"I started remembering that horrible night in the church.  Something you said started bringing it all back."  Buffy's words seemed harsh to her own ears as they echoed in the almost empty room.

        "That night—that's why you ran away."  Spike's voice was a low rumble.

        Buffy nodded, realized he couldn't see the gesture, and then discovered she had somehow moved into his arms and was sitting with her head resting against his shoulder.  "My poor love," he said tenderly.

        "Me—?"  She shook her head more violently now.  "I ran away, leaving you there, burning on that cross!  I'm not trying to make excuses for that.  But I got so scared, Spike.  I thought I was going crazy.  I tried not to believe it, decided it was wishful thinking, some stupid fantasy like the time I got poisoned by the demon, only nicer.  At least, the first part was nicer.  But—"

        "But?" he asked when the silence had stretched out for over a minute.

        "The memories were so real.  And they kept coming.  At first I thought I was just using things you'd said to make my daydreams seem more real.  But then you'd say something else, use a phrase, that I'd already remembered him using, there, in that place.  So I knew it was real."

         Buffy lay on her back under the tree, staring up through the leaves at lazy wisps of clouds in a blue sky.  William’s head was pillowed on her breast, and she was running her fingers through his hair.  He seemed to be listening to her heartbeat.

        Finally, he spoke.  “This is a moment of true contentment,” he said.

Buffy waited for some time before she felt compelled to respond.  “You keep going on about contentment.  I'm guessing that’s because you haven’t known much of it.  You should be happy here.  But you’re not, are you?”

        “Not until today.  Perhaps, now, being with you will let me rest in peace.  It's odd, really, because although I finally know for certain that I died many years ago, you've made me feel alive again."  He rolled over and looked at her earnestly.  "What do you think?  Can we rest now, Buffy?  Can we rest?"

        "I don't know," she said, as gently as she could.  "I don't understand how things work here."

        "Neither do I, and I’ve done a lot of thinking about this situation."  He rested his head on her shoulder again.  "Too much perhaps.  Father used to say I would think about something until—never mind.  He was quite right that I’ve never been a quick study.”

        She pushed away her anger for that absent and long-dead parent to focus on William.  “And here I’ve been thinking what a fast learner you are.”

        To her secret delight, he blushed all over at the compliment.  “But, as to this world—even I have had ample time to assess the situation.  And I’ve come to wonder if we are here because we’re not entirely dead.  Because some part of us still lives.”  He looked up at her expectantly.

        Reluctantly, she nodded.

        “What part?” he demanded.

        “Your bodies.  Your memories.  And part of your personalities.”  It was hard to force out the harsh truth.  “The things that killed you took them.”

        His eyes were so dark, so fearsome.  All gentleness was gone now, replaced by an inner rage.  “And is using them.  I was right, then.  Somewhere I am committing crimes, doing evil things.”

        “No!”  She felt as if she could not make the word emphatic enough. “Not you!  Not the most important part of you.”

        “Then it’s true that some part of me is.  I was right, then.  Even I can figure something out if I’m given enough time.  A four-year-old could have figured it.”  He sat up and reached for the pile of clothing. 

        “You—it isn’t your fault, William.”  She sat on the ground, staring up at him in dismay.

        “It is.  I can remember enough of that last night to know I didn't fight whatever it was that happened to me.  I let her do it, you know.  The Mad Girl.  Dorothea.”  She saw his fingers tremble as he wrestled with buttons.

        “Drusilla.”  She looked away from the pain in his face and groped for her own clothes. 

        He shrugged away the name as of no importance.  “I let her do that thing to me.  I allowed this to happen.”

        “You didn’t understand what it meant.  And—that part of you that’s still in the world, he—it isn’t doing evil anymore. It’s been stopped.”

        “Forever?” he asked hopefully.  She realized that he could read the answer in her face.

        “I hope so,” was all she could promise him.  She knew it wouldn't be enough.  Buffy pulled her blouse over her head and watched him shrug into his coat.   She reached over and helped settle the fabric smoothly over his shoulder, reaching up to tweak the set of that ridiculous collar. 

        At the intimacy of this gesture, he looked up, and she saw tenderness break through the pain on his face.   He reached out to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, and she stared wonderingly into his eyes.  Their expression should have been new to her on this strange day, but, horribly, it was not.  She had seen that tortured, loving gaze many times before.  Somehow, a bit of William, a part of this best of you, has escaped into that other world.  Somehow, it exists inside that thing that uses your body.  I can’t even imagine the torment it must feel.

        “There you are!” announced a strange voice from on high, making them jump apart.

        Three black-clad figures with enormous white wings were swooping down on them.  At least, they were trying to swoop, but the actual effect was more along the lines of stall, plummet, and recover.  None of the three seemed quite sure when to flap or how hard. 

There was a short man, a tall man, and a medium-sized woman.  The woman lost her balance mid-air and tumbled about like a stunt pilot in an aerial show, her skirts flailing around her and billowing up in spite of her efforts to hold them down over her knees.  From her cries of distress, Buffy gathered that these antics were accidental rather than good-natured hi-jinks.  The tall man kept forgetting to flap his wings and waved his arms instead, causing several precipitous drops before he remembered the proper procedure.    The short man was doing better than either of his companions, but he kept veering off-course and having to correct his flight path.

        The three landed on the ground before Buffy and William.  The woman and the shorter of the two men managed to touch down more or less on their feet with only a bit of staggering around to regain their balance.  However, the taller man did not so much land as suddenly lose altitude about twelve feet above the ground.

        “Are you all right?” asked Buffy.

        The fallen one raised his face from the dirt and regarded her sternly.  “I am a celestial being,” he announced.  “I am, by definition, all right.”  He started to haul himself to his feet, but kept tripping over feathers.

        “This lady and these gentlemen are from the reception desk in the great hall.  But I never saw the wings before,” said William in an undertone to Buffy.

        “The wings are used only for emergencies,” said the woman, trying to fold hers against her back and failing. “Had to requisition them, and it took ages.  No one could find the proper requisition forms either.”  She frowned hideously.  “And I don’t believe they’ve been properly maintained!”  The wings flapped in the breeze, almost lifting her afloat again and making her lose her balance.

        “No,” agreed the tall one who had fallen.  “I will certainly lodge a complaint.”

        “So they are angels, after all,” said William to Buffy.  “I wondered, but they seemed a bit bureaucratic for the role.”

        “Angelic bureaucrats,” said Buffy.  “Isn’t that—what do you call it—when something’s a contradiction in terms?”

        “An oxymoron,” said William.

        “Yup.  These are a bunch of oxymorons, all right.”

        “I wouldn’t criticize the nature of others’ existences, young lady,” huffed the female one.  “Your even being on this plane is a Mistake.  A Gaffe, a Terrible Blunder.  There will be Questions Asked.”  Buffy could hear the capitals in the angel’s panicked voice.

        “Oh,” said Buffy in a small voice.  “I should have expected this.”

        “I don’t understand,” said William.

        How could she explain to him?  “I didn’t die a natural death,” she said hesitantly.  “The circumstances were—more than usually unusual.”

        Her words had been directed only at him, but the angelic squad rushed to agree with her, their voices overlapping and their wings beginning to flap again with their increased agitation.

        “Absolutely unprecedented.”

        “No procedures in place at all.”

        “Nothing at all about it in the regulations.”

        They sighed and announced in unison, “Exception processing is so difficult.”

        “You hear that,” Buffy said to William. “I’m exceptional.”

        “I didn’t need to be told,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss her.

        “Stop that!” yelled one of the doorkeepers.  “It’s not allowed.  She doesn’t belong here.”

        Buffy decided to ignore this unfortunate fact for as long as possible, prolonging the kiss and pulling William closer.

        For a precious few minutes, the angels continued squabbling among themselves.  Buffy listened to them with half an ear.

        “Why isn’t it allowed?  Which regulation is that?” demanded the woman.

        “I don’t know.  I didn’t have time to look it up,” said the little one sulkily.

        “If you didn’t look up the rule, how do you know there is one? This just like you.  No proper foundation for anything you say.  I can’t remember a single board meeting when you didn’t bring up items not on the agenda and play havoc with the schedule. . .”

        William’s hands were running along Buffy’s spine and playing havoc with her train of thought.  She abandoned any thought of angels of any variety for a timeless moment.

        “Perhaps if the person controlling the agenda—who will remain nameless, but she knows who she is—would add my suggestions before the meetings were convened, I wouldn’t be forced to . . .”

        William’s lips were gently caressing the hollow at the base of her throat.

        “I simply fail to understand your lack of respect for Robert’s Rules of Order!”

        William’s mouth had moved back up to hers, and his tongue . . .

        “Even if there isn’t a regulation, it stands to reason that she couldn’t be kissing him if she weren’t here, and she’s not supposed to be here at all!  And neither of them should be in this part of the garden.  How long has he been coming here?  Why didn’t you keep better track of him?”

        “All these millennia, and no one else ever came to this spot.  Why would I think to look?  Haven’t we got enough to do distracting the ones that are always squabbling amongst themselves without traipsing after the ones that cause no trouble at all?”

        The tallest angel hissed and abruptly changed the subject, addressing Buffy and William.  “Which of you ate that?” he demanded.

        Buffy pulled away from William.  As much as she hated the thought, she was filled with certainty that these ridiculous creatures were right.  She didn’t belong here.

        She followed the tall angel’s pointing finger, as it quivered in bureaucratic dismay. 

 “I did,” said Buffy, staring at the apple core lying on the ground.  “What difference does it make?”

        “Oh, none,” said the angel, too quickly.  “Perhaps none.”  He began muttering to himself.  “After all, she doesn’t belong here anyway.  It’s not as if one of the proper residents—”  He broke off and addressed Buffy again.  “Now, do come along.”  His tone became wheedling, as if coaxing a child.  “You get to go through the door, you know.”

        “Not just yet,” said Buffy.

        “Not just yet?” demanded the shortest one incredulously.  “Everyone wants to go through the door.”  He turned to his companions.  “Should we report the apple?” he hissed.

        “Are you crazy?” demanded the female one.  “Imagine the Paperwork, the Official Enquiries, the Meetings—!”  She shuddered.  “Besides, there’s no place on the forms for it.” 

        Buffy turned away from this discussion to look at William.  “I do have to go,” she said reluctantly.

        “I know.”  His hand caressed her hair, and he looked as if he were trying to memorize her features.  “Perhaps I will go there too some day.”  He dropped his hand and stepped back.  “You deserve to be happy.  Be happy,” he said. 

        Instead, she felt a terrible chill of sorrow.  I could have sent you through that door.  A dozen, a hundred times, I had the chance, and I failed.  I can't even excuse myself by saying I was afraid, or that it would have been hard to do.  I left you in this torment only because I needed you for my own purposes.  I used you.

Buffy forced herself to smile at William, stepped forward to kiss him quickly on the lips, and turned to follow the angels.  The look in his eyes told her how bereft he was, although neither of them could fight the conviction that she did have to go.  She knew now that her death had not been the completely selfless act she had envisioned when she stepped into the void.  She had abandoned someone, and she deserved to have that haunt her, even beyond the door.

        Buffy shifted in Spike's arms, resting her head against his still chest.  "It seemed so simple there," she said wearily.  "I think that's why Willow's spell worked.  She shouldn't have been able to pull me out of heaven.  I must have wanted to come back, because of that look in William's eyes.  Except, when I did come back to life, I'd forgotten.  Or refused to remember.  And instead of releasing you, I used you again.  And abused you."

        "No, Buffy, I was the one who—"

"No, Spike.  I was the one with the soul.  I should have been the one to— Oh, I'm still not sure of anything, except that by the time I realized what I'd come back to do, it was completely impossible."  She touched his cheek.  "I don't have it in me to kill the person I love any more.  Not even to help him escape from hell instead of sending him there."

        "Ah, love," said Spike.  His voice was unsteady.  Buffy tried to imagine what he was thinking.  It was almost physically painful to her not to be able to see his face.

        "So this is all my fault," she said at last.  "I came back to try to save you, and instead I may have destroyed us all."

Chapter Fourteen