DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, along with a lot of other folks at FOX, various production companies and a network or two. Joss has publicly stated that BtVS was always intended as a show that would inspire fanfiction. Fanfiction he wanted, fanfiction he’s got. No infringement intended.

RATING: PG

SPOILERS: Everything through the first five seasons of BtVS, the first two of Ats.

Storming Heaven  part 3b

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A few rooms down from Cordy, Fred was just waking up. She had almost been afraid to fall asleep in her soft bed, so terrified had she been that when she woke, she’d find that being rescued by the handsome stranger--handsome monster?-- Angel, was just a dream, and that she was waking up headless in Pylea. Although, she reasoned, if she really did wake up headless, she wouldn’t actually wake up. Which might be preferable to waking up back in Pylea, with or without a head. At all odds the bed had been so soft--well, soft to someone who had been sleeping on a poorly cured animal fur thrown over the cold stone floor of a cave for nearly five years, although she guessed most people would have rated it old and lumpy--that she had fallen asleep almost at once, and she had stayed asleep until the bright rays of the sun had crept all the way across the floor to her bed.

She didn’t have to get right up, she realized. She wouldn’t have to hunt for berries, or gather grain, just so she could make herself some breakfast. She was home, where breakfast could be poured out of a box, or whipped up in a kitchen, or picked up from a drive-through window, or, impossible luxury, delivered piping hot to her table as she sat in a restaurant. And, God! She didn’t have to slip nervously through the trees to the stream, hoping none of the villagers saw her, just so she could take a quick dip in cold water. There were bathrooms here with lovely running water, and soap, scented soap, and washcloths or loofahs or bath sponges to clean her skin, soft towels to dry herself with. There were shampoos and conditioners for her hair, and she might even be able to take a bubble bath, if she wanted. There were hairbrushes and toothbrushes and nailbrushes and cleaners for her clothing and Laundromats and oh, thank God she was awake and she had her head and both of them, Fred and her head, were home!

Fred couldn’t help it: she started crying. She turned over in the soft, lumpy bed, snuggled under the lovely thin cotton sheets, buried her head in the flat, polyester filled-pillow, and sobbed.

She had never been happier in her life.

Gunn was always a light sleeper. No one who lived life in a war zone could afford to be anything else, and no one who lived as a warrior lived in anything but a war zone, one way or another. True, his subconscious had learned to filter out the signals that meant routine night sounds from those that meant potential danger, but this sound managed to be in both categories, and under the current circumstances, he was expecting the worst. So, the first muffled sobs coming through the thin wall between his room and the next had him sitting up in bed and reaching for his shirt. It took him a minute to fully process what he was hearing, even though he was already halfway dressed. He didn’t slow down. The new girl was crying, and much as he wanted to get back in his bed and not get out for another ten hours, he figured he’d better find out what was going on, first. A moment later he was knocking softly on Fred’s door.

When Fred heard someone at her door, she realized the others were probably up by now. Maybe they wanted her to come down for breakfast? She rubbed the tears away and called out, "Just a minute," to the person knocking. Fancy that. She had remembered what you did when someone was knocking at your door and you weren’t decent, yet. You called out, Coming, or Be right there or Just a minute. Coming might sound like Come in, though, so she went with one of the other choices. Fred rescued her glasses from the nightstand, tossed off the covers and padded over to the dresser where her undies had been neatly folded and put away last night. She hurriedly put them on, then reached for her dress. Now, that definitely needed a visit to the cleaners because it was looking more off-white than white, after five years stored away in a cave, even with frequent airings spread over a bush. But for the moment, it was all she had, so she took it off the hanger in the closet where she had placed it, and slipped it on. Decently dressed she went to answer the door.

"You okay?" Gunn asked the happily smiling girl who greeted him. Her beaming expression was at odds with her reddened, puffy eyes, and the tear streaks he could still see on her face.

"Oh, I’m fine! I’m wonderful! I’m just so glad to be home!"

"Uh-huh," Gunn said, relaxing against the doorframe with a smile, understanding what must have happened. Girl had been so happy to be back, she’d been crying for joy. Understandable, given what he’d seen of Pylea. A loud rumble from Fred’s stomach made him arch a brow. Fred blushed, remembering that in polite company, it was rude to let your stomach growl, though she wasn’t sure how you were supposed to stop it if you hadn’t eaten.

"I guess I’m also hungry," she added.

"Guess you are. How ‘bout you wash your face and we go get you something to eat?"

"Is breakfast ready?" Fred asked brightly. Gunn shook his head. "The others are still asleep. Most of us just got to bed a few hours ago, waiting up for Angel."

"Was he out late?"

"Still is," Gunn said, noticing the way Fred deflated at the news. Poor kid. She was in for some disappointment. Angel had become her hero, but Gunn suspected that when and if Angel came back, he wasn’t going to be in shape to be anyone’s hero for a long time. "Why don’t you finish getting ready, and meet me in the lobby in ten minutes? There’s some diners in the area that serve breakfast 24-7." Fred brightened again.

"I’ve never had a breakfast 24-7. Is it good?"

Gunn laughed. "Oh, yeah. Breakfast twenty-four hours a day seven days a week comes in real useful when you never know what time of day or night you might be needing breakfast."

Fred giggled, realizing her mistake. "That’s right, I remember, now. I think there’s probably a lot of things I’m going to have to work at remembering." Gunn nodded in understanding.

"Well, meet me in the lobby, and we’ll start to work on you remembering what eggs and bacon tastes like. Maybe with a waffle and a pancake thrown in." Fred sent him the most glorious smile he’d seen yet. He smiled back, and returned to his own room to clean up.

Gradually, the others woke, and made their way to the lobby of the Hyperion. Wesley took Willow out to the diner just as Gunn and Fred returned. Cordy wasn’t interested in food, and eagerly took Gunn up on his suggestion that he drive her and Fred to Cordy’s apartment, so she could reassure Dennis about her well being, and get herself some fresh clothes. Plus, she might have something that would fit Fred? Cordy briskly decided that maybe a small shopping expedition was in order, as well. Gunn rolled his eyes, but agreed to play chauffeur. The distraction was good for Cordy, he told himself. Hell, the distraction was probably good for him, as well.

They weren’t so distracted that they didn’t get back to the hotel before dark.

The girls had showered and changed at Cordy’s after their shopping trip, and were wearing jeans. Cordy had on one of her dramatic halter-tops, while Fred had opted for a more demure shirt, cranberry red, with three-quarter length sleeves. Taking advantage of the length of time Cordy considered the bare minimum to select even the most casual attire, Gun had gone back to his place to clean up, and had also changed his clothing for a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt.

As he walked back into the lobby, it was pretty clear no one had heard from Angel yet. Wes, who had exchanged one impeccably ironed shirt and sharply creased pair of slacks for an almost identical set, was checking over that damn scroll again. Willow was on the phone in the office, dressed in a beige and brown print skirt with a pink T-shirt. Things were so quiet, Gunn could make out her end of the conversation. "Yes. At 10:30. Tell Xander it gets into town at quarter of." A pause, then, "I’m sorry, darling. I miss you, too." Another pause, then a soft good-bye.

"Letting your boyfriend know you’re going home tonight, huh?" he guessed.

"Girlfriend," Willow corrected easily. "But, yeah."

Gunn nodded, taking the correction in stride. "It’ll be dark, soon." he said.

"Yeah," Willow agreed looking at the long shadows outside the lobby windows. "It’ll be dark."

Sunset did not bring the return of Angel. Neither did full dark. Cordy was pacing again, Willow was back to hugging her pillow, and even Fred, who didn’t quite understand everything that was happening, was increasingly nervous, despite the efforts Gunn made to keep her calm. When nine o’clock came, with still no sign of Angel, Wesley made a decision.

"I think perhaps a visit to Caritas is in order," he told the others. "Willow, bring your bags. We’ll take you to the bus station from there."

"Good idea," Cordy said. Gunn was already heading to where he’d left the car.

"Caritas?" Willow asked. "That's the Latin for 'mercy,' right? Is there something I should know about this place we're going to?" 

The others explained on the way.

The bar was not open for business. It would take a while for Lorne to make all the repairs. But five minutes of Gunn pounding on his front door and shouting for his attention produced the desired result, and the gang was seated around the ruined stage in very short order, as Lorne mixed drinks from his woefully depleted supplies.

"I’m not surprised the big guy’s taking this hard," he said as he poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into a glass filled with ice. "I could feel her inside him the first time he sang a note. He never told me the details, but he didn’t have to: when he bared his soul, she was there."

"The problem being that she’s not there any more. Or, at least, not as more than a memory," Wes said. "Perhaps I was wrong to let him go off to confront The Powers That Be alone."

"Easy on the angst," Lorne said, reaching for a bottle and two more glasses. "You aren’t at fault here. I mean, you don’t really think you could have stopped him, do you?"

"I don’t think being surrounded by a ring of crosses backed up by any army of stakes and a moat full of holy water would’ve kept Angel from going to them," Gunn said. "Once he knew where to go," he added pointedly.

"Don’t believe he wouldn’t have found out where to go, sweetheart," Lorne said, garnishing the final drink with a twist of lemon. "What I read from him about that girl?" The green demon shook his head. "Nothing anyone of us could have done about it. No, I’m not really worried about Angel: if the big guy went to talk to, well, the Big Guys, then he’s in good hands. The only thing I can do is tell the rest of you what you’re supposed to be doing while we wait for him to come back. So," he continued as he brought the now laden tray of drinks and bottles over to the table, "shall we get started?"

It had been decided in the car that Cordy would go first. Surprisingly, Lorne disagreed.

"I’m getting the sense here that the person I really need to listen to is you, kitten," he said to a shocked Willow, as he handed her the requested coke with a twist of lemon. He didn’t mention the splash of rum he’d poured into it, knowing that she could use the Dutch courage after he sprang his request . . .and that she’d be too rattled to notice the difference in the taste.

"Me?" she squeaked in horror. Singing in public had always been her worst nightmare.

Willow took a gulp of coke. It helped. She had no idea what to sing. Lorne made a suggestion. A few minutes later, she managed a creditable rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. But when she began to sing about it being up above the world so high, she got an image of Buffy, smiling down on them from heaven, and she cried through the last few lines. Stumbling back to her seat, she drained her coke, and asked Lorne if she could have another. He mixed it while Cordy took her place on stage. She had considered Without You from Rent and My Heart Will Go On but had rejected both as too morbid, under the circumstances. She decided that Willow was on to something with the kid’s songs, and opted for I’m a Little Teapot. By the time she was done, Lorne was looking grim, and she didn’t think it was because she had mangled the lyrics any worse than she had when she, Gunn and Wes had given their drunken rendition of We are the Champions. But, he said nothing, indicating instead that he wanted to hear something from each of the others. Wes came up with Rule, Britannia, and Gunn felt honor bound to respond with The Star-Spangled Banner. Fred was very nervous about being asked to sing, but she surprised them all with a sultry version of Cole Porter’s Night and Day.

Cordy divided her attention between the various performances and Lorne, her anxiety increasing as he continued to look unhappy about what he was hearing. As Fred rejoined them at the table, Cordy turned to him.

"So, what can you tell us?" she asked, preparing herself for the worst.

"Not a lot," Lorne began. "But . . .you know that darkness thing in Wes’s prophecy? The darkness Angel has to survive, before he becomes human?"

"The stuff with Darla, right?" Cordy said hopefully. Lorne shook his head.

"Honey, that was sunshine at high noon."

"Oh, God," Cordy said, taking a slug of tequila. Fortunately, Lorne wasn’t unduly concerned about her being a few months shy of legal age. He reached over and topped off her glass.

"But, he will survive it," Wes reiterated. "According to the prophecy . . ."

"Sweetie, let me give you a hint about prophecies," Lorne said as he replenished a few more drinks, "taken right from Tall Dark and Brooding himself in the tale of the lawyerbeast he spun for the kiddies of Pylea: Never believe everything you’re foretold. Maybe Angel will survive this, maybe he’ll get swallowed down by the dark. He’s not here, so I can’t exactly foresee. But what I can tell you is, right now, he’s alive. And, he’s cutting you off again. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I do know this: whatever is going on, whatever that girl’s death started, it’s big. As in, world-ending, apocalyptic big."

"Um, actually," Willow said nervously. "Maybe you’re confused? Probably because, my singing was so bad." Lorne regarded her wryly. Willow hurried on to explain. "See, Buffy killed herself to stop the world from ending."

"The irony is just sickening, isn’t it?" Lorne commiserated. "Sure, her death may have stopped the world from ending at that point, but it started a chain reaction that could have the same effect. And," he held up a hand, "don’t ask me how. If Angel were here, I might be able to tell you. The only thing I can tell you now is that you have to do what you already know you should be doing. Willow has to go back to Sunnydale, and each of you has to go back to your own homes. Or, in Fred’s case, Cordy’s. That way, you’ll all be rested and ready. . . when the time comes to save the world."

"Again?" Willow muttered. The others said nothing. With a shared look of dismay, they each reached for their drinks.

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To be continued in Chapter 3c

FEMFIC      PART3a       PART 3c      FEEDBACK

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