17:43 Angel is dead.

It is my habit to make a mental note of all the occurrences that involve the Slayer, however indirectly. Although I am grateful to her for allowing me to be reinstated as Watcher I cannot see that the position will be anything other than a hindrance at this point in time. I am at a loss for words this very instance, and God only knows how I shall record this event in the Watcher's Diaries. The Scourge of the Empire, the demon Angelus is finally destroyed. Angel is dead. And we are all undone.

My poor, dear Buffy.

The telephone call was received barely ten moments ago. She is still standing, the handset fallen forgotten from her grasp. Her sightless eyes are fixed upon nothing. Tears as yet unshed quiver on their lower lids. Her blonde locks, trailing over her shoulders, are styled into the same ringlets she wore on her last trip to L.A. Tied in pigtails they curl over her bosom, the effect enhancing a youth that she rarely displays. No one has dared to speak. Afraid to hear the disaster that has reduced her to this frozen statue. Aside from poor Buffy and myself no one is aware of the situation. Willow reaches out for her, offering comfort from this unknown demon. Buffy flinches away, holding up one hand to stay the tentative approach. The fingers are splayed and the bones protrude, locked in position, straining the skin, bleaching it of colour. Slowly she bends one knee, stooping to pick up the phone and recradle it. The soft click is like a pin dropping in the silence.

Cordelia sounded so calm on the phone. Her voice was neutral and empty. Unable to register the news, although I believe she saw it with her own eyes. She relays the message as though it may make the situation more real for her. This would allow her to grieve. Occasionally I reflect on how the emotional experiences we suffer affect us so differently. There was a time perhaps when Buffy would have attempted to conceal her turmoil behind a superficial mask that so poorly resembled normality. These days are long past. The years have taken their toll. They have also allowed us to forgive. But this endless agonised silence is a far more effective barrier to her pain than ever her pretences were when Angel's passing might well have been considered no great loss to the equation. Grief like this is untouchable. A wall of pure emotion, that drains the internal energies, leaving only emptiness behind. And when it finally breaks the floodgates open. Releasing rage, hurt. A storm of emotion. Finally the tears may fall. Unstoppable. Inconsolable. Though this too will dry away, it is then that a comforting presence is needed. All energy spent, weakness ensues and if no support is available it is then that you fall. Fall and dissolve into a puddle of misery to be evapourated away, mind and soul, leaving a shell where a life used to exist. Sometimes this too is lost. A leaking faucet never ceases. Every day will be touched with a single drop of pure unending heartache. Never is someone so central in every minute until they are gone. There is a certain irony to all this. I alone know the cause of Buffy's silence. I alone can remember that kind of grief. And I know this because I have lost my one true love to. Someone I cared for above and beyond belief, surpassing all others. And death did us part. I lost her to the very one whose demise now holds Buffy entranced. But in this captured moment, freeze framed forever in our minds; I cannot feel anything aside from compassion. Despite the blinding, demonic hatred I bore Angel, even Buffy on occasions, I am moved almost to tears. For Buffy. For Angel.

Buffy closes her eyes; afraid the tears will spill and swallows. Her gullet works frantically for a moment as she fights to internalise her grief, lest it comes rising up to vomit all over my carpet, tangible, with this evenings stew. She controls it. Crushes it down into that deep aching chasm that still gnaws at her insides resulting from her mother's death. Opening her eyes she fixes them on the overhead lighting. The oceans in her eyes blind her rather than fall, erecting a film across her retinas. She stares at the world through the glasses of grief she has worn before, too many times, and will wear again.

"Buffy?" Willow speaks hesitantly. "What is it? Is it…?" She pauses afraid to continue and, for a moment, I think she may have correctly interpreted the silence. "…Riley?"

"Riley." Buffy spits the word like a bad taste from her mouth.

Xander, who has been regarding her, his head on one side, rather like a curious puppy, straightens, looking directly at her. "Angel," he says quietly.

Buffy nods, the oceans in her eyes break into waves. She clenches her jaw. A muscle twitching in her cheek, her teeth grinding together.

"Aw, man," Xander repeats gently, sympathetically.

"No! Oh no! No!"

It is not Buffy who is shouting but Willow. Her shoulders crumple and her hands knot into fists. Her body spasms, tears are already streaming down her face. Strands of her hair stick to the salty residue as she shakes her head, trying to rid her mind of the possibility, whipping her cheeks to a deceptively rosy hue. Xander slides off the back of the couch and I don't have the heart to point out that my suspicions about muddy Nikes leaving muddy prints were founded. I wonder at the mundanity of this thought amongst the shock waves rocking our boat. Later my mind will try to excuse its own absence at the dismissal of the marks. When the rage sets in. The fixation on small insignificances is my frayed neural passageways are capable of at present.

Fire bad. Tree pretty.

Xander folds Willow into his arms and she clutches at him like a blind woman. He cradles her as one does a child. Cupping her head to his shoulder. Even his eyes are closed, his nose buried in Willow's short hair, curtaining his own shock.

In some ways emotion strips us of our differences, the same emotion, running the same course. But like a river it reflects the life within it. The more debris collected, the slower it travels to reach ebb and the more slowly it drains away. And yet it shows our differences, separates us. I return my gaze to Buffy. Concern for her is mounting for she is still motionless. Her hands have fallen to her sides and she has shrunk three inches. Contracted into herself, her life and soul ripped away leaving a swaying skeleton. One shaking hand reaches up to her throat. Touching two fingers to her pulse point as though expecting to find that her life has drained from the tiny pinprick scars where Angel once did exactly that.

Drink! I won't let you die!

But he is dead. Again. And worse still she knows what the demon dimensions are like now. I can vividly recall her distress one day after they talked. I know he concealed from her a great deal and yet the trashcans did not survive the following encounter. Oh, Buffy. I see her frown. Her fingers have touched a silver chain and she draws out of her top the necklace. The tiny crinkle between her brows deepens and then her eyes widen. Against her palm lies the large silver crucifix Angel gave her on one of her earliest nights in Sunnydale. I have not seen her wear it since Graduation Day. She raises the fingers of her other hand as though half expecting to see the Claddagh ring that was lost when Angel returned from Hell. She fingers the crucifix, puzzled. No conscious thought process made her fasten the clasp around her throat this morning. I see fear in her eyes. No, not fear, guilt. Did she dream last night? Did she know? Does she think that in some way she might have been able to save him? The way I felt when Jenny lost her life. Oh Buffy don't think that. Never. And yet always you will think that. She closes her eyes and her head bows. A single tear slides down her cheek. What did she dream last night while she slumbered?

Last night

Cool hands slid up her back, stroking her spine. Her lips on fire pressed against his cool mouth. She straddled his lap, pulling him close. She was afraid and she didn't know why. Liquid distress glittered in her eyes, trailing down her cheeks. Her throat was constricted and her breath shuddered in and out of her lungs. Gentle hands smoothed her hair back from her face, soft lips found hers, kissing the tears from her cheeks and she could taste salt when his mouth found hers again. His touch made her gasp, catching her breath and clutching up a handful of his hair. He drew her down onto the bed, tangling their bodies in the ivory sheets, sinking back against the enveloping comforts of the mattress.

* * * * *

Fear rode the passion and she cried out. Struggling beneath him, pushing his at his chest, her knees gripping his ribcage.

"Oh, God! We... we can't! Angel, please!"

She was so tense around him it was hard to think, but the pure abject terror in her eyes restrained him. She was trembling. Fresh sweat had broken out cold on her skin. Beading across her forehead. Trickling down between her breasts. He straightened his forearms, gazing into the wide, frightened eyes of a little girl. A younger Buffy, barely seventeen stared out from those eyes in the face of a mature young woman, college girl and Slayer. He could hardly bear to look at her; afraid she would read in his haunted eyes what was to come by dawn that morning.

"It's okay," his voice soothed her. One hand brushed strands of wavy blond hair off her damp forehead, massaging her temple with the ball of his thumb. "Hush," he whispered as she tried to speak "It's okay. There is no more time."

"Angelus..." she began, the name sticking in her throat as if just forming the words opened wounds nothing could heal.

He shook his head.

"Wha'...?" she tried again.

He silenced her with a kiss.

* * * * *

Angel's dark, endless eyes stared into hers. Lying spent in each other's arms, wrapped in the silky sheets, bound together in a chamber.

"See," he whispered "Safe as houses."

"But, how?" she looked up at him. Her long hair fell over her face, obscuring the blue china eyes. "This is perfect," she murmured.

Angel's heart had broken into a thousand pieces. He closed his eyes, stroking the long golden hair. This time, when day broke, she would remember.

I'll never forget! I'll never forget!

And she did. Her hand closes around the silver cross at her throat. Tears, fragmented by the lashes, etch her emotions across her face. Pain, sorrow, regret and frank horror. Slowly she swallows, takes the cross and slides it back inside her shirt. Oh, good girl, Buffy. I want to praise her as though she is a small child again, a reflection perhaps of my current mental capacity or hers. The cross is a vessel, something in which to trap the memories, contain the grief, lest it should drown her. Is it possible that even now, her fear of water, embedded so deeply, courtesy of the Master, still possesses her? Or maybe she is fulfilling the agonised promise, made so long ago.

I won't let you die!

18:00 Angel lives on.

She looks at me, finally making eye contact. I hope that my gaze communicates my forgiveness to her, for I cannot bring myself to voice it, although I give it and freely. But she is focused upon other things. Her blue stare could crack ice.

"Who did it, Giles? Did Cordelia say?" Her tone brooks no nonsense and I know the anger has surfaced. She is fighting to contain it now and the lines of her delicate face have gone hard, her words are like a whip crack in the silence.

"Giles? Tell me!"

I do not wish to divulge the information. I am terribly afraid that she is beyond restraining herself at least long enough to establish a suitable course of action. But I cannot deny her either. No matter how much I want to protect her. I attempt to speak and the words stick in scrape against my larynx. Reluctantly I clear my throat:

"Druscilla," I admit eventually. "Druscilla killed Angel."

And the long forgotten premonition fills her eyes with terror. And hatred. She is silent.

[End]