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Author: Pandora

Title: Cry to Heaven

Disclaimer: It is clear to me that Joss-God and CO. no longer function. So it is up to us, the fans, to write stories in which the characters are true to themselves. But I'm not making any money off of this, and I don't pretend to have any claim on the characters, so am I in trouble?

Summary: Buffy dies, Angel, Cordelia and Doyle go to Sunnydale for the funeral. General pain, suffering and emotional turmoil ensue. Kleenex warning! Everyone I've showed this to has ended up in tears!

Feedback: I live for it! Send it my way by clicking on my name up there, and you should get me! :-)

Spoilers: "I Will Remember You"

Rated: PG, I guess, for language.

Keyword: Angst major.

Dedication: For Phil, my love and inspiration, for Tamara, whose praise of this fic gave me the courage to submit it, and for Justin, for being my hero.

Angel sat in his chair, eyes riveted on the letter on his desk. He swallowed hard. He could smell the salt of tears on the paper, and he recognized the neat, pretty script on the front as Willow's. He hadn't opened it yet, but somehow, he knew.

Buffy was dead.

Those words kept screaming inside his head. Buffy's dead. Buffy's dead. It was like the chorus to an annoying song, only a thousand times worse, with every ounce of pain and agony he'd suffered in the years since his soul had been restored tacked onto it, all thrown at him at once, hitting him like a thousand knives, cutting, shredding.

Angel felt lightheaded. He felt like dying. He felt like tearing the unopened envelope into shreds and screaming at the top of his lungs that Buffy was still alive, happy, and probably very annoyed with her friends for writing this phony notice of her death and sending it to "Dead Boy".

He stood up and paced frantically. You haven't opened it yet, he reminded himself. It might not be a notice of her death. But he knew. Deep down inside, he knew.

Angel sat down in his chair again, still not wanting to open the letter. He was silently holding on to the childish hope that if he didn't open the letter, then its contents wouldn't be true.

Angel ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up, but he didn't care. No one was around but Cordelia and Doyle to look at him, and it wasn't like he could look in a mirror and see himself.

He picked the envelope up off the desk and stuck one finger under the flap, steadying himself to open it and read what was inside, for better or for worse.

He opened the flap and took hold of the folded paper inside. He slowly, carefully pulled the paper out. He clenched his teeth tightly and started to unfold it, but then slammed it onto the desk.

"Dammit!" He shouted to no one in particular. He kicked the chair over and then put his fist through the wall, his face morphing as he did so that anyone who might be looking got a full view of his demon visage.

He sank to his knees and fought tears, as he had once before, when he'd told her that she would never know of their day together, the hours they'd spent making love and feeding each other. He remembered her reaction then: searing pain and fierce denial.

He realized he was reacting the same way.

He righted the chair and sat in it before he finally opened the letter and began to read.

"Dear Angel,

God, I wish I knew what to say to you. But I don't. I mean, as much as I knew that I may have to write this letter to you someday, I never thought it would really happen."

Oh, God, Angel thought. He read on.

"Angel, Buffy is dead."

A lump formed in his throat as hot, blinding tears filled his eyes. He'd known that this letter would say that, and yet it was still a great shock. It was still more pain than he felt he could handle right then. And yet, he continued to read.

"She died bravely. Of course she died bravely. She was so strong and so courageous--we all thought she could break the streak, and make it to her twenty-fifth birthday. And now, here I am, writing the news of her death to you just a few months before what would have been her twentieth.

"It was a Xaeda demon that did it. There were six of them, and Buffy managed to take out four. Then she turned to kill a fifth, but another snuck up behind her and took her life.

"I'm going to spare you the details of her death, Angel. Not only to have mercy on you, but to spare myself. I don't want to see it again, Angel; even if it's only in my mind's eye. I don't want to think about it.

"Giles killed the demon that killed her, and Spike managed to kill the one that she'd been about to slay. And then we picked up her body, looking for some faint sign, some kind of hope, that she might have made it. After all, how many times before this has she escaped death? How many times has she been seriously injured and regained her health and strength within a month? But it was too late. By the time the demons were dead and we got to her, she was already gone.

"Mr and Mrs. Summers are very upset. Mrs. Summers is in a hospital right now because she had a nervous break down when she heard. Mr. Summers keeps asking how this happened. He never knew about her being the Slayer, you know? We've tried to pacify him, but nothing's worked. Not like it really would do much good anyway. How can we offer anyone comfort or aid when we're all such messes ourselves?

"I'm a wreck. I keep seeing how bright and shining she was. She was my best friend. One day, we were sitting together, having lunch, gabbing mindlessly about nothing at all, and now she's gone. Just like that. I didn't even get to tell her good-bye. Or how much like a sister she was to me.

"Xander and Anya both haven't stopped crying since it happened. Every time I see them, one is shushing and rocking the other, trying to hide their own tears. They both wept openly; what did they care? We've all seen so many sides of each other already, what was a couple of tears?

"Spike actually shed a tear for Buffy, if you can believe that. Don't dare tell anyone else this, but he and I sat together and cried for two hours straight yesterday. The two of them had actually managed to come to terms with each other, and were friends, sort of. It was so strange to see Spike, the 'Big Bad', slayer of Slayers, reduced to a sobbing mass beside me...over Buffy."

Angel was crying now. There was no use in fighting it. But his tears were silent ones. He wouldn't weep or sob. Just let the tears flow soundlessly, as they were meant to. He could feel his childe's pain now, and it magnified his own. Shared pain was not a lighter burden, at least not in the case of a vampire. It was an extra weight on his shoulders, carrying massive heartache of not one, but two vampires. And for the first time ever, he felt sympathy for Spike, who he knew was in Sunnydale right now, feeling the exact same way. He turned his attention back to Willow's letter.

"But Giles is the worst. Just like Faith was like the Mayor's daughter, Buffy was like Giles'. She was the only achievement he'd ever made that he had ever been so proud of. They were closer to each other than they had been to anyone else. Buffy's father loved her, and called her 'sunshine', but to Giles, she actually was. She made his life worth living. She was his beacon of hope, a shining ray in the darkness that could make him smile and think to himself, 'Maybe I'm not a failure after all.' And now she's gone. I don't know what happens now. None of us know what happens now.

"We debated who would have to tell you. We knew Giles wasn't the right person, and Xander and Anya were both too wrapped up in the intense shock and vivid pain that they needed to cling to each other now. Spike said he didn't want to talk to you about it. That left me.

"The funeral is this weekend at the 4th street church. We picked it because it has the fewest religious icons. Spike was able to walk around comfortably, so you should be able to attend without any problem. It's just after sunset, because you and Spike are just as much a part of her family as the rest of us, and you also deserve the chance to say your final good-byes. Please come, Angel. She left something for you.

Your friend,

Willow

P.S. Please bring Cordy, too. Buffy told me once that she wanted a chance to see us all before we got old and moved on with our lives. She would've wanted Cordy to be here."

***

It was pouring in Sunnydale the day of her funeral. It seemed appropriate. The mourners who gathered inside the church were grimmer than the weather.

Cordelia had been holding up. Angel admired her strength. Cordelia could handle anything. She was dry-eyed and stone-faced as they entered the church. Other than Doyle, who wore a sad, sympathetic look because he didn't like seeing his best friend and girlfriend in pain but hadn't known Buffy well enough to miss her, there were no others.

Joyce Summers was openly, loudly weeping into the shoulder of her ex-husband, whose tears dropped into Joyce's hair and disappeared.

Giles was another of those who did not keep his grief private. His sobbing was as loud and heartbreaking as Joyce's; for he, like she, was burying his only child.

Giles' sobbing became heavier until, finally, Spike put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Come on, old man. Let's go." Spike, too, was crying, but at least he wasn't sobbing. He, like Cordelia, was bearing up. But he wasn't doing quite as well.

The silent slide of tears coating Angel's face mirrored Spike's. The two men exchanged glances, and for one, frozen moment in time, the understood each other. Spike quietly led Giles out of the church to take him home.

Angel found Xander and Anya in the crowd. Xander's eyes were red and puffy, yet the tears continued to flow. Anya was in his arms, softly sobbing, afraid to let go.

I can't do this, Angel thought. I can't bury her. I'm sorry, Buffy; wherever you are, I'm sorry.

He turned to leave.

"Angel?"

He whirled around to face the source of the voice. "Willow." He said softly.

She looked absolutely terrible. Her face was streaked with dried-up tears, and there were also the glistening trails of fresh ones. Her eyes were as red and puffy as Xander's. "I-I'm so glad you're here." She stammered, then sniffed. "It's good of you to come."

"I almost didn't." He responded, his voice breaking. The tears formed again. So much crying.

"I'm glad you changed your mind, then." Willow said.

"Where's Oz?" Angel asked, looking around, trying desperately to hide his tears from her. He didn't want to add to her grief.

Willow sniffed again. "I don't know. He and I broke up a couple of months ago, and he left town."

Angel winced. "Willow, I'm sorry."

"What does it matter now? That's nothing compared to this." Willow swiped at her tears, then fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She finally found one and dabbed at her eyes with it. She took out another and held it for him. "Looks like you could use one, too."

Angel gratefully accepted it.

"Why don't we sit down, hmm? They're about to start the eulogy, then we all have to line up and put a flower in the coffin with her and say our final good-byes, and then there's something Buffy wanted you to have that I have to give you."

Angel nodded. He located Cordelia and Doyle, sitting side by side in a pew, holding hands.

"The eulogy's about to start." Angel whispered to them before taking a seat beside Doyle.

The half-demon reached over and patted his shoulder sympathetically. "You'll be all right, man."

Angel almost believed him. Almost. How can I be all right, how can anything be all right, with her gone? He thought.

A minister stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat, and began. "We have come here today to bid good-bye to our loved one, Buffy Anne Summers.

"To many of you, she was a close friend. To some, a sister, a daughter, a confidante, a protector. Buffy was a beautiful and unique young woman. Strong and passionate and fiery. We all remember her as alive.

"Now, it's clear that I didn't know Buffy. I'm up here today because no one else could find the heart to speak. But from the stories I've been told about her, and this eulogy that was written for me to read, and by all the teary eyes I see in this very room, she must've been a very special woman indeed to have touched so many lives and so many people so deeply.

"From what I understand, Buffy was like a star: a bright, shining star that could light up everything around her, spreading joy with a winning smile. She was richly beautiful in the way that counts: from within.

"Her humor and her sensitivity endeared her to each and every one of you. In her pictures, you can see her soul shining brightly in her eyes. And for a soul to shine that bright, God knows how wonderful she must have been.

"I'm going to read a poem, selected by Buffy's best friend, Willow Rosenberg." He took a pair of glasses and a 3 x 5 index card out of his pocket. Once had had both situated, he spoke. "Sonnet 18, by William Shakespeare:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade;

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. "

Angel felt tears anew. Yes, that was his Buffy. Never truly dead, for she had immortality in the place that it could never be taken from: the hearts of all those who'd known her. The minister continued, but Angel was no longer listening. He'd found what he needed; he'd finally discovered something that would ease a fraction of the pain, for all eternity. Buffy wasn't gone; she was still there. He could feel her near. He would always feel her near. Centuries from now, long after these others had all died and joined her, he'd still smell her on the wind and hear her call his name from across the veil. And he'd feel her smile when he laughed, and she'd be there to hold him when he was crying.

But that was the problem. She'd always be a whisper on the wind, a shadow in his heart. He'd always sense her close, but for eternity out of his reach. He'd never be truly with her again.

He stopped his reverie when the rest of the room rose and began to line up, all still sniffling or sobbing. He deliberately waited until everyone else had lined up; he wanted to be last.

Everyone else picked out a flower. Angel carefully chose a pink rose tied to a sprig of baby's breath. Everyone in the procession passed the coffin and dropped in their flower silently, too engrossed in their grief to come up with parting words. But Angel knew.

Finally, it was his turn. He looked at Buffy in her coffin. Even in death, she was beautiful.

The gown she wore was white velvet, like a bridal dress she would never get the chance to use. Flowers were in her hair, not to mention all around her body from the procession. She looked so peaceful. And so dead.

I look like that when I sleep, Angel thought. He reached in tentatively and clasped her hand.

"You know, Buffy, no matter what happened between us, I never stopped loving you." He said softly. "God, that's stupid, that I'm telling you this now. Now, when this part of you can't even hear me. I'm sorry I waited this long. There were so many times I wanted to tell you...and so many times I stubbornly didn't because I thought I was ruining your life. Now, I find myself wondering if this wouldn't have happened had I decided to come back here and tell you sooner. Maybe you wouldn't have been fighting those Xaeda demons if I had been here. And just maybe you'd still be here, laughing with me instead of lying in this casket, watching from far away as I make idle conversation with your corpse."

For perhaps the thousandth time since that fateful day when he'd opened a letter, he began to shed tears. "Oh, God, Buffy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I screwed up. I'm sorry I never told you I loved you when you probably needed to hear it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about our missing day; and I'm very, very sorry that I took that day back. I'm sorry that I wasn't here for you. I'm sorry I didn't protect you. I'm sorry for all those times I could've picked up the phone and said I needed you and we'd have been together again and I didn't because I was too much of a coward to try." He was sobbing now. "I'm sorry for everything I did to you when I was Angelus. I'm sorry for everything I did period. I'm sorry that I didn't love you enough." He collapsed and started to cry harder. "I'm sorry, Buffy...I'm sorry...God, I'm sorry." He got to his feet and cried to the ceiling of the church: "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I didn't take good care of her! I'm sorry for it all! Now, give her back. Please! Please! Please do this for me! If not for me, do it for her! I'll make it all up to her! I'll do better this time! I'll protect her! I'll do anything you want, but I'm begging you, if you ever had any mercy or love at all, please give her back! We all need her...so, so much." He fell to his knees and sobbed again, then added in a voice that was barely a whisper: "I need her."

Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders. Warm hands with perfect nails.

"Come on, Angel." Cordelia said, tears flooding her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Tears that one of her friends was dead and another's prayer hadn't been enough; his prayer hadn't been enough for God. "Let's go."

***

They all went to Buffy's house after the funeral. That is, if Cordelia, Angel, Doyle, Willow and Buffy's parents counted as 'all'.

Angel felt hollow. It wasn't enough. That was all he kept thinking. It wasn't enough.

Cordelia was unable to stop crying. Doyle held her as she wept uncontrollably, occasionally digging her fingernails deep into his shoulders and crying out, "It wasn't fair! She was so young, Doyle. And he--he loves her so much! It wasn't fair, Doyle. It wasn't fair..."

"I know, Princess. I know."

Joyce and Hank had both gone upstairs and hadn't returned. Angel knew that Joyce was probably crying again, and Hank was probably trying to help her as best he could in his bereaved state.

"Angel?" Willow said. "This is for you. I must've told you quite a few times already that Buffy left something for you, and that's it." She was holding out a fat manila envelope which read, in huge black letters, "For Angel" on the front.

Angel accepted it from her, nodding slightly but not really feeling anything. It wasn't enough.

Willow inhaled deeply, trying to prevent more tears from coming and excused herself.

Angel sat down with the parcel Buffy had left him. His grip on it tightened a little. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough.

Finally, he opened the top flap and emptied the envelope's contents into his hands. A gray velvet ring box and another envelope, which he knew contained a letter.

Angel sighed and opened the envelope. He carefully removed and unfolded Buffy's letter and began to read.

"Dear Angel,

If you're reading this, it means I've either died or grown old and senile enough that I thought you'd get a kick out of reading what I intended to be my final farewell to you. Since I am the Slayer, a job that entails not living past 25, I'm going for option 'a'.

Angel, I'd like to say that I'm sorry. I know what you're thinking: 'Sorry for what? I'm the one who should be sorry; I didn't save you from whatever it was that killed you.' Well, guess what? It's not up to you to protect me. If I were meant to be under your protection, I'd have been born a victim instead of a warrior. And as for why I'm apologizing, it's because you're reading this. I'm sorry I died on you, that I couldn't stay with you to help fight the good fight.

I'm sorry that you have to carry on alone. But most of all, I'm sorry that I will have died without us resolving our relationship. So I'm going to try to do the best I can with that now.

I never stopped loving you, Angel; not even for a split second. And there has not been a day that has gone by in which I didn't think about you and feel that you were still close to my heart. Even in the days of Riley, who was a mistake and a half, I always thought of you.

You are my hero; my lover, my heart and soul. My savior. My Angel.

Wherever you go from now on, I'm with you. I'll always be nearby, and you'll always sense me. And I'll touch you if I can. Because, Angel, a love like ours was doesn't die. Not even when both of those sharing it are dead. Like that dude in 'The Princess Bride' said, 'Death cannot stop true love'.

It's funny; as I'm writing this, I feel strangely close to you. Like by sealing our love in eternity with this letter, I'm linking our souls together. Or maybe you're skulking outside my window. Could just as easily be that, although I think my idea is more romantic.

I feel you, Angel; when you're near, when we're far apart. The only difference between the two is my response. When you're near, I want to hold you. When you're far away, I want to die. I'm not sure whether I'm happy or sad that I got my wish, and I'm really not sure which wish is being granted by your reading this letter.

But Angel, promise me, promise me by promising yourself because we are mind and one soul, that you won't cry for me any more. I'm still with you. Just not visible any more. And I know that's going to be really hard for you, and probably for me, too. But we'll make it. I know we will. I promise.

Now, you'll notice the ring box. If you open it, you'll see something that looks a little familiar. Yep, you guessed it; a Claddagh ring. The one I gave you this time, however, is gold instead of silver. I want you to wear this one in honor of my memory. And wear it with the heart pointing towards you; I don't want some vampire wench stealing my boyfriend when my body's gone. :-)

I requested in my will that I be buried with that ring on and the heart pointing towards me. So, now, we belong to each other, even in death. Although, I'm thinking that I got the better end of the deal.

I love you, my Angel; always and forever, which is huge, because now we're both doing our forevers. And Angel? Don't leave Sunnydale. The Hellmouth is still functional, and with Faith alive and my replacement used up, they have no Slayer, which means no protection from the things that go bump in the night. So, try to help them, even with me gone. Even if it hurts. Always remember what I said to you that Christmas when we actually got snow: Strong is fighting and it's hard and it's every day. But never let go. Ever.

Okay, I'm spouting cheesy movie lines. I know when it's best to close a letter. I love you. And even from where I am now, I'll never forget.

Love always,

Buffy"

Angel was glad he didn't need to breathe because he wouldn't have been able to after that. He opened the ring box and took out the gold Claddagh ring. He replaced the ring he currently wore with it, heart pointing towards him. He swallowed hard.

Angel started to walk outside. I need to feel something; anything.

"Angel?" Willow asked. He walked past her, heading for the door.

"Angel man, where you going?" Doyle asked.

"Out." Was the response.

Angel walked outside, still clutching Buffy's letter. Rain poured down in buckets from the night sky. And he knew.

"Thank you!" He called up into the clouds. Buffy had been given back to him. It had been enough.

He remembered the words that Buffy had said once, in tears, and how she had ended her letter. I'll never forget. She knew. And she forgave him. His prayer had been enough.

Angel held his arms up and ran through the rain, remembering another storm that had given him the best moment of his life. And he knew that wherever she was, Buffy knew everything.

And neither of them would ever forget.