand, Willow,” I explained from my somewhat unique perspective. “You...your generation and your parents’ as well, you consider counseling and psychology as something completely normal. Well, not normal...you know what I mean. *Acceptable*. But it wasn’t always like that. I mean, even earlier this century, going to ‘talk to someone’ was the equivalent of being committed in today’s version of society. It just wasn’t done. And God help you if anyone were to find out about it. People would be whispering about you behind your back, saying that you were crazy...or worse.”

Willow stared at me oddly, as if trying to digest the meaning of what I’d just said. “I never really thought about it that way,” she finally admitted. “I just wish that we could have done something...anything to help her.”

“Willow,” I began gently. “When people are hurting like that, it’s hard to help them if they don’t want to be helped. Trust me on that.”

“I do,” she answered, realizing that I was speaking from my own personal experiences. We both fell silent for a moment, before Willow spoke again. “I feel badly over how things got for her these last couple of years. I...just miss who she used to be.”

“Then that’s who you should remember,” I said emphatically. “The person who...taught you to play cards...who took you to the movies...all those goods things. *That* is who your grandmother was, no matter what happened later.”

I hadn’t meant to make Willow cry, but tears began sliding down her cheeks just the same. We both leaned forward at the same moment. Only this time, it seemed perfectly natural to pull her into my arms. I wasn’t even thrown by her emotional state. Unlike her previous breakdown, her tears were cathartic. Oh, I was sure that she wasn’t done grieving, not by a long shot, but at least I was certain that the healing process that had so eluded the grandmother was well underway for the granddaughter.

We stayed that way for a long time, neither one of us feeling the urge to let go. At least, that was, until the sound of a throat clearing nearby prompted us to move. I kept my eyes directly on Willow even as we pulled away from each other. It wasn’t until she gave me a slight nod of reassurance that she was okay that I turned my attention to the person who had so rudely interrupted us.

“Cordelia! Wesley!” Willow exclaimed. To be honest, I was so shocked to see them standing there that I was beyond speech at that point.

“Willow,” Cordelia leaned forward and gave her friend one of those trendy fake hugs she’s so good at. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”

“Indeed,” Wesley stepped forward and shook Willow’s hand as soon as Cordelia stepped back. “Please accept our condolences over your loss.”

“Thank you,” Willow said sincerely. But her solemness quickly gave way to her happiness at seeing two additional familiar faces. “God, it’s been forever since I’ve seen you, both of you!” she amended, turning to include Wesley.

“Well, we have stick around to keep bailing Angel out every time he gets in trouble,” Cordelia sniped.

“Hey!” I protested. “I resent...

“...what? The accuracy of that statement?” My soon to be *former* employee interjected.

“Angel said you had to work tonight,” Willow seemed a little confused.

“Huh?” Cordelia muttered before she finally caught on to my white lie. “Oh! That! Wes and I just pulled seniority on Gunn, he’s the new guy...”

“What really happened?” I muttered for Wesley’s ears alone as Cordelia chattered on with Willow.

“I believe Gunn actually achieved the impossible,” the Brit began. “He actually applied enough guilt to persuade Cordelia to change her mind.”

“Oh, he’s good,” I admired.

“Well, he is learning his technique from a master,” Wesley joked. Of course, I wasn’t about to let his dig at me go unanswered.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Me?” Wesley asked innocently. “I’m just escorting the esteemed Miss Chase.” With that said, he turned and joined in the girls’ conversation.

Two for two. Not bad for Wesley.

“...thank both of you for coming tonight.” Willow was saying.

“We’re pleased if our presence brings any small measure of comfort to you,” Wesley replied, the epitome of British diplomacy.

I was about to say something when a distant sound caught my attention. Or maybe sounds would have been a better word choice. It was the unmistakable noise caused by several people moving at pretty fast pace. I was about to turn and look for the source, when the source saved me the trouble.

“Willow!”

“Xander! Buffy!” Calling their names, Willow ran forward to meet her friends.

When I turned around, though, it was my turn to be surprised. For it wasn’t just the Slayer and her favourite sidekick gathered around Willow. It seemed that they had brought friends as well.

They were all there -- Giles, Joyce Summers, that ex-demon that I’d seen with Xander last Thanksgiving, and a blond girl I didn’t recognize. Unfortunately, there were also two faces I was less than thrilled to see; the first being that dough-boy of Buffy’s, Riley Finn. We managed to catch each other’s eye. Naturally, there was a brief, silent moment where our unsettled differences flared. But with two slight nods of our heads, we came to an unspoken truce. This night wasn’t about either of us; it was about Willow.

Which brought me to my second cause of hostility. Standing there in an ill-fitting outfit of a black shirt and slacks and his customary black leather duster was my least favourite grand-childe, Spike. Of course, there would be no voluntary ceasing of tensions between the two of us. In fact, Spike immediately sauntered right over to me.

“Angel,” he drawled, somehow managing to make my name itself into an insult.

“Spike,” I almost growled in warning.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Peaches, but you’ll have to wait for another opportunity for me to kick your ass,” he boasted with all the cockiness he could muster. “I’m just here for Red,” he declared.

“Why Spike, that’s very human of you,” I couldn’t resist taunting him.

“Hey now! No need to get insulting!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We spent the next quarter hour in the hallway, either meeting and greeting old friends or ignoring old enemies. One by one the others all stepped forward to talk to Willow. Even Spike managed a rare moment of decency when nobody else was looking. He and Willow stared silently at each other for a long moment. Then, to my utter astonishment, my grandchilde reached out and ever so gently rubbed the backs of his fingers across the swell of Willow’s cheek.

“You’ll be okay, Pet,” he said softly. “Take it from me, death *is* all it’s cracked up to be.”

I was at Willow’s side before she even had time to finish the involuntary gasp caused by Spike’s ill-timed, callous sense of humor. Leave it to Spike to screw up the first human moment he’s had in the past hundred years.

“What?” Spike challenged as I glowered at him. “I was just trying to get Red to see the good side of all this.”

“Is there a problem here?” It had been a long time since I’d been grateful to hear Buffy’s voice.

“Oh sod off, both of you!” he exclaimed.

The only thing that kept me from getting involved was the gentle hand that wrapped itself around my forearm. Taken a little by surprise, I pivoted to find a pair of damp, green eyes staring up at me.

“It’s okay, Angel,” Willow insisted. “He really was trying to be nice, in his own way.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I forced myself to acquiesce to Willow’s wishes. Offering a small smile in acknowledgement, I placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder as Buffy and Spike continued to argue -- albeit in harsh whispers -- directly behind us.

“Now is neither the time nor the place,” I heard Giles hiss a moment later. “Need I remind you of whom and for what we are here?”

That, combined with the arrival of Sheila Rosenberg, managed to shut them both up for the time being.

“Oh there you are, dear,” Willow’s mother called softly as she spotted her daughter. “The Rabbi is here and would like to say a few words. Oh my,” she paused as she noticed the lot of us standing in the hallway. “We didn’t expect...that is...I hope there are enough chairs.”

Most of the group followed after Mrs. Rosenberg as she made her way back to the viewing room. Buffy and Xander hung back, as did the blond girl that I didn’t know. Giving Willow’s shoulder a tender squeeze I relinquished her to the care of her friends.

As the last person to enter the room, I was fully prepared to stand in the back. A sharp wave from Cordelia changed that as I saw the last empty seat right next to her. As soon as I was in my chair, the rabbi begin speaking.

With the rolling sounds of Hebrew echoing softly through the room, my thoughts began to wander. Three rows -- including ours -- filled with Willow’s friends. Although it was a bit strange, it also felt good to see all of us gathered together once more.

What was it that Willow had called us back then? The Slayerettes? I almost snorted in spite of myself at the remembrance of the stupid name. It was sophomoric, really, and yet there was absolutely nothing childish about what we did en masse. Most of the people before me had been nothing more than children when they first began fighting demons. Then again, at my nearly two-and-half centuries of existence, they were all still children in my eyes.

No, not children, I correctly myself. They are a family. And for some bizarre reason, Fate had decreed that I was to be a part of that family.

It took one more lingering glance over the rows before the concept really sank into my consciousness. We *are* a family. Even in the face of our differences -- my eyes unwillingly drifted to the backs of three blond heads, one platinum, one hayseed colored and one the color of early morning sunshine -- we had managed unite for one of our own in her time of need. I could only hope that once her grief had passed, Willow would come to realize what I just had -- that we had come together today, not only to pay homage to her grandmother, but as a tribute to Willow as well.

It had been so long since I’d experienced it, it took me a minute to put a name to the unfamiliar emotion I was experiencing. Then, finally, I got it. For the first time in centuries, I was grateful. To my new extended family. To the woman we had come together to mourn. But most importantly of all, to the redheaded girl with the kind nature and warm heart that always held a place for all of us.

As the rabbi concluded his prayer, I offered up one of my own, in gratitude, to my friend, Willow.

Amen.

To my mother, who always has an empty shoulder, a delicious meal, and an open heart for all of her family ~ extended or otherwise. Thank you for all you do for all of us.

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