A/N: Hello to anyone and everyone reading this! Well, I figured after being a fan of Angel since eighth grade (and I'm a day away from being a high-school senior now), I'd finally sit down and write a fanfic of the amazingness of Angel! Not to mention I would have been devoured by plot orcas if I hadn't sat down and done so...

So this is a Fred/Wesley or Fresley fanfic. Why? Because they're amazing, that's why. I love them, they're my fave pairing of the show (even more so than Angel/Cordelia and I do love them a lot, too).

The title is a part of a line from the song "Into Silence" by the Romanian symphonic band Magica. As this story deals with death and resurrections, I felt it to be fitting.

Well, I've rambled enough now, so enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns the awesomeness that is Angel. Anyone you don't recognize, they belong to me. Get it? Got it? Good

"You kissed my lips

With those once-cold fingertips

You reached out for me

And oh, how you missed

You touched my face

And all life was erased

You smiled like an angel

(Falling from grace)

We've been slaves to this love

From the moment we touched

And keep begging for more

Of this resurrection."

-"Resurrection" by H.I.M. (His Infernal Majesty)

Prologue: Back Through the Veil

"Why…can't I…stay..?"

Those four simple words were the last that Winifred Burkle had ever known-really, her last coherent memory. After that had followed a moment or two when her last painful breath fled her lungs; Wesley's face had swam before her eyes, becoming nebulous and blurry before fading to black completely.

To her surprise, death was not how she had imagined it. Fred had always thought that death would be uncaring, cold; she thought she'd be cruelly forced to watch her loved ones mourn her, close enough to comfort them, but in a realm entirely of her own, unable to cross to their realm.

More recently, she'd thought she'd be forced to watch that demon, that infection they'd called Illyria, gut her from the inside out and take her over right before Wesley's horrified eyes.

But that didn't happen.

Death was not a cold, black abyss. It was dark, yes, but this blackness was warm and comforting, like a down comforter on a cold winter's night. And while she caught glimpses of what happening in the world she left behind-such things as Wesley stabbing Gunn when he learned of Gunn's part in her death, and Illyria, the illustrious Ancient One, falling to her knees in despair when she found that her once-mighty army had been reduced to nothing more than mere ash.

But it wasn't as though someone had strapped her down and forced her to watch everything.

For a while-she didn't know how long it was, it may have only been hours, it may have been months, years even-Fred was content to float along in this state. But at one point-and she couldn't pinpoint a specific day, hour, minute when it happened, it simply wasn't there one minute and was there the next-things changed. It seemed as though her blissful blackness was being invaded; she kept hearing murmuring voices, and a constant, steady beeping. More and more often, strange half-sentences caught her attention:

"…comatose state…"

"…no sign of illness or injury…"

"…body vitals normal and healthy…"

"…no sign of consciousness…"

"…pull the plug soon…"

Pull the plug? She was already dead-they couldn't be talking about her. After all, she was dead, her body hijacked by a powerful demon. But, if not her, then who?

And then, it came: the blinding, brilliant white light. The comforting black embrace vanished; the beeping grew louder. A strange heaviness settled over her, as though someone had tied lead weights to her.

Despite the blinding light, she still forced her eyes open. The first thing she saw were the white walls. The bizarre-looking beds of grey metal and complicated looking levers and springs came next. Hospital beds-she'd seen them several times before, the first time being after an accident with her bike at the age of seven. She was in a hospital room.

This isn't right…it can't be.

The next thing that came into view were two lumps at the foot of what was presumably her bed, covered in the hospital-standard blue-gray knit blanket. Confused, she willed her left foot to move. At the exact moment that she did, the left lump twitched.

She had a body. A functioning, corporeal body.

Fred lifted her arms; they moved as though her bones were filled with lead, not marrow. She found strange tubes strapped to them, strange needles pushed into her skin where veins were visible. Ignoring those, she grabbed a lock of her hair, holding it out. It was as she had known it in life, a reasonable length, a medium shade of brown, and wavy, though it curled a little at the ends. She let the lock of hair drop, moving her hands to her face, tracing over her features. They, too, were as she'd known them in life: the straight-sloped nose, the high cheekbones, the slightly-sunken cheeks, the full lips, and the gently-sloped brow. Along with these familiar features, she found an assortment of what felt like tubes, presumably the same kind of tubes as the ones decorating her arms. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Winifred Burkle was back from the dead.

A/N: I know it's a little short, but generally, prologues are. I hope you enjoyed!