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Bleed
by Ducks and Vatrixta Cruden
B/A Angst/Smut
EMAIL: denialbubble@yahoogroups.com
DISCLAIMER: *Ducks and V snigger cruelly* No thank you, we don't want
them anymore. Go beat Joss if you want to complain.
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: B/A (C/A, B/S implied)
TIMELINE: Valentine's Day, 2003
SPOILERS: Entire B/A canon is fair game. Even after the point where
"canon" became the brand name of a printer, and not anything the writers
bother paying attention to. Mostly this is AU after "Dead
Things"/"Waiting to Vomit"
SUMMARY: "It may sound absurd, but don't be naive, even heroes have the
right to bleed. I may be disturbed, but won't you concede, even heroes
have the right to dream? And it's not easy to be me."
DISTRIBUTION: Ducks' Fanfic: http://ducksfanfic.denialbubble.com;
The Vampire Defense League: http://vdl.denialbubble.com; anyone who
houses our porn.
FEEDBACK: Does Angel brood? Oh, wait... never mind. Yes, we'd love some
feedback.
DEDICATION: To our Mutual Minion Dru, Molly and Smurfette - you guys
KILL us! Big Nod to our Goddess, Margot - please finish Storming Heaven.
To Phil and Redactor - our babe magnet/guy writer and token non-Shipper.
Big thanks to Shirley Ujest, for the quick like a bunny beta. *G*
AFFIRMATION: CancelAngelKillCordyCancelAngelKillCordy
TO MUTANT ENEMY: NO ST.CORDUFFY IN EP = *GOOD*
Our musical selection is "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Five for Fighting
"Bleed"
by Ducks & Vatrixsta
* * *
"I can't stand to fly.
I'm not that nave.
I'm just out to find.
The better part of me."
* * *
The Los Angeles night rolled past the tinted limousine windows, like a
river of stars muted in smoke.
Buffy watched it flow by... the buildings, the pavement, and the strange
people. This alien world of steel, glass, concrete and pain, and
wondered how it could possibly be that her gentle, beautiful lover lived
here.
'Because it's his job. Just like mine's to live on the Hellmouth.
Which... really... makes them a lot more similar than different. He's
Batman, I'm Supergirl, and Metropolis sucks just as bad as Gotham.'
She had once been an LA girl herself. But that was a long time ago, when
she was much tougher, both inside and out. Back when she still had hope,
when the future looked bright and limitless, and the things that went
'bump' weren't her sworn duty to even know about, let alone eradicate.
The city was too jagged, too cold for her, now. She came only to see
him, only to experience the harsh ugliness of the city softened through
his loving eyes. Without him, the barren landscape only made her feel
raw.
Of course... there wasn't a lot that didn't make her feel raw, these
days.
She turned away from the smoky glitter and buried her nose in one of the
dozens of bouquets of sterling roses Angel had left in the car for her,
then read the parchment card for the thousandth time by the dim
dashboard light.
'Tonight we begin again. Always, A.'
She had to smile and let out a little sigh, just like every other time
she'd looked at it. So, yeah, it was corny. It was sappy and hokey and
so incredibly sticky-sweet that she probably got a cavity every time she
read it.
But that was Angel... the soul of a poet possessed of a heart
overflowing with incredible grace. He loved her, and often said that he
refused to be afraid to say so anymore, however flowery the sentiment.
She often found herself wondering - how had she ever thought she could
do without him? He'd told her she could, all those years ago. More, that
she should. All her friends and family agreed. Hell, she had even
convinced *herself* that she didn't need him, didn't want him, for a
long, long time.
Well... mostly.
'And look how that little cruise down De Nial turned out.'
Her smile slipped away as eyes the color of a stormy sky blotted out the
vision of the small love token in her hands. She started to shake - some
weird instinct for self-protection that she couldn't fight or deny, even
after all this time.
It had been entirely absent when she *really* needed it, but now the
panic popped up at every possible - and incredibly inconvenient -
opportunity.
((You belong in the darkness, with me.))
The shaking got worse, and Buffy clutched the card so fiercely that it
crumpled in her grip.
'No. Not now. Not tonight.'
She clamped her jaw shut tight... tried to recall the deep breathing
exercises Angel had encouraged her to start using again whenever the
panic threatened. The surety that stole on her from time to time, that
she was helplessly tumbling back to the bottom of that pit of despair
she had only just begun to claw her way out of.
Like her grave...
"No," she whimpered aloud. "No, please."
"You all right, miss?"
The driver's voice shattered her anxiety like a pane of glass. Her lungs
relaxed, started taking in oxygen again, the trembling abated, and the
visions of chains, bruises and pain blew away like vamp dust on the
artificial breeze of the limousine's air conditioning.
"Fine. Thanks," she heard herself say - her voice surprisingly strong
and steady. "Just nervous."
"Big Valentine's date?"
Her smile returned, and her inner musings now filled with visions of
chocolate brown eyes shining with love, loyalty, and friendship.
"The biggest," she told him.
And it was true. Tonight was The Night. The night that she and Angel had
planned and talked through for months. The moment of truth:
Could she make love anymore? Or had her foray into self-destructive
debauchery with Spike ruined her to a lover's gentle touch forever?
There were lines she and Angel had not tried to cross in all this
time... their wounds too fresh to handle the blessings and
responsibilities of physical intimacy. But tonight, they would try.
`And it's not just any lover,' she reminded herself as she picked up the
roses again. `Angel.'
Angel. Sweet, giving, supportive Angel. Wounded, grieving, heartbroken
Angel. He was torn down the middle... gutted, just like she was after...
what happened to his son.
She closed her eyes against that pain... the wrenching of her heart in
his name. How she wanted tonight to be perfect for him. To give him back
some small part of the joy he had lost when...
`Okay. Enough with the dark places. Ow!'
She pricked her finger on a stray thorn, and instinctively popped the
wounded digit into her mouth. Tasted the blood, and thought...
Yeah, so... she and Angel had weathered more than their fair share of
pain - be it self-inflicted, wreaked on one another, or the result of
forces entirely outside themselves. But with that pain - no, above and
beyond it - their friendship was a thing of pure beauty. A beacon in
darkness so thick and heavy, neither of them thought they would ever
find their way out again.
But he had taken those first steps. Come into the dark, and found her.
And tonight, she wanted to thank him for it -- her neuroses be damned.
And Spike be double damned, if he really was dust, as she sometimes
suspected when he'd vanished mysteriously a few nights after her talk
with Angel.
There had been no beauty, with Spike. Nothing pure or good. Just blood
and broken furniture, the need to hurt and rend and destroy, and a
burning self-loathing that she couldn't seem to shake, even now.
It was so hard, telling Angel about that. So hard on so many levels -
the two vampires' gory past, the low point that she'd had to plunge to
in order to make the idea of having sex with a soulless, evil demon even
fathomable, without ever trying to reach out to Angel for help. The fact
that she'd *liked* it, in some - better-forgotten - part of herself. She
had been sure that he would be hurt... furious... that he would turn his
back on her and walk away... again. The same sadistic part of her that
had once wanted Spike wanted him to. And the rest of her was certain she
deserved it.
But Angel had surprised her. Though later, she would admit to herself
that she never really believed he would stand in judgment of what she'd
done. All of those things she feared happened but the last. He wasn't
hurt *by* her (much)... he wasn't angry *at* her... but *for* her.
That was what made her remember - like a blinding religious experience -
just why she loved him so much. He had a *soul* -- and that beautiful
soul bled for her pain. It reached out even through its own torment,
touched hers, and made her feel again. And ever since, he had
systematically been breaking down that tough hide she had pulled around
herself after her forced resurrection.
She didn't think about Heaven much anymore. That was a different
torture, and one that she couldn't face yet. Like Angel and his memories
of Hell, her mind just couldn't process what she had had - and lost,
because her friends loved her too much. And like Angel, to keep walking
through the minefield of their earthly every day, she had to forget.
Buffy was sure some part of her would never forgive her friends... but
she had buried that, right along with the memories.
So, for six months, she and her first (only) lover had worked to put the
shattered pieces of themselves and each other back together again. It
had been a long, hard road, so far, and she knew they weren't even close
to done yet.
But they would walk it together. That was what they had to do... heal.
Whether they felt strong or not, the world still depended on them.
***
"I'm more than a bird,
I'm more than a plane.
I'm more than some
Pretty face beside a train,
And it's not easy to be me.
***
The limo pulled up in front of the Beverly-Wilshire, and the doorman
hustled to help her out as she stepped to the curb with her duffle bag
(carrying only a couple of stakes, rather than her usual portable
arsenal, at Angel's insistence. "This weekend is about us," he'd
reminded her, "Not what we do."). As she moved away, the driver opened
the passenger side window and gave her a friendly grin.
"I'll have the flowers delivered to your home address on Monday, all
right, miss?"
She would have smiled back, she was sure... but he was blond, with
finely chiseled, starving-actor features and blue, blue eyes.
She managed a half-civil, "Thanks," but that was all.
"Miss Summers?" he called once again, and Buffy turned to look at him
just in time to catch his wink. "If you don't mind my saying so...
you'll knock him dead."
She did smile, then - bold and bright, like the future Angel's love had
once again begun to convince her was possible, even for freaks like them
-- so riddled with holes, a Mack truck could easily drive through.
"Too late," she replied lightly, and followed the doorman inside.
* * *
"I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I'll never see..."
***
It was too dark in this damn room.
Angel patted down his pockets until he came up with the lighter he'd
brought with him. He picked up each of the small votive candles (ten in
all) on the table in turn, lighting them and cursing as he singed his
finger on the last two.
That was much better. The room was now filled with a healthy, natural
glow.
He'd rented a room at the Beverly Wilshire. He'd asked Buffy her
preference, and she'd confessed a childhood yearning to stay at the
place she'd always imagined movie stars stayed. Another of her desires
-- a trip to Rodeo Drive, complete with the pocket money to really do it
up right -- would be in the cards for tomorrow, courtesy of a big favor
called into David Nabbit.
Cordelia had offered to accompany Buffy (out of the goodness of her
heart and in no way in an attempt to cash in on the shopping spree,
Angel was sure) during the daytime portion of her outing, leaving Angel
the precious hours in the night. It seemed he'd been relegated to the
dark parts of Buffy's life for as long as he could remember.
Now, though, he was determined to make those hours as bright as
possible. Speaking of . . .
It was too bright now.
Quickly blowing out all ten candles, he paced over to the bed, checking
things meticulously. Pale mauve cotton sheets (from his own bed -- the
inferior linens slept on by a thousand starlets the hotel supplied would
not touch Buffy's skin tonight) were in place. Champagne was on ice, the
food was keeping warm on the banquette, there was non-alcoholic soda if
she didn't want to indulge, and a mixed CD, featuring Buffy's favorite
music, playing low in the corner.
A dozen different varieties of chocolate had been supplied by the hotel
staff (Will there be anything else, Mr. Angel? You've already spent
nearly a thousand dollars for one night -- perhaps a few twenties to
light on fire?) and he was having an extremely difficult time thinking
of anything but eating them off of Buffy's firm, round belly.
Damn it, he thought, too dark again.
Everything had to be perfect. It all had to be . . . perfect. He sighed,
abandoning the task of lighting the ninth candle again as he looked
around the room. It would never be completely perfect, he knew, because
they were both carrying too much baggage.
((Way too much baggage. More baggage than any soul should ever have to
bear . . .))
Shaking the disquieting thought off, Angel stared at the partly lit,
partly unlit candles. Maybe he should just blow them all out, make the
room dark. He could see in the dark just fine. . .
Of course, Buffy didn't have Night Predator Vision and the last thing he
wanted to do was remind her that he did. Vampires had become an even
touchier subject for her than they ever had been before. Ironically,
what being born to kill them hadn't done to her, being involved with one
(without benefit of a soul) had managed: Buffy had lost a big part of
herself to the darkness.
Angel didn't want to remind her of darkness tonight. Hell, it had taken
him an hour and a half to choose his ensemble, finally deciding on
'Normal Guy' duds, consisting of a white dress shirt (untucked) and a
pair of black slacks. The Great Sock Debate (to remove or not to remove)
had been waged nearly an hour before. Deciding that it was not too
presumptuous to greet Buffy at the door barefoot (they *were* in this
hotel for an illicit rendezvous; that was why people who already lived
in LA got very nice rooms at the Beverly Wilshire), he'd shucked his
socks and shoes, then immediately begun lighting candles.
Just because they both knew why they were here, he reasoned, no need to
hit her over the head with it. He ordered himself to breathe, however
unnecessary it was. The act of pulling deep breaths into one's lungs was
meditative. After a few reps, he felt almost normal. Which was amazing,
considering that after the events of the past year, he hadn't thought
he'd ever feel normal again. He'd completely expected to greet a sunrise
after . . .
His mind shied away from it. Thinking of his son, his heart, caused the
ever-present ache in his chest to bloom into a knife, sharp and cold,
carving him open from the inside out. He was dead, but still walking,
and were it not for Buffy, for her love and her hero's heart, her
tenderness and willingness to trust him, to make him trust her . . . he
would surely be hollow.
The past year had been a whirlwind, of that he was certain. First, he
had learned that the love of his life was dead. He had died with her in
that moment. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that
he *had* to live; that there were people depending on him now, that he
couldn't abandon them again, or waste away . . . and so, in that sense,
his family had saved him. In his self-imposed isolation, Angel had found
solace. His commitment to Buffy's memory, to continuing the fight they
had waged together had ultimately fueled his desire to go on. He would
live for her, because Dawn had told him (via a letter Cordelia had
managed to get to the monastery) that that was what Buffy had wanted for
the people she'd loved; her last request.
More than that, then, he'd decided, more than just live, he would
thrive. He had wished, more than anything, that he had been able to save
her, or, barring that, that he had at least been allowed to die with
her. But it hadn't happened.
So many things hadn't happened . . .
It was easy to discern now, with the luxury of hindsight, how he had
managed to think he'd fallen in love with Cordelia. Fred planted the
idea in his head and it was so simple -- Cordelia. Of course.
He'd known Buffy was alive -- had seen her, touched her, held her
briefly. She had been different, though, and at the time, he'd been so
shocked, so confused, that he'd mistaken the difference in her for
something different between them. And besides, it was still so
impossible for them. Everything they had ever had standing between them
was still there, still a living, breathing entity and she was so . . .
lost.
For a moment, he'd tried to save her, like he tried to save all of them,
but no matter what he said, how he tried to coax, she'd refused to admit
that anything was wrong. He'd been so disconcerted, so frightened that
she wasn't really there at all . . .that he'd let her convince him that
she would be fine. And he'd returned to his home, and his life, and his
family . . . and he'd tried to forget.
Forgetting was easier when you had something else to focus on. And if
Cordelia was anything, she was simple to focus on. She was born to be
the center of attention and the fact that she no longer craved that
attention on a daily basis made her all the more effortless to love. She
was bright, brave (often foolishly so), and she *loved* him. Not like a
lover, but as a friend. As the first true friend she'd ever made in her
life, in the same way he'd loved her. And he'd blurred that because he'd
wanted to.
There was no risk with Cordelia, no undying love and devotion, no
terrible heartache. He could be the Angel everyone seemed to want --
happy (but not TOO happy), open . . . Hell, he even had a child now.
Someone to set a good example for. His son should see his father in a
healthy, loving relationship. He should know how it works, so that when
he grew up . . .
And there was the pain again, sharp and sudden, gutting him anew. Except
that I don't have a son, he thought, a numb sort of anguish creeping
through his heart for the millionth time.
He'd realized a lot of things after Holtz had burned his shiny new life
to ash. He'd found that Wes, Gunn, Fred and Cordy *were* family, in the
truest sense of the word, and that no matter how far he tried to push
them away (and oh, how he'd tried), this time, they would not let him
fall. They'd all learned something from that disaster with Darla, it
seemed.
Angel had discovered a few things over the past seven months, too. He
had discovered that losing his son was more painful than remembering all
the people he'd killed in over two centuries. He'd ascertained that
Cordelia was the best thing he had in his life, and that it had
absolutely nothing to do with something as frivolous as romance, or as
fleeting as a schoolboy crush. She'd held him like a mother would hold
an inconsolable child, even though he had been still and unresponsive in
her arms and when he'd emerged from the catatonic state he'd slipped
into to save his sanity, his soul had begun to scream again -- because
it needed its other half. It needed what family and friends would never
heal.
It needed Buffy. And she was alive.
And suddenly, things were very, very uncomplicated again.
They had all argued against it, of course, Cordelia with her blunt
honesty ("She'll break you again!"), Wesley with his cautious approaches
("Do you really think such a tumultuous undertaking is best under the
circumstances?"), Fred with her sweet, sweet heart ("Maybe you should
just try to take her to a movie first before you drive all that way and
declare undying devotion."), and Gunn with his Spartan approach to life
("You don't need a woman. What you need to do is get drunk and take your
big vampire fury out on some bad uglies.").
What they all really meant, of course, was 'We're worried about you,
Angel; we don't want to see you get hurt.' And it was sweet and
wonderful and he loved them dearly for it, but in the end, he'd done
what needed to be done and they'd let him go, with only one proviso --
he would not go alone.
So Cordelia and Wesley accompanied him, under the pretense of visiting
old friends (though Angel knew that neither of them were overly excited
to see anyone in Sunnydale again; his heart swelled for a moment at how
much he meant to them) and for the first time since the first time he'd
seen her alive -- he'd *seen* Buffy. After driving all night, stopping
so Cordelia could pee -- twice -- Angel had finally, really seen her,
just as he had so long ago, standing outside in the sunshine, sucking
the life out of a lollipop. Literally. He'd been sitting in the shade of
his car, watching as she ate one of those little dum-dum suckers with
Dawn outside the Magic Box.
And, just like the first time, he had found hope again, wrapped up in
five foot five inches of petite blonde perfection. Her heart called out
to him again, and this time, he swore, he *would* keep it safe.
It was not magic. There were no sudden, blinding fixes. The grief still
gnawed at him. But for a moment, there was that damnable hope again.
Hope that there would come a day when his every moment would not be
haunted by what he could have done, should have done, to save Connor.
Had it been the right decision to leave Holtz alive? Had his inaction,
his mercy, his *guilt*, murdered his boy? Buffy had not been the first
to tell him that those thoughts were unproductive, but it was her
counsel that he finally heard.
Her experiences since her resurrection troubled him on a number of
levels. The fact that she'd felt unable to confide in her friends, for
fear of causing them undo pain, he'd understood completely. It was after
they'd learned the truth about her time in the interim that he'd been
puzzled by her refusal to talk to them. Moreover, he'd been shocked that
she'd managed to keep all the things she'd been slowly telling him
inside, without a soul to share her burden.
Then one night, Buffy had finally broken down and confessed. She had not
had a soul to share her secrets with, but there had been an
all-too-willing body.
What she'd told him about Spike wasn't much; she'd glossed over the gory
details. But what she'd revealed had sent him into a murderous rage.
He'd taken a lot of his grief over Connor out on Spike the night Buffy
had finally told him the depths of her "relationship" with the other
vampire.
Spike hadn't been able to walk for a day or two, and when he'd finally
healed enough, he'd sprinted out of town faster than he did after that
disaster with Acathla. His love, it seemed, did not extend beyond his
natural instinct for self-preservation.
Maybe if he just lit half of the candles . . .
Thoughts of the room's ambiance turned Angel's attention firmly back to
Buffy's imminent arrival, for which he was grateful. These morose
thoughts were going to drive him crazy ((er)) if he wasn't careful.
After blowing two more candles out, Angel was giving the room a final
look-over, anticipating the night to come (not to mention cautiously
allowing for the possibility that Buffy might not be as prepared for
tonight as she'd led him -- and herself -- to believe) when--
There was a knock at the door. He stubbed his toe against the little
food cart in his hurry to answer it and he swore. Stifling the curse, he
hobbled his way to the door, took another few deep breaths outside of
it, then turned the handle, letting the door swing open. Standing before
him was a vision that, had he possessed it, would have stolen his breath
away.
"Hi," he greeted softly, hoarsely. He wanted to grab her to him, strip
her naked and get lost in her for a century or so. He tamped down the
urge. Barely. Only the mantra of "she's not ready, go slow, she needs
you to be a gentleman" kept the rabid sex-fiend that still lived inside
his skin at bay.
He should have blown out all the candles. When he was able to see her so
clearly, when it was so obvious how exquisitely beautiful she was . . .
She seemed to relax a little when she saw how nervous he was. Good. He
would stand on his head and juggle if it made her more comfortable.
"Hi," she greeted back. God, she had luminous eyes. Like the sky and the
green mountains of home all rolled up together. Maybe it wouldn't be so
complicated, after all. He would be content to stand here all night and
gape at her like an idiot . . . "So . . . do you think maybe I could
come in?"
There was, of course, a distinction between gaping at her *like* an
idiot, and actually *being* an idiot. Angel feared he'd just crossed
that line.
"Oh. Sorry. Yes. I mean -- come in." He stepped away from the door ((how
could I have not realized I was in her way?)), berating himself for a
moment. Then he got another look at her and could think of nothing else
except, "You look . . . great." ((Understatement))
"It may sound absurd
But don't be nave
Even heroes have the right to bleed.
I may be disturbed
But won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream?
And it's not easy to be me."
***
"Thanks." Buffy walked in and looked around at the amazing slice of...
No, no use going there, either, although she knew for certain by now
that what she felt with him -- all he gave to her - was probably as
close as she was likely to get until the next time she died. Sometimes,
she wasn't even sure about that anymore. Maybe you only get one ticket
to Heaven, she often thought. And the agony of that possibility had kept
her from telling Angel just where she had been. "Wow. Angel, this is..."
She turned to glance at him. "This is amazing."
All these years later, even after everything they'd survived, and all
the roads they'd walked alone, looking at him still took her breath
away, no less than it had the first time she set eyes on him one cool
fall night in the alley behind the Bronze.
((Is there a problem, ma'am?))
"I hoped you'd like it." He gave her a tentative smile. "Um . . . how
was the drive?" He realized how lame that was, but he didn't know what
else to say or do other than kiss her, and he wanted to let her make the
first move, not rush her. Even more than he wanted her, he wanted her to
be comfortable.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "It was the exact same drive I've made
every other weekend for the past six months. Except for the 'being
driven' rather than 'driving' part." A wry grin snuck across her lips.
"Nice to see I'm not the only one terrified into total asininity. Is
that a word?"
He laughed, a bit anxiously. "I, uh . . think I passed terrified an hour
ago. I've re-lit those candles six times." He looked a bit sheepish.
"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" He peered down at her bag. "Do you want to
change clothes?" He started backpedaling. "Not that you don't look
beautiful, because you do, you always do and I really haven't been this
nervous since . . . I want to say the last time we were in this
position, but I don't think I was even this nervous then."
She couldn't help but laugh, and just to be helpful, handed him her bag.
"No... I mean... yes. Wow. That's a lot of topics to cover in one reply.
Um... no, I don't need to change. Yes, I could eat, and yes, I'm also
thirsty."
Swallowing, she trailed off as she remembered their first-first time...
she hadn't been nervous at all. More... hungry... desperate to be close
to him. Close enough that he could never almost die on her again, and
she would always know he was safe... "And me either. I mean... I
wasn't... nervous at all."
That was another profound truth that his leaving had forced her to shove
from her mind for fear the memory of it would break her once and for all
- she had never been afraid when she was with him. Not of anything. That
was why she had finally been able to break down and tell him about
Spike. He would *never* judge... not the way she'd judged herself... or
the way she feared her friends and family would have. And he hadn't.
He'd just held her and told her the truth (as he saw it, anyway) --
Spike took advantage of her when she was weak. He cut her down when she
was already wounded and bleeding. He played her weaknesses, pushed all
her darkest buttons, when she was least able to say no.
She knew it wasn't even close to that simple... but that part, she'd
never told him. The part about her demon - the one under her skin. How
could she, when he already had the burden of his own to deal with? How
could she tell him that the woman he thought was so wonderful was a lie?
And then, Spike had mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again.
She wondered, sometimes, if Angel had killed him. Sometimes she felt a
little guilty thinking he had -- after all, Spike had never done
anything she didn't let him do... didn't fully participate in.
But on the other hand... so much of her had wanted the platinum vampire
dead, but had never been able to raise the stake to do it herself. There
was some grim satisfaction that he might have gotten what she should
have given him a long time ago. A poetic justice in who had finally
ended his reign of fear and manipulation. The Sire of his Sire... one of
his own blood kin.
She never asked Angel what happened.
"Let me take your coat," he suggested softly.
Slowly, she unbuttoned her long leather jacket, slipping it off to
reveal an ankle -length, sheer dress of deep emerald green silk. She'd
chosen it for the cut... the way the neckline plunged subtly almost to
her belly button, the back just to her waist. She'd thought it was
sexy... suggestive... something a healthy, whole woman might wear to
please the man she loved on Valentine's Day.
Now she mostly felt exposed...sort of like she was standing in traffic
naked. But even so, the gleam in his eye... somewhere between 'fight,'
'flight,' and 'rend at seams and devour' before he turned away to lay it
across the back of a chair, gave her a little rush of power she hadn't
felt in a very, very long time.
But not enough to make her comfortable. She cast her gaze away,
blushing.
He moved a little closer to her, still wary of infringing upon her
personal space *too* much. She was giving off run-like-a-rabbit vibes
and he was fairly certain he would die if she ran from him. He swallowed
deeply, trying to grasp onto some thread of control. "Nice dress," he
managed to croak out.
She gave him a shy half-smile. "Thanks. It was either this or the
crotchless black leather catsuit." She winced at her own tacky joke.
Taking a deep breath, she closed a bit more of the distance between
them, and forced herself to look deeply into his shining mahogany eyes.
She instantly found the love that always burned there and latched on to
it like the lifeline that it was. Told herself: there's nothing to be
afraid of. Not here.. not with him. This was Angel -- he would never do
ANYTHING she didn't fully and truly want him to do. They had talked
about this... a lot. They wanted to make love, but they didn't want to
send her into screaming fits of trauma like the first few times they had
come close. So last month they had agreed -- Valentine's Day. Slow and
Easy. No pressure.
Of course, she didn't really think that slow and easy was supposed to
translate into standing around gawking at one another all night like a
couple of morons on Quaaludes, either. And the incredibly romantic
setting he had created in the obviously very expensive hotel room had
"pressure" written all over it.
"Angel..."
"I know." Very gently, he reached out and brushed the hair back from her
face. "We just have to . . ." He swallowed again. "Go slow. Very, very
slow." His other hand moved up to gently stroke her cheek with the backs
of his knuckles. "We'll be all right. It'll all work out. Hey . . .it's
us, right? How can it not?"
"Was that supposed to be ironic?" she asked, rolling her eyes even as
she instinctively leaned into his touch with a little sigh. Then she
opened her eyes and looked up into his once more. "I'm sorry. That
wasn't fair."
"No, you're right." He frowned a little. "Things haven't always . . . "
He laughed. "I was going to say 'gone smoothly for us' and, well . . ."
He continued stroking her face, her hair, soft, languid movements meant
to calm her. "But we're here. After everything, we're still standing and
we're together. That has to count for something."
She smiled... a real one, this time. "It counts for everything. It's
just... I feel like such an idiot, you know?" There was an urge bubbling
through her... to step back... to move away from a caress that might
start out gentle, but turn violent in the blink of an eye. She forced
herself to stay put, but couldn't seem to move to touch him in return.
Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm 23 years old. I've loved you for as long
as I can remember. This shouldn't be so..." She gave her head a little
shake. "I don't know. I wanted... I want this to be... good. For you, I
mean. Not like some sex therapy exercise, but... the way it's supposed
to be. The way I've always dreamed of. But... It's like I've forgotten
what to do."
"Buffy . . ." He cupped her face between his hands, making sure she was
looking him in the eye. "You could never be anything short of amazing
for me." His thumbs gently rubbed little circles over her cheekbones.
"Now . . . Are you hungry? Besides enough chocolate to feed a small
army, I have another surprise for you."
Her face lit up. "Ooh! A surprise? And chocolate? Color me ready for
dinner."
At least they weren't getting right to The Sex, she thought.
He led her over to the small dining table in the corner lit with -- you
guessed it -- half a dozen candles. He held out her chair for her, and
then turned to a little cart behind him. Wheeling it over, he whipped
off the cover with a flourish. "For Madam's enjoyment this evening, we
have -- popcorn, individual mini-cheese pizzas, seafood quiche, and Dr.
Pepper."
Her eyes went wide. "I have no words." She looked up at him with
unabashed adoration in her eyes. "I knew there was a reason why I love
you more than life itself." And ouch to another inappropriate
reference... but if she waited to suddenly grow an etiquette gland,
they'd be here until the end of the next century. Or at least... he
would... with her bones. And GOD couldn't she think of something less
morbid? She scowled at herself.
He smiled gently at her and sat across the table. He poured them both a
glass of Dr. Pepper out of the liter bottle and he sipped his slowly,
awaiting her choice of treat.
"How's Dawn?" he inquired politely.
Buffy took a few pizzas and put them on the elegant plate, forced to
grin at the inconsistency. So Angel -- thoughtful and sweet, down to
earth and elegant all at once. Not to mention as good -- if not better
-- to eat as the small smorgasbord between them. Ooh! A positive sex
thought! The wattage of her smile rose.
"She's a big pain in my ass. As usual." She popped one of the pizzas in
her mouth and quickly devoured it. "God, that's good. Is this . . .
gourmet pizza?" Instead of waiting for a response, she prattled on,
"Anyway . . . you should see this new guy she's dating. He's got like,
every possible protruding body part *pierced*. Probably protruding parts
that shouldn't *be* pierced. But I guess . . . at least this one isn't a
vampire." Her gaze shot up to his, horrified. "I didn't . . . I mean . .
."
He smiled at her, amused and captivated all at once. "I know what you
meant," he assured her gently. "I also understand that I'm the vampire
exception, not the rule." He winced a little. "*Every* part?"
She shrugged, choosing not to say her 'OH MY GOD YES YOU ARE AND I
SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE' thought aloud... for once. "You know kids
these days. Can't seem to stop from mutilating themselves in every
possible disgusting way. How about you? How's your gang?"
"Good," Angel replied, fondly thinking of his 'gang', and trying *not*
to think of a brown-eyed boy who would never be "one of the kids today".
"Gunn and Fred are getting serious. I think Wesley's about to kill
himself, though. He's been sleeping on Cordelia's couch. She says he's
bumming Dennis out."
"Aw... poor Wes. Always the bridesmaid, never the..." she smirked.
"Forget it. Why doesn't Cordy introduce him to some of the Rich,
Righteous and Powerful she's mixing it up with lately? I mean... she
can't possibly date *all* the influential philanthropists in LA, right?
Especially not the female ones."
"She tried, actually," Angel replied. "But... I think Wes got burnt out
on socialites who can't accept the often-dangerous life we lead when
Virginia broke up with him. That cut a lot deeper than he'll admit, even
to himself, I think." He looked rueful. "Not that Cordelia's having much
luck with the affluent and dynamic, either. She's been complaining that
they're all shallow, self-involved narcissists with no clue as to what's
really plaguing the world." He chuckled. "She does at least realize the
irony. I think she's happier at home with Dennis, anyway."
"Which is a really weird place I can't even begin to go to," Buffy
chuckled. "Well, at least you didn't have to explain the whole
kettle-black concept to her." She trailed off for a moment while she cut
herself a piece of quiche, set it on her plate, and then stared at it.
"Giles said to say hello. And that if you broke my heart again, he would
personally fly back here and... I think he said 'flay you from head to
foot.' And a lot of other torture terms I'm not really..." She stopped
again... because she now knew far more than she should about torture. As
Angel also did. She looked up at him, and worried her bottom lip. "Do
you think there'll ever be a time when every other subject that comes up
doesn't pour salt in a gaping wound?"
"I used to think no," he answered after a moment. "That the best I could
hope for was to dull the sting." He reached across the table and took
one of her hands in his, holding it gently, using her almost as a
talisman. "We're raw all over, Buffy. It just . . . as lame as it
sounds, it just takes time. There's a lot that we both have to heal
from. But I bet someday we'll be able to sit down and have an entire
conversation without having to fight back the urge to cry." He smiled,
genuinely, because he really did believe himself. Optimism was something
he'd lost after Connor's death, something Buffy was beginning to help
him feel again.
She squeezed his hand. "I hope so. I keep thinking... today will be
better. I won't have a minor freak out every time I see a blond vampire.
I won't have nightmares. I won't cry when I think of everything you...
had to go through. But it hasn't happened yet." She looked at him --
really looked at him -- for a long time. "I'm glad we... or rather,
you... were smart enough to know that we needed each other. I just wish
it hadn't taken so long."
"Me too." He cleared his throat, releasing her hand. "Eat. You must be
starving." He looked pointedly at her too-sharp collarbones.
A flash of defensive anger rushed through her. "Right. With the eating.
Because the eating is so much easier than the small talk that plows us
under with the Big Rubble Pile of Pain." Her tone was a little snappier
than she meant it to be, but she was sick of people telling her to eat
all the time. How the Hell was she supposed to eat if she wasn't hungry?
Although... she had managed to demolish two mini-pizzas and a piece of
quiche already, without even thinking. He was magick like that. She
reached for a fistful of popcorn to top it off and munched with testy
gusto. Another one of her new, fun foibles -- incredible mood swings,
like Slayer menopause or something. She felt bad for taking it out on
Angel... but he was here. Here for her like nobody else had ever been.
He wouldn't hold it against her.
Popcorn. Soda. More popcorn. The rhythm of eating was soothing, and gave
her time to try and figure out a way that this night could end in
anything but a total disaster.
She interrupted her mini feeding frenzy to watch him concentrating
intently on his Dr. Pepper, like he'd never seen anything so fascinating
in 250 years. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He looked up at her. "I know this is hard for you. I'm
supposed to make it easier. I'm sorry if I'm not." He shook his head.
"I'm supposed to save souls. It's what I do. And yet every time it's
someone close to me . . ." He gazed at her, marveling that she was
"close to him" again. That she was very nearly the center of his
universe once more. And that scared the Hell out of him, because they'd
screwed it up so royally the last time. He was positive he wouldn't
survive it again, which wouldn't be so bad, except that this time she
was too fragile. Buffy. Fragile. It was so incongruous it took him a
moment to puzzle it out. But she was. And he would slowly bleed to death
if it spared her further pain.
"I get lost," he admitted at last. "All I want to do is make it better
and I'm not sure that I can."
"It's not your job to 'save' me, Angel. Not to get all Dr. Phil on you
or anything, but... I have to save myself. Just that you're... here...
in my life, I mean. That's all I need." She forced a sad little smile.
"Gee, it's fun to be all screwed up together, isn't it? Better than
dinner and a show any day." She hated the pain in his eyes... hated that
self-doubt that still hung around him like a dark cloud. He had done so
much... come so far... survived things far worse than she could even
imagine. After all, how could dying and coming back to life even begin
to hold a candle to the pain of losing a child you never thought you'd
have in the first place? She hated herself for hurting him more. Taking
a deep breath, she reclaimed his hand from across the table.
"Besides, you did save me. You save me every time I'm near you. If you
hadn't come when you did..." She exhaled, her breath like her soul's
exhaust, poisoned with frightening memories. "I don't know what would
have happened. I can't ever ask for more from you. The only reason I
still have a soul at all is because of you, you know? I know I don't...
I can't... tell you everything. But... Spike used to..." she closed her
eyes, unable to stop the memories from coming now that they had begun.
How did he do that, just with his presence? How did he break down all of
her sturdily built walls and set all her secrets free?
"He used to talk about you, sometimes. He... liked to hear how he was...
different...better. And sometimes... I'd tell him, because that made the
whole thing easier. And harder. I hated thinking about you when I was
with him... it just seemed so wrong. But... sometimes thinking of you
was the only way I didn't just... disappear."
"I'm glad you didn't disappear," he confided quietly, trying to smile,
when all he really wanted to do was hunt Spike down and kill him slowly.
"And I'm glad you had something to comfort you. I hate thinking of you
with him, wondering if my imagination is underestimating what you went
through, or overcompensating it."
She gave a little shrug, completely at a loss how to answer that. "I
guess that depends on what you're thinking. It all seems worse than I
can imagine." She slammed the little mental door shut in her mind.
"Okay, you know what? Tonight is supposed to be about you and me. Nobody
else is allowed. We are healthy, perfectly normal people, period." It
came out weaker than she meant, and her voice trembled at the end, but
damnit! She'd let Spike ruin too much of her life already. This was
supposed to be a new one... one where there was only room for one
vampire in her mind and heart... and in her bed. "Right?"
He stared at her for a moment, the nodded decisively. "Dance with me,"
he said firmly. A second later, he stood and held out his hand to her.
He looked like he wanted to say something else, then just repeated,
softer, "Dance with me."
* * *
Up, up and away...
Away from me
But it's all right.
You can all sleep sound tonight.
I'm not crazy...
Or anything.
* * *
Buffy nodded and took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet and
into the shelter of his arms. God... she always forgot how big he was
between the times that they saw one another. How warm she felt in his
embrace, even though his body was cold. She closed her eyes and laid her
head against his shoulder. "I love you, you know. No matter how bi-polar
I get. Even if I can't... you know. But I guess that wouldn't exactly be
new for us, would it?"
"I know you," he murmured, holding her securely in his arms as they
began to sway slowly. "You're just trying to take some of the heat off
of me." He pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. "We went without sex
for a long time, Buffy. It was the knowing that we both could, that we
wanted to, that it would be beautiful and perfect until it suddenly
wasn't that nearly killed us. This . . ." His hands slowly began
smoothing up and down her back. "This is different. I'd wait forever for
you."
Buffy sighed... a sound half-contentment and half-fear. "I know you
would. That makes this so much easier. Which, if you think about it, is
really scary, considering how *not* easy it is." She looked away
sheepishly, but a moment later, felt a ghost of her old smart-ass grin
make its way to her lips as she looked up at him once more. "Besides...
I'm sort of psyched to see you naked again. Did I just say that out
loud?" She blinked coquettishly.
If he weren't dead, he would have blushed. "You did," he confirmed,
trying not to peek down her bodice. Visions of Naked Buffy had been
tormenting him for months; Visions of Naked Buffy had been threatening
his sanity from the moment he saw her in that . . . well, it wasn't
really a "dress". "Swath of diaphanous fabric" came to mind, but
certainly not dress. "I've told you how lovely you look tonight, haven't
I?"
"I think the word was great," she teased softly, pressing herself a
little closer. "But I'll take lovely, too. You look really... um...
good? too." She rolled her eyes at her lame attempt at a compliment.
"Okay, so you look hot enough to melt steel. How's that?"
His internal blush meter climbed even higher and he was actually
*grateful* for his lack of blood pressure for a change. Deciding to take
the focus off of him, he spun her away from him, then brought her back,
pressed closer to his body. He held her firmly for a moment, then
smirked mischievously and dipped her over his arm. His entire body froze
for a moment as he glanced down.
"Suddenly thinking maybe upside down wasn't the best choice for this
dress." He righted her again, embarrassed.
She laughed -- actually laughed out loud, and from deep in her belly as
she righted her escapee breasts. "It's okay. You've seen them before."
Then she realized how close they were, and wondered, other than when one
of them had been consumed by hysteria . . . had they been this close,
physically, for this extended a period of time since they started seeing
one another again? Now, it was her turn to blush and look demurely down
. . . straight at the burgeoning evidence of his arousal. She quickly
averted her gaze back to his face. "This is nice. Besides the breast
incident, I mean."
"I don't know. The breast incident might have been the highlight." He
grinned a little to show that he was teasing.
She had to smile back, and finally, hesitantly, reached up to caress his
face. God, how she loved that face. Even after all this time... after
everything... she could still think of him and remember: there was some
beauty, somewhere in this world, as long as he existed. "Do you think...
maybe some kissing might be in order here?"
"I'd say it's mandatory at this point," he murmured solemnly. Slowly,
giving her plenty of time to back away, he lowered his head to hers and
gently, gently brushed his lips over hers, giving her a chance to react,
one way or another.
She stiffened a little at first, but swallowed the pang of fear and
tried to do nothing but feel. A deep breath, a few moments of his cool,
familiar lips... and the fear was gone. Okay, not *gone* exactly, but...
the gentle reverence, the soft whisper of desire she could feel flow
from his mouth to hers, had to be stronger than all her ghosts... didn't
it? They'd be exorcised any minute, she was certain of it.
After a few blissful moments, he pulled away, loathe to stop, but
needing to make sure she was all right. "Good?" he asked hoarsely, still
swaying with her to the music.
She nodded. "Good. Really good." Taking a deep breath, she took his face
between her hands and kissed him, harder this time. Just a little
harder. A flash of nervousness... then the spark took. She wound her
hands up behind his head, tangling them in his thick, soft hair, and
pulled him closer still. She could feel every hard inch of him pressed
up against her... setting a slow, easy fire to her blood. Could she go
farther? One way or the other, all she could do was try. She touched his
lips with the tip of her tongue.
He used every ounce of control he'd amassed in 250 years to keep from
going too fast, too soon. One of his hands pressed against her lower
back, the other moved to her hair, cradling the back of her head as he
opened his mouth for her, let her set the pace.
"Mmmm," she moaned softly as she slipped her tongue into his mouth,
tasting him for the first time in forever. The taste of breath mints --
or maybe obsessively brushed teeth -- Dr. Pepper, and Angel. She traced
the long forgotten lines of his strong, straight teeth, and tentatively,
softly, flicked her tongue over his.
At the touch of her tongue against his own, Angel's control was
stretched somewhat. He allowed himself to play with her, to gently slide
his tongue along hers, coaxing, while his fingertips began tracing slow,
easy circles along her lower back.
She suckled his tongue into her mouth, drawing it gently between her
teeth, then moved to nibble his lips. As she felt his response harden
against her... his kiss growing just that smallest bit more fiercely,
and the first throb of fire blazed between her legs... she froze, and
pulled abruptly away. "I can't."
"It's okay," he soothed, panting with unnecessary breath. God, he
thought, all she's done is kiss me and I'm already panting for her. His
hands kept gently petting her like a wild mare he was trying to tame. "I
told you, Buffy, whatever happens tonight, it's all right."
"No. It's not *all right*. God, look at me! I'm shaking!" She shoved out
of his arms. "I hate him, Angel! He BROKE ME!" Her voice choked. "I love
you so much, and I can't even touch you... and don't think I don't
completely hate *that* deja vu! God!" She paced the room frantically,
dragging her fingers through her hair over and over again.
"He hurt you," Angel voiced quietly after a moment. "He hurt you and he
took something from you I could kill him a thousand times for. But he
didn't break you." He walked toward her, gently took her upper arms in a
firm grip, and turned her toward him. "Nothing can break you. You're way
too strong for that, Buffy. If you can't believe it yourself, believe
*me*."
Her bottom lip trembled as she looked up at him, desperately *needing*
to believe. "I let him. I wanted him to. What does that say about me,
huh?" She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to fight back the
threatening hysteria, but she didn't pull out of his grip. "I want to
believe you. I do. I just don't know... if I can. Maybe I didn't come
back to life wrong... but something's wrong with me now - something *I*
did to *myself* -- and I don't know how to fix it."
"Maybe you can't fix it," he suggested quietly, once again brushing hair
back from her face. "Maybe it just needs to heal." He debated with
himself for a moment, then came to a decision. "Lie down on the bed."
Her eyes snapped open, and the fear took over once more. "What?"
"Relax," he said softly. "There's nothing to be afraid of here and
nothing will happen unless you want it to. There will be no coercion, no
inappropriate touching . . ." He smiled. "Well...maybe a *little*
inappropriate touching." He rubbed his hand up and down her arm for a
moment. "I think we're going about this all wrong. Trying to pretend
nothing's wrong. Something *is* wrong. Let's not jump into the deep end
without knowing how to swim first. Let's . . . wade. Lie down on the
bed. I'll lie down next to you. That's all."
Despite her own fear, she couldn't help but think, with a stab of
compassionate pain, how much he sounded like a father. She looked warily
at the bed, then up at him. "Like... sex floaties?"
((Oh, yeah, that's great, Buffy. Talk about more things that will remind
him of babies.))
"I wouldn't have put it that way, but . . ." One-liners about "blowing"
each other ran through his mind and he dismissed them easily. "Game?"
She exhaled extravagantly. "Okay. Lying down I can do. I think. Maybe."
She looked up at him once more. "Maybe the whole Big Night in a Hotel
thing wasn't so brilliant after all, huh? I mean... it's not like we can
just casually go, 'oh, hey, you want to play mahjongg?' or something to
distract ourselves."
"You hated mahjongg when I tried to teach you," he pointed out lightly,
taking her hand and leading her to the bed. "However, I'm sure the hotel
has a gift shop where we could get a deck of cards if you'd like to play
Gin."
"Ooh! Gin! I like Gin. But...not the drinking kind. Tastes like Pine
Sol. Blech."
((Shut up! Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!))
Buffy stopped as they reached the enormous bed, and stared at it as
though it were a creature that wanted to eat her. Then she looked at
him, and... well... the eating thoughts went in a different sort of
direction. She flopped down on the bed and scooted up to stretch out,
then patted the empty space beside her. "We can pretend it's a slumber
party. Or... not." She grinned.
He slowly sat down on the bed, and then scooted up so they were even
with each other. He propped his head on his arm, sitting up on his elbow
to regard her. "I can order more food. We can get a VCR up here and
watch bad movies all night long, if that's what you want."
"You don't know how tempted I am to take you up on that," she sighed.
"No... I need to do this. I want to do this. If we don't now... who
knows if we ever will?" After a moment, something dawned on her.
"Angel... you know it's not you, right? You know... I do want you."
"I know that, yes." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I
also know . . . that it might be easier for you if I were someone else.
If I wasn't *what* I was. I know that makes it more difficult for you."
"That's not..." she automatically began to deny his statement, but
ultimately, couldn't do it. "That's not completely true. Especially not
the "someone else" part. I don't want anyone but you. I don't think I
ever really did. That you are... that... it's always been part of you.
And I've always loved all of you. Spike wasn't a rotten bastard because
he was a vampire. That was just his weapon."
He briefly wondered if he should correct her, that Spike sort of *was* a
rotten bastard because he was a vampire . . . but ultimately, decided it
wasn't worth it. They weren't here tonight for semantic arguments.
Instead, he changed the subject. Barely. "When was the last time you
were happy, Buffy?"
She took a deep breath. "Honestly? I don't think I remember."
"I can remember the exact day." He paused for a moment, wondering if he
should get into this . . . then he looked into her eyes and realized he
wanted to share everything with her and maybe, just maybe, it would help
her to concentrate on something besides the monsters living in her head.
"Connor was crying. It was the middle of the night; I'd been watching
him sleep. I picked him up in my arms, held him against my chest, his
little cheek pressed right to my skin, and . . . he stopped crying. Just
because I was holding him. I don't know if I've ever felt anything like
that before." He looked down at the bed. "Two days later . . ." He
swallowed deeply and pushed it away. Such an easy habit. "I want that
feeling back. It wasn't perfect, but . . . it was as close to it as I'm
allowed to get."
Completely at a loss as to how to respond to that, she took his hand
once more and held it to her heart. How selfish was she, that she could
somehow think that her little psychoses -- which were, after all, of her
own making -- could even come close to the pain of losing a *child*?
Especially a child that Angel had never, even in his wildest dreams,
believed he would be blessed with in the first place?
"I..." She blinked, fighting back tears, this time for him. "I wish I
knew what to say. I can't even imagine. The happiness or..." She gave
her head a little shake. "I feel really stupid when I think about what
you've gone through. What you've lost. And I'm all whiny because I made
a bunch of really stupid mistakes, and now I'm paying for them." Looking
deeply into his eyes, and with complete sincerity, she added, "I'm so
sorry. I know I say that a lot, but... I mean it. If I could take that
pain away from you... I would. I would do anything."
"I know." He tightened his hold on her hand. "I don't . . . want you to
feel sorry for me, or stupid. Your problems are real, Buffy, and they
aren't made any less so by mine." He looked a little helpless for a
moment. "I'm telling you this, because . . . I'm starting to feel
something again. With you. I never thought I'd get close to that again,
and right now, just holding your hand . . ." He was at a loss to
describe what she brought to life inside of him. Something that for so
long, he'd thought as dead as...
She took a shuddering breath as her eyes brimmed over. "I lied before,"
she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
Puzzled, he asked, "When?"
"When I said... I couldn't remember the last time I was happy?" The
flood of emotion spilled down her cheek to splash on the soft comforter
-- was that his? -- between them. "I do remember. It was... right before
my 17th birthday. Before we..." she sniffled softly, and looked away.
"We'd been patrolling, and... we sat against that mausoleum in Sunny
Rest -- remember? The one with the really ugly angel-gargoyle things?
And we were looking up at the stars, and you were telling me about
Cassiopeia. I felt... like the whole world was in front of us, just
waiting for us to take it. Like... everything was perfect, and anything
was possible." Her voice broke. "I haven't felt that way since."
His heart shattered, right there, in his chest. "Buffy . . ." He
couldn't stop himself. His hand trailed up her arm, to her face, the
tips of his fingers gently caressing her cheek. He wanted to say he was
sorry, that he wished he hadn't left her, but . . . how could he, when
he knew, *knew* that if he'd stayed all those years ago, something much
worse would have befallen them? It had been for her, why he'd left, for
her life, her chance at . . . and look what it had gotten her. Nothing
but pain. He'd thought she'd found her longed-for normalcy, for a time.
As much as he'd disliked Riley -- based, he admitted now, solely on the
fact that the boy was *touching* his *mate* -- he'd at least thought the
commando made Buffy happy. To learn now that she'd never . . .and what
came after, with Spike . . .
"No." She stopped his self-flagellation with a gentle fingertip to his
lips. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad, Angel. Because...
right now... as messed up as we both are? It's still better than all the
time when you weren't in my life. I missed you... I missed the way I
felt when I was with you. And I started to realize... on the ride over
here? Since we've been... doing whatever we're doing... it's like... I
know it sounds stupid, but...I can almost see the stars again."
Angel retook possession of her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, her
wrist, then brought it to rest at last over his still heart, holding it
there. "Sometimes I would look at Connor . . . and I would wonder what
he would look like if he were ours. If he'd still have my eyes if your
gene pool had been present to put up a fight." He smiled a little bit.
"The only pain I've ever felt that comes close to losing him was
realizing that I would have to leave you." His hand clenched over hers
for a moment. "I've had enough pain in my life, Buffy. I think we both
have. I know it's irrational to believe we've seen the end of it,
forever, but . . . I'd like to make a promise to you, right now. Do you
think your mental state can handle a declaration?"
A little smile forced its way through her tears. "As long as you're not
going to declare you've decided to shave your head and become a Hare
Krishna or something."
"Well, not now that you've *guessed*," he said, feigning disappointment.
Then he sobered, became almost solemn. "I'm never going to leave you
again. Not unless you want me to. Maybe not even then. I'm becoming
downright selfish in my old age, Buffy, and . . . I want us both to be
as happy as we can be, for as long as we can be. Is that all right with
you?"
She shrugged, but her smile grew. She could feel it, blooming like the
first flower of spring from deep beneath the snow that had long frozen
her soul. "I guess. I mean... I don't have anything else pressing
planned." The levity of the moment passed, and she sobered once more.
"It's more than all right. It's what I've waited for since the day we
met."
He stared at her for a moment, lost in her, and whispered, almost
without conscious thought, "Can I please kiss you?"
She blinked rapidly, blushing like some virgin schoolgirl. But she was
shyer now than she ever had been before the first time they'd made love.
So much stood between them... years of history, of love and loss,
pain... and longing. "Yes, please."
Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, her
temples, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, her chin, leaving no
inch of her features untouched, until, finally, he reached her mouth.
"Okay?" he whispered, causing their lips to inadvertently brush, he was
so close to her.
She sucked in a little breath at the touch of his mouth. But it was a
good gasp... a tiny spark that began the first thaw of some of the cold
places inside her. "Yes."
He kissed her again, soft, fleeting little pecks against her mouth. One
hand remained, propping his head up, the other, he brought to her hip
and just . . .let it rest there. A good inch still separated their
bodies, and he pressed a kiss to her trembling lips, the corner of her
delectable mouth, always soft, always gentle. "Still okay?"
Her eyes closed of their own accord, her heart setting a new, skittering
beat that had little to do with fear. This time, she could only nod in
response.
He moved a little closer to her, their bodies still not quite in
contact. Slowly, he began to trace the tips of his fingers against her
hip, not delving anywhere too intimate yet. The thin material of her
"dress" left little to the imagination, and it was almost ((but not
quite, nowhere near)) like touching her bare skin. He very, very lightly
let the tip of his tongue brush against her lower lip.
She sighed at the contact and melted into the kiss, leaning closer,
closing that last inch separating them... this time, with only the
barest twinge. She slipped her hand up the soft cotton covering his arm,
traveled slowly, reverently over his shoulder and neck, and finally,
buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as she let her lips
fall slack to invite him in.
An involuntary moan left his mouth as he felt her open to him, felt the
full length of her body pressed so perfectly to his. He swept his tongue
inside her mouth, tasting her the way he'd been starving to for so long,
gently letting their tongues play together. The hand on her hip slid
around to her lower back, pulling her that little bit tighter against
him.
She gave a little moan from deep in her chest. The spark that had been
tickling in her belly slowly caught, spread... some small part of her
mind waiting for the panic and fear that hovered just at the edges of
her mind to charge forward and steal this from them, the way it always
had before. For her body to rebel against closeness, against intimacy
that would make her weak and vulnerable once more. She concentrated on
his cool lips... the gentle stroke of his tongue against hers... the
purely wonderful sensation of his hand on her back, like an anchor.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad just kissing all night like this...
Yes, he could kiss her forever, he decided as he felt her tiny hands
reach out to touch him in return. He let his head rest upon the pillow
so his other hand was free and he brought it around her back, to her
head, cradling her securely as he let the other slowly trace a line up
and down her spine.
His caress brought a groan of pleasure she hadn't heard herself make
in... as long as she could remember. And hearing that small sound gave
her more hope; let her add just that tiniest bit of fuel to the fire.
She let her lips savor the proud lines of his jaw... the cords of his
neck, and back again to his mouth. Nice. More than nice. Fantastic. And
she was certain, somewhere deep inside of her, that her adjectives could
only continue to improve from here on out.
The kissing was going so well, and she was focused so completely on just
*how* well, she didn't notice her foot hook around his calf, caressing
slowly up and down his leg as she pressed her body closer still.
Angel's hand slid over her hip and down her thigh to pull her a little
closer, pressing his hardening-further-by-the-second crotch against
hers; he froze for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make her
feel pressured into anything. It was just so natural to move against
her, to draw her closer, to try to take her so far into his being that
she could never be harmed again . . .His mouth found her ear and he
pressed a soothing kiss to the shell.
"Angel..." she gasped.
"Good?" he muttered into her ear, moving his mouth down for a taste of
the underside of her jaw, the hand holding her head urging it back so
that he could re-familiarize himself with her throat.
She pulled away to look into his eyes, speaking gently. "How about
this... I'll tell you when it's not good. Okay?"
An endless moment passed between them as he stared into her eyes. Then,
he bent his head and lost himself in the kind of kiss he hadn't indulged
in for years; not since the last time he'd held her without fear of
terrible, unknown consequences. His hand trailed down the curve of her
rear and he pulled her to him further, situating her that tiny bit more
firmly against him. The very tips of his fingers found the low-cut line
at the back of her dress and he began stroking her skin there.
Buffy could feel him, hard and ready, pressed against her own aching
flesh. Could feel the hot, wet throb of pleasure between her thighs, as
though his hands had loosed some long-dammed river inside of her. She
wrapped her arms around his neck, and suddenly -- she just couldn't get
close enough. It had to be now. Right now, before the bloody little
blue-eyed monster in her brain started talking again. "Yes... Angel,
yes," she whispered into his lips.
His mouth moved down to her throat again, her clavicle, and as he licked
and sucked at her skin, his hand drifted up to the tie on the back of
her dress. He hesitated for a moment, then did something he should have
done a long time ago -- he trusted her to know her own limitations and
to tell him if they'd gone too far. His fingers deftly untied the
already unstable fastening. He made no move to uncover her breasts
(though oh, how he was tempted), instead choosing to trace the line of
her naked spine, from the bottom of her scalp, to the waist of her
dress.
To her own surprise, when the straps of her halter-top fell away, her
only response... her only *thought* of a response, was to reach for the
buttons on his shirt. She was almost tempted to just rip the damn thing
off -- God, had she ever wanted anyone so much in her life? -- but chose
to go for the civilized method of undressing him instead. Her mouth
quickly lent itself to blanketing each bit of cool, soft flesh she
encountered, while her hands continued down until all the buttons were
taken care of. Then she slipped her hands inside to feel the smooth,
flat muscles of his belly.
Moaning with the feel of her hot little hands against his bare flesh,
Angel took her enthusiasm as a good sign and permitted his hands to have
their way. With barely a brush of his fingers, the material of her
halter-top slipped to reveal her topless form to his hungry gaze. His
mouth actually began to water a little. "God, Buffy . . ." Such
((beautiful)) perfection . . . "I'd almost forgotten how . . ." But
there were no words to express to her how profound a moment it was for
him, being allowed the honor of lying with her, so instead of expressing
himself poorly verbally, he lowered his head to worship the valley
between her breasts.
She gasped softly, arching away from him to give him better access to
her chest. She petted and combed her fingers through his hair, panting,
clutching his legs harder with her own, letting the friction finally
build down deep, the fire growing, blazing... and the want, oh, God, how
she'd missed the want, sparking to exquisite life. "Angel . . . I love
you so much . . . " she breathed, "Please, make love to me. Please."
"Gladly," he mumbled in a kind of dazed relief. In all honesty, he
hadn't expected things to progress this far. He would have been fine
with it, too. He would be fine with anything that set her at ease. His
groin, however, was incredibly relieved that there wouldn't be a
((another)) cold shower in his not-too-distant future. His hands ran up
her ribcage until they reached the full mounds of her breasts. Gently,
he cupped them, letting her nipples slip between his fingers, never
quite giving them the attention they were begging for. His mouth bent to
her chest, his tongue tasting perspiration beneath her left breast,
while one of his hands regretfully abandoned its prize to trail down her
back, in search of other treasures.
Buffy sighed, melting under his gentle attentions. This was desire. True
desire. She remembered it, vaguely... but only with him. Suddenly the
years she'd wasted in Riley's, and then Spike's, beds, seemed a faraway,
unpleasant dream she had once after eating a big Mexican dinner. The
beast stalking her mind stepped away so she could no longer see or feel
it so intensely. Her hands roved where they would over Angel's
delicious, perfect body, and she drank in his details with a relish she
didn't think she had left inside of her... his broad, carved back, the
hard curve of his rear, the slope of his muscular thighs....
And then, there was what he was doing with his mouth... the slow,
languid lapping of his tongue around the turn of her breast... the
gentle teasing around the nipple, a denial that was less pain, and
finally - finally! -- more pleasure. "God... you feel so good..." She
tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him closer, thrusting her aching
nipple toward his mouth. "I forgot..." she chanted breathlessly. "I
forgot it could be like this. Please..." ((Make me remember
everything.))
He took pity on her and laved her nipple with his tongue. Then, because
he was definitely growing selfish in his old age, and he wanted to
swallow her whole, he pulled it between his lips and suckled, circling
with his tongue the entire time. His hand began to slowly inch the
material of her dress down past her hips. "I want to remind you," he
rasped against her breast, splitting his attention in half to serve her
neglected nipple. "I want to touch you everywhere, make you feel
everything I've always wanted for you. I want it to be so good for you
that you never forget again." That said, he took her other nipple in his
mouth and oh-so-gently scraped his blunt teeth over the tip.
She cried out, clutching his head to her breast, as the fire became an
inferno consuming everything but those places where her flesh made
contact with his. "Yessss... touch me... Angel..."
Rolling her onto her back, he lifted her hips and rid her entirely of
the gauzy dress. Noting her lingerie, he grinned down at her. "Black
silk. My favorite." His upper body hovered over hers, and he supported
his weight on one hand, allowing the other free passage over her skin.
His mouth returned to her breasts, suckling, licking, nipping when the
occasion called for it, while his hand trailed down her stomach,
stopping to rub gentle circles over her lower abdomen; his thumb
teasing, sliding under the band of her panties, then retreating again.
She thrust her hips at him languidly, wanting more, faster, now... and
yet never wanting it to end. Wanting this tender remembrance of the joys
of the flesh to continue forever. She slid her hands inside his shirt
once more, gently tugging at it as a signal that she wanted it GONE.
Angel would never be accused of being slow on the uptake in these
delicate situations. His shirt vanished with superhuman speed. His hand
slipped lower, four fingers now teasing at the band of her underwear,
dipping inside just far enough to tease the very top of her curls. His
mouth reluctantly abandoned her breasts to move back up to her neck,
licking and sucking at her throat, the pulse that was pounding, calling
to him -- a siren song he resisted easily when it compared to her
feeling at ease with what they were doing.
Her hands roamed over his newly exposed skin, following all the hills
and valleys of muscles revealed to her hungry explorations. There was
never anything in the world that felt like this... his body... his
touch... she needed it like a drug.
((Yeah, that's right, Slayer. You need it. You're nothing without it.
You'll take whatever I give you, and you'll love it, because that's all
you have. You're still dead without this.))
The moment it happened, he felt the cold go through her, her muscles
growing tight, not with wanting, but with some ugly recollection. The
hand over her belly moved away from her underwear, concentrating,
instead, on tracing soothing circles over her abdomen. His mouth found
her ear.
"I love you," he whispered hoarsely, using his other hand to brush the
hair back from her face. "But I won't stop until you tell me to."
However, he did slow, smoothing his hand over her ribcage, to her belly,
and back again, taking in as much of her flesh as possible with every
pass.
"No," she insisted softly, mentally staking the little DevilSpike in her
memory for the hundredth time - the way she should have staked RealSpike
when she'd had the chance -- and with him, the monster she had been in
his demonic embrace. "I don't want you to stop. I just . . . for a
second . . . I forgot."
"What?" he asked gently.
"I forgot it was okay to need you," she confessed wonderingly.
"Let me remind you," he murmured, moving his hand back down to her
waistband. He lifted her hips and rid her of the offending garment. His
head dipped down to her stomach of its own volition and he made love to
her belly button for an obscene amount of time, his mind and heart
churning together, desperate to give voice to the thoughts swirling
inside of him. Thoughts he was almost positive she needed to hear.
"I need you so much sometimes that it scares me," he murmured against
the sacred flesh of her belly. "Or at least . . . it used to. After that
-- rough patch -- I went through, where I didn't need anything -- I
barely needed *blood* -- I started wanting things again. Silly things,
vital things . . . suddenly, I wanted to see movies and listen to pop
songs and spend time with my friends. I didn't want to be alone anymore.
Needing all those things in life . . . I know it's what kept me going
after . . ." He didn't say his son's name aloud, fearful of what might
happen to the meticulous control he'd held over his grief if he did.
Every emotion he possessed was too raw, too wide open to her...
"Needing is part of living, Buffy," he said quietly, worshipping her
abdomen further. He knew she already understood all this; wasn't it she
who'd taught him, so long ago? But he also knew, from his own
experience, that sometimes it was nice to have permission: to feel, to
live, even to need. For someone else to tell you, when you couldn't tell
yourself.
"I know," she murmured, nodding her head, watching him adore her skin .
. . "I know needing is okay. It's just -- God, don't stop doing that . .
." And her train of thought was *gone*. Her pounding heart kept time as
she tried to remember what she'd been about to say. Of course *this*
need was good . . .it was pure, it was right, and it was natural, like
the need to breathe. Needing wasn't always the same as addiction, or
desperation, or the frantic compulsion to find something -- anything --
to make her feel.
And in the end... wasn't this what she had always been searching for
anyway? Wasn't the basic need for him the one hole in her life that she
had almost killed herself trying to fill?
Lifting one of her legs off the bed, he brought it over his shoulder,
opening her to his gaze, his touch. He pressed his mouth to her inner
thigh, darting his tongue out for a taste, then sliding, sliding,
sliding up until his nose was brushing the damp, fragrant curls he'd
been dreaming of for months, and the thought came to him again ((how
could I have forgotten this?)) and he had to vocalize it, "I just
realized that I've never . . ." And it was true, he never had. Their
first time had been so intense and they'd just *needed* without much in
the way of finesse. There was the day that had never been, but it didn't
count, not really, not when it seemed so much like a dream to him now.
Besides, he had been human then and what would she taste like filtered
through predator's senses . . .
"No!" she gasped.
Every part of his body seized up in utter denial of what he'd just
heard. He forced himself to believe it, though. For her sake. "It's
okay," he murmured, though his throbbing erection, his mouth, so close
to tasting heaven, lodged firm protests that it was most certainly NOT
okay. "It's too fast . . ."
She laughed -- laughed?! -- and wound her fingers into his hair. "No . .
. I was saying 'no, you haven't' . . . done . . . *that*.' I'm sorry."
She sounded dazed, happy . . . and she was urging him downward once
more. "Please, don't let me interrupt you." Her expression softened.
"I'm not scared at all."
It wasn't the whole truth, Buffy reflected . . . but it was enough, for
now.
Angel seemed more frightened than she did. "You don't want me to stop?"
((You don't want all that hearts and flowers crap, Buffy. You never
really did, no matter how bloody much you tried to convince yourself.
You don't want a soul... you don't want a man... you want an animal. You
want me.))
"No, I..."
Lightning didn't strike as quickly as he did. His head was back where it
belonged, his tongue flattened to take a long, slow, sinful lick of her
sex. A scream caught in her throat, and he set it free by stiffening his
tongue, the very tip tracing little patterns around her clit.
"Oh, GOD!" she cried out, thrusting up against his face. "Oh! Angel!
Yes!" Her leg wound around his neck, her fingertips gouging his skull.
"Slow . . . please, slow . . ." Her little fear spoke aloud, needing the
difference to be clear . . . needing to know that she *did* want this,
the warm caress of his hands, his lips . . . the sensation of his
beautiful soul enveloping her. The wounded little keeper of time in her
heart agreed -- she wanted this bliss to go on until she forgot what
pain and fear even felt like anymore.
Slow. He could do slow. He could stay down here forever. He didn't even
need to breathe.
His hands slid beneath her rear to lift her hips toward his mouth,
bringing ambrosia that much closer. Regretfully abandoning her clit (for
the moment), he worked his way lower, sweeping around the tense bunch of
muscle that made his cock twitch with longing. He stabbed his tongue
inside of her once, briefly, before returning to her clit to brush
teasing, butterfly-wing flicks against it.
This was toomuchnotenougheverything. The world was nothing but his face
between her legs, his thick hair between her fingers . . . his tongue
making love to her was washing her away until there was nothing, nothing
but him, until there had never been anything but him. And the moaning,
squirming, flying part of her wondered, so much as it could focus on
thought -- had there ever been?
As he felt her thrusting restlessly against his face, he decided to
abandon the butterfly-wing technique he'd been perfecting on her. It was
just . . . she was absolutely liquid with want and it was just a *shame*
to let it all go to waste . . . He was lapping at her in an instant,
gorging himself on her, really, then sliding his tongue oh-so-slowly
inside her tighthotwetness, in, out, lap, in, out, lap, inoutlap . . .
A shudder took her body and she moaned aloud . . . a deep, long, keening
sound from deep inside. They both felt the reverberations, he against
his mouth, she from beneath her very skin as she howled his name.
Her moans spurred him on. His mouth reacquainted itself with her clit,
and his hands, itching to touch her, finally got their way. Two fingers
slid inside her body and began to stroke in time with the maddeningly
gentle flicks of his tongue over her clit.
It was the first time she'd had anything inside of her since . . . but
the thought never fully materialized, because the expert, shattering
pleasure of his attentions set her off in less than a heartbeat. Her
eyes squeezed tightly shut, her head thrashed helplessly back and forth
on the pillow, her lips pressed together to stifle the ear shattering
cries she could feel building in her belly. But finally, blessedly, she
couldn't control the passion exploding inside her anymore. She came with
a cry of half-shock, half-ecstasy, her entire body clenching, arching
them off the bed, and she let out an ear splitting howl that was equal
parts prayer and his beautiful, oh so apt, name.
Gently, he removed his fingers from her channel, and then proceeded to
lick them clean. He then bent his head back to her body, gently lapping,
bringing her down slowly. His pants felt like ace bandages wrapped
around his aching cock, but he was loath to vacate his current position.
He'd just succeeded in bringing her to bliss, something he'd begun to
doubt would happen tonight. He would gladly lay there until dawn, a
willing supplicant to her gratification.
Buffy lay still, panting, staring up at the ceiling with a catatonia
born from mind-bending ecstasy. She tried to speak, to tell him... to
alleviate any lingering fears he might have, but... all she could manage
was, "Uh...uh... huh...uh...huh."
As she lay there, breathless, he decided he was craving a little bit
more of her pleasure . . . and he set about building her arousal all
over again. Her-no-doubt very sensitive clit called to him and he
pressed his mouth over it firmly, holding it between his lips as his
tongue slowly, gently, began to massage it.
She made a noise . . . a decidedly inhuman noise that reverberated off
the walls. And then, she began to whimper a little. "Angel! Oh, God . .
.I can't . . . can't do it . . . again . . please . . .uhhhmmmmm . . .
yes. . . yesssss . . ."
There was a whisper in her mind, just behind the drone of pleasure in
her blood. ((Your mouth always says no, but your body screams yes...))
She kicked its source viciously in the face, even as her physical legs
cradled her true lover like a cherished child.
He kept at his tongue massage for a few minutes, then slowly, gently,
began to suckle at her, increasing pace and pressure every few seconds.
His thumb moved over that sensitive patch of skin centimeters below her
clit and he began to stroke it.
"Angel... please..." She wasn't sure what she wanted more... more of
this, or more of what he just finished doing, or... him inside of her.
"Angel. Stop. Look at me."
Reluctantly, he lifted his head, bringing his hand to rest upon her
thigh. He licked his lips, covered in her juices, in an unconsciously
erotic display. "Buffy?"
For a moment, she forgot what she was going to say, as lost as she was
in watching that simple motion of his tongue. "What?" she whispered
absently.
He was almost amused. If he weren't a little bit worried about her, he
would be. "You said stop. I stopped. Why did I stop?"
"Oh!" She exclaimed, then blushed nearly from head to foot. "Wow. What I
was going to say sort of loses some of its dramatic value now."
"We're not characters in a movie, Buffy," he chided without rancor. "I
don't care about dramatic value; I just care about giving you everything
you want."
She relaxed... he was right...this wasn't a performance. This night was
about nothing, and no one, but the two of them. "I want you inside me. I
want you to be part of me again."
He shed his pants in seconds flat, glad to finally be out of them. He
climbed up her body, pulled her onto her side, facing him, and urged her
to throw one of her legs over his hip. The full lengths of their naked
bodies were pressed together for the first time in years and he couldn't
quite believe it was happening; couldn't quite believe it was real. "I
am a part of you," he whispered quietly. "This," he indicated their
bodies, "doesn't change that." He smirked. "However . . ." Angling her
hips just so, he slipped the very tip of his cock inside her.
She shivered, and thrust slightly against him, trying to urge him all
the way in. "Please don't wait," she entreated, "Please." She pulled
away to look in his eyes, smoothing her hands down his cheeks. "I need
you. All of you. Now and forever."
"Your wish . . ." With a sigh, he eased the rest of the way inside her,
and the journey was easier than he expected. They fit together,
perfectly, like they were made for each other . . . "God," he groaned,
pressing his forehead to hers. "I must have made myself forget how good
you feel, how right . . . there's no way I could have survived without
you . . ."
She let out a long, slow gasp, and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh,
Angel... I know. I'm so glad you came to me... god... when you did. I
was so empty... so empty when you were gone."
He loved how she felt, how perfect, how right . . . the temptation to
thrust, to pound into her, was ever present, but he held back, wanting
to savor this contact, wanting to make sure she was right there, in the
moment with him. He gazed into her eyes, wondering if he was imagining
the slight apprehension there. His hand glided up to her forehead and he
touched the worried lines there. "You're furrowing," he noted softly.
"No I'm not," she denied automatically, not regretting the lie at all.
He felt so good inside of her, and she didn't ever, EVER want him to go
away again. But somewhere in the back of her mind, that same demonic
voice was nagging. Not a rational voice, not even a little bit sane
voice. But she could hear it anyway, telling her, 'He isn't different.
He's just the same. A beast. A monster, just like you. You want the
pain, and he wants to give it to you. You know it. I know it. So you
might as well just growl and snarl and claw and pretend that's all you
need. "It's... it's nothing. It's good. I promise."
((No. Don't close your eyes, Slayer. Look at me. Look at *me*. Yeah,
that's right. See me. Watch me take you.))
"Don't lie to me," he almost begged. "Not now. Not here." ((Not while
I'm *inside* you.))
She forced herself to look into his eyes. "I don't... I don't know how
to explain it. It's... it's so stupid, but... " She took a deep breath
and forced it out. "I can't... look at you. And... do this." At his
wounded look, she hurriedly interjected, "No! I don't mean..." she
reached up to caress his face. "I love to look at you. You're beautiful,
and..." Her lower lip wobbled as tears once again filled her eyes. "But
he... Angel, please... you have to . . . I can't tell you like this."
Exercising every ounce of Super Human Strength and Control he had, Angel
withdrew from her body and rolled to his back, his eyes shut, his jaw
clenched as he reined in the desperate desire he felt for her. After a
moment, he looked at her again. "Tell me," he softly implored.
She *couldn't* look at him and tell him this, either. She'd never shared
any of the details of what happened with Spike... all the humiliation.
The psych games he used to play while they were fucking -- because
that's what it was, and maybe not even that. He loved to hurt her. Loved
to make her cry and beg and whimper. And she loved to do it right back.
"He... used to make me keep my..." she took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Keep my eyes open while he... did things to me. He said he wanted to
make sure I knew. What I was. What I was doing. Who I was doing it with.
He never wanted me to be able to pretend, or fantasize, or lie to
myself. He made me look at him... and he would talk... just... run his
*fucking* *mouth* about how I asked for it. I wanted it. I liked it. I
can't... have you inside me and... watch you without hearing all of it
all over again. It's not right. I don't want him here with us. I just
can't..."
"So don't." His answer was simple and understanding. He reached out a
hand to her and cupped her jaw firmly until she was forced to look at
him. "Close your eyes, Buffy, and let me try my damnedest to make it
better."
"Did you just tell me to close my eyes?" she whispered, almost smiling.
"That's an ironic role reversal, isn't it?" But the smile wasn't real,
and the beautiful moment was gone, and right then, she was sure that he
could staple her eyes shut, and she would still see Spike -- still smell
that old cigarette, liquor, leather and blood stink all over her. "Look,
Angel, I just don't think this is going to work. You can't make this
better... you just... can't." Her voice broke at the end, and she turned
over, her bare back to him. Were they just making sweet, gentle love a
moment ago? Now she could think of nothing but getting away. From
herself as well as him.
At that moment, had the opportunity presented itself, he would have
cheerfully cut Spike's head off. With a butter knife. Instead, he
fixated on Buffy. He slid across the bed toward her until his chest was
pressed to her back. His arms wrapped around her securely ((naturally))
and his mouth kissed her ear. "We could stop now," he allowed softly.
"But if we do, I don't think we'll ever start again." The thought of
that pained him more than he could bear, and he let his hand rest on her
belly again, soothingly rubbing, something he was *sure* Spike had never
done for her.
"I know," she whispered, nuzzling into him instinctively even as her
soul cringed away. "I'm afraid."
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he whispered into her ear, his
heart breaking. One of his greatest fears, that she would fear him,
coming true, not because of some hideous sin in his past, but because of
the sins of another . . .
"No," she sighed. "Not you. Me. I can't stand for you to see the monster
that's inside of me! You always thought of me as this paragon of light
and goodness or whatever. I can't lose that -- " It took all of her
will, but she turned her head to look at him, and tenderly caressed his
face. "That's the only mirror I can stand to look into anymore."
He stared down at her beautiful face for a moment, debating . . . and
then finally made a decision. "I want you to try something. Can you do
that for me? The second you want us to stop, we'll stop.
Still crying, unable to conceive that he would still want to keep
trying, when all she did was fight him, she nodded. "Okay. I'll... try."
He dropped a kiss onto the corner of her eye. "Turn around," he
whispered.
She stared at him for a moment, then slowly turned over once more,
trying not to let him see her trepidation... the way she wanted to start
shaking all over again. She did the breathing exercises, instead, and
tried to relax.
He held her securely against him, gently brushing the tears on her
cheeks away with the pads of his thumbs. "Do you trust me?" he murmured
quietly.
The question shot a lightning bolt of terror through her, for a
moment...
And then she remembered that the answer was utterly different, here,
with him. Her body melted into his embrace as if it had been meaning to
do that all along.
"Always," she whispered.
"Good." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Close your eyes for me."
Without another moment's hesitation, she did. If he took the opportunity
to run her through with a sword and send her to Hell, she would go just
as willingly as she had gone to Heaven. And like it had been at that
leaving, his eyes, his smile, the touch of his hands, the sweet velvet
caress of his voice, the memory of all he had given her, would be the
last thoughts of her mortal existence.
He kissed her closed lids with reverence, his hands running slow,
soothing strokes up and down her back. "You're beautiful," he whispered,
moving one of his hands to her hip, extending his touch outward,
fluidly, stroking more of her bare skin with every pass. "Do you know
why you're so unimaginably beautiful?"
Trembling a little under his touch, she shook her head.
"It's your heart," he confided gently, his caress unobtrusive, natural,
so that she barely noticed it -- she could only feel the sensations that
it brought. His hand pressed over her heart, taking in the rapid-fire
beats. "Your pure, hero's heart. The first time I saw you, I wanted to
keep it safe. Do you remember me telling you that?" His hand moved up to
her left breast, softly caressing, "Now... it's been battered and torn
and broken so many times now that you can't feel it anymore. You've
forgotten how powerful it is, how exquisite . . ."
She swallowed her denial quickly. Like so many beautiful things he'd
said to her... so many divine, poetic lies, she wanted it to be true.
Even if just for this moment. And the way he touched her...
She couldn't see anything but the darkness behind her eyelids, but all
her senses focused sharply in her skin, and his touch proved to her
things that his words never could. He loved her. He might not know her
shadows... her inner ugliness... but he knew his own. And hadn't she
loved him in spite of it? Maybe, even a little bit because of it?
Because then, even though she didn't know... she knew. She and Angel
were the same, inside.
Couldn't she let him try to give that back to her?
She gave a choked little sigh and gave herself up to his gift.
"There's darkness inside of you," he continued, cupping her breast fully
in his palm, then . . .he just held it; cradled it; felt her heartbeat
double -- treble -- beneath her flesh. "But it's not evil or wrong. It's
just a part of you. It's a part of everyone. And do you know why?" He
bent his head and pressed his lips over her heart. "Because of this.
There is so much beauty inside of you, so much love . . . it balances
it, Buffy. The darkness and the light that live inside of you makes you
*great*. There's only one thing 'wrong' about you, love, and that's that
someone ever made you feel ashamed for everything that you are." His
mouth moved lower, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over her chest.
A sound came from her throat that she hadn't meant to make -- part sigh,
part sob -- and she wept as much as reveled in his touch. She said
nothing. There were no words for what was slowly beginning to move
through her... through the soothing darkness he had given her. Her body
sang to his fingertips, her heart thundered, and the warm waves she'd
ridden earlier began to lap once more at the edges of her consciousness.
"You're fierce," he murmured over her flesh, pausing to briefly suckle
at her nipple. His hands were sweeping up and down her back, over her
rear, as far down on her thighs as they could reach, her belly -- he was
everywhere at once, consuming her flesh in tactile wonder. "Gentle," he
continued, briefly paying attention to her other breast, then moving up
to adore her neck. "A compassionate warrior with so many layers it would
take eternity to uncover them all." He took one of her hands in his
while the other continued worshipping her body, bringing her fingers to
his mouth. "Delicate, tender, deadly fingers," he murmured, taking each
one into his mouth in turn, sucking gently, nibbling at the tips, before
moving on to drop open mouthed kisses to her palm, the backs of her
knuckles, her wrist. "And there's your heart again," he mumbled against
her thundering pulse, "screaming out that you're alive, that you're . .
. *here*."
Alive. Was she alive, really? She asked herself that a lot, sometimes,
when the memories of ... Heaven... snuck under her careful guard, and
she compared it to what she saw before her -- all the ugliness in the
world. The stains inside herself. Alive? What did that mean? She didn't
think she had really been alive since long before she'd died... since
the day she heard some weird guy say, "Are you Buffy Summers?"
(If only he had just been the crazed rapist with a twisted penchant for
teenaged girls she had initially assumed he was...)
But that wasn't true either. No matter how often she got lost... no
matter how far she strayed from hope... all it took was one whisper...
one touch of Angel's hand, and she always remembered. If she had never
been the Slayer, she would never have known him. Never been the
recipient of all his beautiful gifts. He was always the one who made her
remember what it meant to be alive.
She remembered now. Willow had resurrected her, but he was the one
bringing her back to the living. Finally, slowly, she slipped her arm up
over his shoulder, and sifted her fingers through his hair.
More, she told him with her touch, her breath. Make me live again. Show
me more.
Angel began to move down her arms, pressing his lips to every inch of
skin. Over her ribcage, her belly, along her hips, down one leg, paying
special attention to her tiny feet, then back up the other. He licked,
kissed, nibbled and suckled, and the entire time, he interspersed his
gentle affections with soft exhalations against her skin, breaths of
"Beautiful" and "Precious" and "Exquisite" and "Sweetheart."
"Angel..." It was the first thing she'd said aloud since this new
healing began, and she said it over and over, wrapping herself around
him, determined to reach all the skin stretched over the frame of the
one creature in all the dimensions she did know she could trust. The one
who would never hurt her on purpose... not without good, real reasons.
She let herself fall a little more, let go another inch of control as
his lips and tongue, his words and hands, swept all the filth away. She
reached around him to caress the length and breadth of his back, over
his delectable rear, then beneath to tenderly stroke the part of him
that couldn't in any way be called soft. "You feel so good. Thank you.
Oh, God... thank you..."
And still she cried.
He moaned against her throat when she grasped him with her strong, tiny
hand, then brought his mouth to hers to stop her flow of words. He did
not crave her gratitude; he craved her pleasure. After a long, slow,
lingering kiss, he moved his mouth to her cheeks, kissing and lapping
her tears away as she wept. His hands found purchase on her hips and he
tilted her towards him. "Buffy," he whispered "I love you," and he
slipped slowly, easily inside of her body.
She cried out, then... but not for fear, or pain, or memory of
violation, but for the sheer, pure, beautiful white light pleasure of
it. The perfection of wholeness she'd thought lost to her forever. She
arched her neck against the pillows, met his gentle thrust, and the
tears... the pain that had been with her for so many years, was
forgotten. This time, as he surged into her, filling her with his soul
as much as his flesh, she knew it wouldn't come again.
Or at least... not for now. Not for this flawless moment. Not for this
night. And that was enough. "I do need you," she gasped. "I do. I always
have. God..."
Still, he pressed gentle, fleeting kisses to her face, ghostly kisses,
almost, as he oh-so-slowly began to thrust. The rhythm was almost
nonexistent; he barely moved within her as he let his touch, the worship
to be found there, speak for him.
Her pathetic forays into "normal", and later, "perverted", had given her
a much broader vision of sex than she'd had the last time they were
together. She had fucked, she had rutted, she had even made something
with a passing resemblance to love, but she had never, even with him,
that first night, been so overwhelmed with sensation. Every inch of him
touching every inch of her, their bodies and spirits connected, their
pain and their pleasure truly one. She returned his reverent, soothing
caresses, winding her arms around him, brushing his lips, his brow, his
throat with her mouth, her hands wandering lower to grip him, to take
the control that he offered... that he had been offering all along, but
she had been too afraid to try to rein, and urge him deeper. She spread
her legs wider to promise him, at last, it was all right to come in, and
slowly, lazily, thrust her hips upward, clutching him with her inner
muscles as she did.
A deep groan that was pulled from his very soul left Angel's mouth, and
some part of him rejoiced at feeling her full participation. The rest of
him was nearly ready to lose himself inside of her, but he wouldn't
allow that. What he would allow, however, was a deep, smooth thrust
inside her tightwetheat, countering the lazy rhythm she set for them. He
wanted this to last forever. "You feel . . ." His mouth pressed to her
cheek. "I can't describe it . . "
She knew exactly how to describe it. The word wouldn't form in her mind,
but she knew it was there. And she knew, from experience, how close it
was to the truth. A sensation -- another one -- that she never thought
she would have again. Her eyes flooded with the surety of it. She
continued flowing up and around him as he gently, deeply washed into
her. "You don't have to. I know." She turned her head and met his lips,
slipping her tongue inside, plunging her fingers into his hair to take
the kiss deeper, too. It lasted forever... every second its own
eternity, its own brand new reality, and every undulating ripple that
coursed through her was like another... better... rebirth. "I know," she
sighed.
The ebb and flow continued between them and he decided that he really
could stay like this for eternity. He kept kissing her, because he was
starving for her and he wanted to drink her down until he forgot what it
was like to miss her as he had these past years. His hand slowly trailed
down her body and he let his thumb slip inside her moist curls, resting
it above her clit, allowing the rhythm of their bodies to stimulate
movement.
"Ahhhh... Angelllll..." she trilled, and the ripples were suddenly tiny
waves... but the waves weren't enough. Benediction or no, pure soul love
or no, there was still animal in it. Not the Stygian black that she so
feared, that she fought so hard against, but want... the drive to be one
with the man she loved more than anything in the universe. She thrust
faster against his hand, harder onto his cock, and dug her fingertips
into the giving flesh of his back. "Please... Please never stop."
"Never," he murmured into her mouth. He sped up the pace of his thrusts,
put more power behind them. He felt how close she was, how close he was,
and knew, as much as he wished it didn't, it would have to come to an
end. He lifted her leg up toward her shoulders, deepening his
penetration. "Just let it go, sweetheart." He felt near tears himself,
his forehead pressed tightly to hers, locked inside an embrace he would
gladly perish in. "Let it go and I swear to God I'll catch you."
She had meant to answer. Meant to say that she believed him, but the
sincerity of his vow, the blend of tender and fierce in his body's quest
to be one with hers, the single tear that dripped, cool and angelsweet
on her lips stole any words. Instead, she gave him the only things she
had left to give -- her eyes, wide open and focused on his as she
surrendered to the sweet, glorious pleasure. She dissolved with a low,
shuddering moan that burst into a cry from deep in her wounded soul. His
name, torn out of her in a rage of sensory overload.
Her eyes -- open wide, fearless, and burning with passion -- sent a
sharp, piercing reaction through his heart to his groin. The intense
contractions of her inner muscles pushed him physically past the edge of
self-restraint, and he pounded into her, whispering her name like a
prayer as he spilled inside her body.
She became boneless beneath him, desperately trying to catch her breath.
The urges inside her -- to laugh hysterically, to burst into tears, and
to just generally break down into her fundamental stuff all battled for
domination of her response. So she lay there, panting and grinning,
tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his
shoulders and held him... though her strength was currently leaving
something to be desired. "Oh. My. God."
He nuzzled his face against the side of her neck trying to recover any
sense of self. "That about sums it up for me."
Buffy closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of him against her, and
despite the extreme difficulty his full weight caused in her already
labored breathing, she cradled him there, gently stroking his hair.
Tightening her grip on his shoulders, she burst into tears.
Immediately raising his head, Angel brought a hand to her cheek,
concerned. "Buffy? What's wrong?"
Shuddering uncontrollably with her sobbing, she gazed up at him. "I'm...
I'm so... h-h-HAAAAPYYYYY," she wailed, and dissolved once more.
Breathing a literal sigh of relief, Angel pulled her to him and rolled
onto his back until she was laid out against his full length. "Me too,"
he whispered into her hair, stroking her back with the intent of lulling
her to her sorely needed rest.
She eased her weary spirit, her sated body, her healing heart against
him, and cried herself to sleep, wrapped tightly in his arms.
~
"I can't stand to fly...
I'm not that nave.
Men weren't meant to ride
With clouds between their knees.
I'm only a man in a silly red sheet
Digging for Kryptonite on this one-way street.
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
Looking for special things inside of me.
Inside of me..."
* * *
I am not Superman.
The bright Los Angeles night called to him from the bed and who was he
to refuse a good brood? Several stories up, there was no one to complain
about the naked man with his morose thoughts, standing in front of an
over-priced window, staring out into the city.
I am not Superman.
It was the only thought in his head for a moment. He was supposed to be
this great Champion, defending the world from the forces of evil and yet
he had been unable to perform the most basic duty of every parent --
defend the life of his only son.
Connor hadn't even lived a single year. Angel had lived longer than any
thing had a right to, and his son hadn't survived to see his first
birthday.
They had all told him that it wasn't his fault. That there was nothing
he could have done differently.
Angel didn't agree with them. There were so many things he could have --
should have -- done.
He could have opened that damn book and taken Connor to Pylea. Lorne
could have watched him while Angel came back to handle things on this
end. He could have swallowed his pride and gone to Sunnydale for help.
Or -- and this was where Angel really feared for his own salvation -- he
could have simply killed Holtz.
If someone gave him the opportunity for a temporal fold Angel was
certain he would take it. He knew exactly what sound the sword would
make as it passed through Holtz's ribcage. Bone splintering, the smell
of blood that would make him hungry, make him long to drink down all
that evil and rage, to keep it trapped within him where he could make it
safe, where he could make sure no other children were destroyed before
they got a chance to become someone . . .
He was not Superman, and yet he had been given so many chances to grow,
to change, to learn... to do Good. What was so goddamned special about
him? Was he 'chosen' for this, for this torment that he had inflicted on
a thousand others before? Or was this his true punishment at last?
Knowing for a few brief months what it meant to nurture, to care, to
love so intensely, and then ...
Nothing. To be suddenly hollow. If this was his ultimate penalty for
crimes too heinous to mention, too numerous to count, why then did other
parents lose children? For what were they being punished? And why was
there no Superman to keep them safe? There were heroes, certainly; one
of the greatest slept in the bed not ten feet behind him. But she, like
all the others, was fallible and so very, very human.
She could not save them all. She could barely even save herself.
From the first moment he'd seen Buffy, he'd wanted nothing more than to
keep her safe. A silly, romantic notion he should have known was
fruitless. The lives they led did not lend themselves to safekeeping. He
would watch her back. He would die for her, if need be. But the one
thing he would never be able to do was keep her safe.
If nothing else had taught him this, losing Connor had.
They'd all been in the hotel. Downstairs, laughing. The baby monitor had
been on. Cordelia and Gunn had been re-enacting the desperately funny
battle they'd fought the night before and Fred had been snorting iced
tea out her nose. He remembered laughing. Genuine, deep belly laughter,
the kind he hadn't indulged in since that night.
It was Lorne who noticed. It might have been hours if Wesley hadn't
started singing . . . Angel couldn't even remember now. Just Wesley's
horribly off-key voice and Lorne's bright green skin actually paling.
The Host hadn't spoken. He didn't have to. Something inside of Angel --
fatherly instinct? Predator's cunning? -- knew. He'd taken the stairs at
a run, vampiric muscles and tendons working like they never had before.
It was still too late.
Holtz was sitting by Connor's crib. Just sitting there, staring down at
Angel's son as though watching him sleep. When he entered the room,
Holtz had looked up with a smile that chilled Angel to the depths of his
soul. And that soul had already known ((only one heartbeat in the room))
but he was drawn to the crib in spite of himself.
Sometimes, he wished he'd never looked.
Usually, he was sure he deserved that crystal-clear vision now seared
into his brain for eternity.
It was Connor who should have been spared.
His grief was eclipsed only by his demon's rage. Holtz took even the
satisfaction Angel would have found snapping his neck. The room was
eight stories off the ground. Angel's reflexes were stunted by shock.
When the police came for the body, they said he was still smiling.
Angel didn't move for days. The others had been on his heels, their
grief, their shock, their anger echoing ((but never touching, never even
coming close, they don't know, I pray they never know)) his own. They
brought him blood, forced it down his throat, but he did not move from
the floor by Connor's crib. He let them take his son's ((my little boy,
my heart, he's never going to grow up, never going to be a man, never
going to get married, never going to eat ice cream, never going to meet
Buffy, never going to go to Notre Dame, never going to see Ireland,
never going to play hockey)) body, but growled when they tried to touch
his things. The toys, the clothes, the mobile that played a tinkling
rendition of Ode to Joy... Those items had been all that he had left.
In time they'd coaxed him out of the room. Forced him to take up
residence in another, further down the hall. Cordelia and Wesley had
gone in to clear out Connor's room while Fred and Gunn kept an eye on
him. They were afraid he would harm himself, and the thought had
certainly crossed his mind, but somehow . . . he couldn't do it.
He hadn't killed himself after Buffy died, after all. As empty as he'd
felt then, the aftermath of Connor's death had been a thousand times
worse, but still, he did not entertain notions of suicide. Mostly
because it would have been too easy, too cowardly. He would live with
what had happened to his son. He would live with the knowledge that he
had imposed this kind of pain onto thousands of others.
And he would try until the day that he ceased to be to atone for it.
Sometimes, though, he wondered where Connor was. If he was happy. If
there really was such a place as the Summerland, or Heaven, or an
afterlife. If reincarnation were possible, his son could already be with
someone else, knowing another touch, another father, one who might be
able to play with him in the sunshine . . .
He faced out over the city that was his sworn duty to protect, and for
the first time in a long time, wept.
* * *
Inside of me...
Inside of me.
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet.
I'm only a man looking for a dream.
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
And it's not easy...
* * *
She woke from the first perfect, restful, dreamless sleep in as long as
she could remember, a nagging sensation just below the surface of her
consciousness: something was very Wrong. There was pain -- sharp,
rending heartpain -- ripping through her, growing sharper by the moment,
incompatible with the peaceful sensation of safety and ease she had been
drifting in, bringing her instantly to full alertness.
Angel had dreams too, he'd told her... sweet dreams of family, sunshine
and togetherness that ripped him apart from the inside far more
completely than nightmares of blood, destruction, evil and Hell ever
had. She knew right away it was his pain that woke her, and she
automatically reached out to soothe him, to hold him... but found his
space beside her in the big, soft bed empty.
A split second of panic blinded her, and she sat up, clutching the sheet
to her chest.
((OhGodohnoheleftmehe'sgoneI'maloneIcan'tdoitIcan't...))
"Angel?" she called softly into the darkness.
He cleared his throat and replied, his voice rough, "It's okay, Buffy.
Go back to sleep."
The sympathetic ache she could feel so clearly even from the land of
dreams ((memories)) sharpened, pierced her and made her bleed at the
agony in his voice he was trying so hard to hide.
Winding the sheet around her, Buffy rose and approached where he stood
by the window, his face turned out to gaze over the sparkling skyline.
The city lights reflected in the tears that ran, unchecked, down his
regal cheeks. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, but said nothing. What
was there to say?
His hand was rubbing his chest, over his heart, the gesture
absent-minded and very telling. "I can't . . ." A semi-hysterical bark
of laughter escaped his throat. "It's ridiculous, because I don't *need*
to, but . . ." Almost a whimper. "Buffy, I can't breathe." The tears
cascading down his face continued in earnest and his shoulders began to
shake with repressed sobs. "I can't breathe, I can't breathe, he isn't
breathing, he doesn't breathe anymore, Buffy, he wasn't breathing and
there was nothing I could do, nothing . . . "
Buffy felt her own tears spill in answer to his, and without a thought
to what she was doing, or why, or how she could help, she reached out
and wrapped her arms around him, drawing his shuddering form down to her
breast.
"Oh, my love," she whispered into his hair, stroking his back in long
languid circles, as if she could somehow smooth the jagged, bleeding
edges of his heart back together with her touch. And oh, God... how she
wished she could. Like she had never wished for anything before in her
life. "My sweet love...I'm so sorry..."
"He was so still . . ." His words were almost incoherent and his legs
could no longer support his weight and he sagged to the floor, taking
her with him, collapsing against her, letting her shore him up. "He'd
never been that still, not even when he was sleeping and I wanted to
pretend he was sleeping but I couldn't because I couldn't hear his heart
beating and I could always hear it beating from every room in the house
and I heard it stop, I heard it stop but I pretended I didn't because I
couldn't . . . I was on the stairs when it stopped. I think of that
every time I walk down them. If only I'd been faster, I . . ."
Buffy held him tighter still, held him fiercely to her own heart while
he let his pain go... finally expressed all of the things he had refused
to acknowledge, let alone share, in all of this time. She tried to will
his agony to come in to her -- she could take it, she'd always taken it
and gotten through somehow, and she had always been so much less fragile
than he was... "You couldn't have changed anything. Angel... It wasn't
your *fault*."
"It was," he rasped harshly, clutching her back like a dying man
clinging to life. "I should have *been there*. I should have *killed*
him before he had the chance to . . ." A breath escaped him that nearly
sounded like a death rattle. "There was so much blood . . . he was so
little, there shouldn't have *been* that much . . ."
"Angel... honey, shhhhh..." she soothed, stroking every part of him that
she could reach, peppering his tearstained face with gentle kisses.
"Shhhh..."
It was idiotic... the nonsense sounds... the useless motions... there
was no comfort to be had here. No solace, no way to heal these kinds of
wounds. His sobbing gutted her like no demon sword ever could...
destroyed her like nothing she had experienced in a short and
pain-filled life.
She held him until the wracking and choking faded to desperate hitching,
and finally, only soft shivers. He was utterly boneless in her arms, his
energy, like his grief, spent.
She remembered, a long time ago ((not real, but it felt real...)), when
Dawn was four or five, and a car going too fast down their sleepy
residential street had clipped the training wheel on her little bicycle.
Her sister had gone flying with a glass-shattering wail.
Buffy could still see that flight in flawless, sharp detail in her mind
-- the fascinating horror of it... The realization that froze her where
she stood not 30 feet away, that Dawn had just been hit by a car. Kids
died getting hit by cars. She vaguely recalled screaming for
somebodyanybodypleasehelpusmommydaddyDawnshurt!
But the clearest memory of all was of her mother's face. An expression
of unutterable rage and terror as she bolted from the house, shrieking
Dawn's name so loudly it made every dog on the block howl.
Mom told her, much later, that there was no fear in the universe like
that -- the possibility of losing your child, your flesh and blood. It
was a constant refrain in the existence of every being that brought
young into the world... loved it, cherished it, nurtured it, far above
and beyond their own life.
"I wouldn't survive if I lost one of you," she'd whispered, taking
Buffy's hand, "I couldn't."
No... there was no balm for this wound on her Angel's soul. But maybe...
maybe she could dull its edges... just... the tiniest bit.
And so she opened that last box of secrets in her heart, and hoped that
sharing them could provide her broken Angel what little succor might be
had.
She rocked him slowly, gently, as though he were the wounded child, and
hesitantly began to speak the unspeakable. "Where he is... it's...
better, Angel. So much better than here," she murmured, leaning her
cheek on top of his head, and let herself remember. "There's no pain...
no fear. Nothing but love and peace and joy... and certainty. You know,
without any doubt at all, how much the people who you loved, loved you.
You know everything. And everything is exactly the way it should be."
She couldn't be certain if it was enough... or if it was anything at
all. There weren't words in the stilted, awkward language they spoke to
describe that kind of... perfection.
"There is a Heaven, Angel. And Connor's there... and all he'll know, for
the rest of eternity, is how much you loved him."
Her words penetrated his grief-fogged mind and he slowly began to come
back to himself -- or, more accurately, he began to come back to her.
The only things he was truly conscious of were her strong, tender arms
wrapped around him and the breath of her words caressing the side of his
face. Her words . . . such beautiful words. And the way she spoke of
Heaven, how different she was . . .
"Was it really that beautiful there?" he asked quietly, his face still
securely tucked against her breast. "So beautiful that you didn't want
to leave?"
For a moment, she paused. She had meant to share the sensation of
Heaven, without ever having to explain...
But how was that fair? She was looking at the blackest, deepest pain of
his soul - cradling it in her arms. How could she not share her own?
Closing her eyes, Buffy whispered, "Yes."
Forcing himself to sit up, Angel faced her fully, pulling her closer
until their legs overlapped and he could cup her face between his hands.
"Do you know what gives me even a little bit of peace?" he queried, his
voice rough.
She blinked her tears away and looked into his eyes. "No..."
Almost in a trance, he brushed the tears off of her cheeks with the
rough pads of his thumbs. "Imagining Connor in that place some deity out
there thought was worthy of you." His face contorted, his eyes filling
with tears again. "Buffy, it almost . . . it almost brings me comfort."
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that heralded yet more tears, she
leaned closer to him, resting her hands on either side of his face in
return. "That's all I've ever wanted to do, Angel. Ever. I love you...
so much. I promised myself I'd never tell anyone what I'd seen... where
I'd been. But I couldn't live with myself, seeing you in so much pain,
and knowing that... I knew something that might help... just a little. I
know it's not..." she swallowed, her voice breaking as her throat
tightened. "I know it's not much, but... it's all I have to give you. I
know your son is... in H-heaven. I know he is."
"Not much," he mumbled, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, quiet
desperation in his touch. "It's everything, Buffy. It's more than I
deserve; more than most people get." He stared at her intensely. "I'm so
sorry for how hard everything must be for you."
She laughed... a wretched, bitter sound. "For me? You're kidding,
right?"
He shook his head. "Buffy, we're not . . . what we're going through
isn't entirely dissimilar." He looked at her carefully. "We both knew a
near-perfect euphoric state . . . and it was violently ripped away from
us." He brushed the hair back from her face. "Just because what you lost
was a state of being . . . doesn't mean you're not allowed to mourn."
She couldn't quite look him in the eye. "I don't think it's the same.
Not even a little. But... thank you."
Privately, he thought that what she had suffered might possibly be worse
than what he'd gone through -- but he decided against sharing that bit
of information with her. Instead, he gave her a little smile of
gratitude. "It is getting better," he murmured, half trying to convince
her, half vehemently wanting to believe it himself.
She cocked her head to the side. "What is?"
"Everything," he answered, still touching her face lightly with the pads
of his fingers. "Our lives, our mental states, the pain . . . it *is*
getting better . . ." ((Isn't it? Please, lie to me if you have to, just
tell me it's getting better.))
She gave him the best smile she could manage. "It must be. I mean... we
just... and I didn't... and I said that word out loud." With a chuckle,
she added. "Although, my powers of speech don't seem to be improving
any."
Buffy reached up and mimicked his gentle caress on the proud lines of
his face. "It is getting better. Being with you... I honestly never
thought it would happen again. I thought... I really thought it was
over. So... I guess..." She gave a woeful sigh. "Yes. It is getting
better."
And as if to prove it, she leaned closer, and gently touched her lips to
his.
Life. That was what it felt like to kiss Buffy. It felt like life. "I
missed you," he whispered into their kiss.
His gentle whisper -- not the words so much as the soul-deep feeling
behind them -- echoed inside the last of her empty places, flooding them
with bittersweet, beautiful warmth. She pulled him closer, deepening the
kiss, hoping that that was more than enough to tell him how much she'd
missed him. How wrong everything had been without him in her life. How
sorry she was that she hadn't gone to him in all the time she was
falling apart... how deeply she regretted that she had been unable to
reach out to him the way he had her.
"There's never been anyone else," she murmured, trailing her lips to the
corner of his mouth, brushing them over the edges of his jaw. "Only
you."
If only that were true, he thought, though again, he did not give voice
to it. This was not the time for such thoughts, such petty details.
There had never been anyone else. It *felt* true. "I'm so glad you're
with me," he whispered. "I'm so damn happy I don't have to face
everything without you anymore." His hands rested lightly on her hips,
reinforcing the connection between them.
Buffy rose up on her knees between his legs, gently tilting his face up
with her fingertips. As she did so, the sheet around her body drifted to
her waist . . . and she barely noticed. There would be no protective
layers between them any longer. Gravely, she vowed to him, "You don't.
Ever again. You'll never be alone. I promise."
She bent down to kiss him again, more fiercely, this time... with all
her pain and longing flowing like lava through her blood... from her
skin to his. It wasn't darkness she feared. Or being alone... or never
making it back to Heaven. It was a life without him... without his
unshakable loyalty. His undying friendship. His love. As much as she had
adored him when she was young -- with the pure, mindless passion of the
very naive -- it couldn't hold even the smallest candle to what she felt
for him now. How he was the cornerstone of her sanity. The one person on
the face of the planet whose trust she need never question. The one
person who truly knew her. She had been afraid to let him see her
shadows... to ruin that perfect pedestal princess she always imagined
lived in his heart. But they were different, now. Neither held any
illusions about Perfect Happiness... life was painful. Life was losing
-- yourself, the people you loved, and eventually, life itself. As long
as they could share the journey, that burden could only be lightened
between them.
Her hands slipped down over his shoulders... skimmed the hard lines of
his chest... wandered lower. All the while, she whispered to him. "I
can't promise we'll never hurt again... or even that we'll never hurt
each other. But Angel... it all means something. That we're here,
together? After everything? You were right... we were meant to come
here, now. I love you. I'll love you until the end of the universe, and
beyond. I love you more than life. More than the air I breathe. I love
you, and if I can take even a little of the pain away, it would be worth
never going back to Heaven again. Here, with you... it's close enough."
"Heaven," he murmured, his body -- his soul -- reacting equally to her
touch and her words. Buffy had always been so shy with him, so guarded
with her heart, so fearful of having it torn out. The woman she had
become was still afraid, but she overcame that fear because she loved
him enough to put his needs before her terror. "Love . . . Heaven has
always been wherever you are," he whispered into her ear.
She opened her eyes and stared deeply into his. Still kneeling above
him, she gently traced every tiny detail of his beautiful face. There
wasn't a thing she'd forgotten. Not the turn of his cheekbones, the
particular cut of his brow, the path of his hairline. Beautiful. When
she had finished drawing him with her fingers, she bent down and
followed the same familiar paths with her lips. The curve of his ears,
the tendons in his throat. Her hands led the way, and she followed...
broad, strong shoulders and back, the bearers of so much of the same
burden as she... and more. She moved behind him... kissed a line of her
love and gratitude down his spine, caressed the tension from his arms,
and then came to kneel before him again, kicking away the last of the
sheet entangled in her legs and exposing the length of her bare body to
the cool air, the moonlight, and his gaze. "I don't want to be afraid
anymore, Angel. Of anything. But especially not of us."
His gaze was riveted to her body. "Do you know . . . can you even
imagine how beautiful you are to me?" He breathed the words, awed at
her, at her bravery, her unselfishness. His fingertips went to work
again, this time barely brushing against her arms, the underside of her
breasts, and the curve of her belly . . . humbled by her trust in him.
Her first instinct was to hide from the intensity in his eyes... the
nearly palpable pressure of his gaze touching her as deeply as his
hands. But she wouldn't hide from him. Not anymore. She gently laid her
hand over the one that cupped her breast, reached out to wind the
fingers of the other in his hair, and drew him forward.
Her gentle urging was all the prompting he needed to press his mouth
fully to hers. The sureness in her touch warmed him and he cupped her
breast more fully, his other hand sliding around her back to cup her
rear end, pulling her in closer contact with his body.
With a sigh, she shifted forward until her torso was flush with his, his
face in line with her breasts. "I need your touch, Angel. I need to feel
you." She urged his head downward with a gentle push. Taking control.
Leading the way to a place where they could both be healed. "Please... "
Groaning in anticipation, with relief, with joy that she could feel this
comfortable with him, Angel darted his tongue out to take a taste of her
skin. It seemed longer than a few brief hours since he'd lasted sampled
it, and he couldn't resist the lure of her tight little nipple, begging
for his attention. His lips closed around it and he gently began to
suckle, taking as much comfort and pleasure from the act as he hoped she
did. One of his hands remained securely fastened to her other breast,
gently teasing its nipple with the pad of his thumb; the fingers of his
free hand traced slow, gentle circles over her lower back; danced over
the curve of her rear; teased the backs of her closed thighs.
Buffy moaned deep in her chest, pressing him closer, and took his
growing erection in her free hand. The apprehension, the dismay... the
ghosts that had whispered to her earlier, making her hesitate, were
gone, and in their place a wonder at the fact that he could still have
so much to give... so much love, when he had lost so much. She stroked
him softly, reaching beneath to caress his testicles, test their weight,
roll them gently between her fingers, and then move back up again. After
a moment, she pulled away, placed her hands on his shoulders and gently
urged him back on the floor.
He was her willing slave, allowing her to maneuver him however she
liked. And not just because she had her preternaturally strong hand on
his genitals.
Keeping constant eye contact with him, Buffy slid downward onto her
belly, nestled firmly between his legs. She kissed the head of his
shaft, flicking her tongue gently over the glistening tip, even as she
continued to caress him firmly in her hand. "I love your body," she
purred, letting her long-chained vixen loose just that tiniest bit.
There were no secrets here, between them. "I love the way you respond to
me. I love to touch you. You're so amazing."
"God!" He hissed, a harsh, sudden exhalation of air through clenched
teeth. She'd barely touched him, yet the slightest flick of her tiny
pink tongue had him ready to weep. He loved the vixen that lived inside
of her; he rejoiced, also, because he'd been afraid he might never get
to play with her again and they'd had such little time together before .
. . "You're the one who's amazing," he managed to groan, the tone of his
voice full of laughter and warmth. How had she brought that back to him
so quickly?
She relished the feeling of power... this new feeling... this different
power. As hokey as it sounded even in her mind... the power of their
love. A desire born from something right and, if not pure, than at least
Good. To give him pleasure, to make him feel something besides the agony
of his losses... it was more gift than she had ever felt worthy of
receiving. She licked him from root to tip and back again, drawing her
tongue firmly along his foreskin, gently rolling his balls between the
fingers of one hand, while following the path of her mouth with the
other, wrapped tightly around his pulsing cock.
A bone-melting groan left his mouth and he unconsciously lifted his hips
toward the warmwet haven of her mouth. His hands found purchase in her
hair and he began to gently scratch his short, blunt fingernails over
her scalp, tightening his grip sporadically every time she hit an
especially sensitive spot.
She devoured him hungrily, lapping and laving every inch of him until
she was so starved to have him inside her the need was almost desperate.
She sealed her lips tightly around his shaft, and sucked him deep into
the back of her throat. The cool velvetsteel taste of him sent a shock
of bliss through her body, a deep, wet throbbing between her legs.
Humming, she drew him slowly out, never relenting in her grip with
either hand or mouth, making love to him with all the passion and desire
that blazed through her entire being.
Angel banged his head against the floor once, sharply, to keep from
spilling down her throat. "Buffy," he whimpered, his fingers tightening
in her hair again, "Jesus, Buffy, I'm going to . . . you have to stop, I
want to be . . ." He was thinking of the right words in his head, but
whatever synapse expressed thought to vocal chords had been fried with
the wethotpleasure of her mouth.
With a secret smile, she released him from her mouth, but kept a
slightly slower, more gentle pressure with her hand. "I want you to,
Angel... I want to feel you let go. Taste you," she murmured, and
without further preamble, proceeded to wipe from his memory every act of
oral sex that had ever been performed on him. She felt him press past
her tonsils... relaxed her throat ((one good thing Spike taught me)) and
took him as deeply as the limits of her body would allow, then drew him
out again, sucking, licking and stroking in time with his body's own
preternatural pulse.
Another crack of his skull against the floor -- this time, in crucial,
ecstatic relief -- and he emitted a nearly inhuman howl of fulfillment,
his hips thrusting up toward her face as she sucked from his body every
single drop of rapture he had inside of him. It spread through him from
head to toe, then spilled down her throat as satisfaction began to move
through him like a fever.
The sound of his pleasure was almost enough to push her over the edge
right there. But she wasn't done yet... it had been so long since she
had felt good about the power of her body... lain with someone who cared
not only about their own pleasure, but hers, and theirs together. So
long since forms and spirits were entwined, balanced.
She drank him down eagerly, moaning at the saltysweet taste of him, and
even as he relaxed beneath her, she continued to lick and gently stroke
his softening member.
Unnecessary panting filled the room as he tried to clear his vision.
There was nothing but white, and that worried him until he realized it
was just the ceiling. Forcing himself to raise his head, he looked down
at Buffy and through the hazy completion that was flowing through him .
. . felt himself stir, a spark of desire re-igniting at the image she
presented attending to his softened penis.
"Buffy . . ." he murmured, partly confused, but mostly aroused.
"Mmm?" she mumbled, not slowing her attentions.
"Nothing," he mumbled back at her, collapsing against the floor as he
tried to regain some of his strength. Let her do whatever she pleased
with his body; he'd be her willing, loving slave.
She chuckled at his surrender, eager to put that legendary vampiric
stamina to the test. As she suckled him and felt him once again harden
in her mouth, she almost cheered in triumph. Maybe letting loose with
Spike, though ugly and misguided at its core, had brought with it the
blessings of learning how to truly pleasure a vampire's body. Letting
him slip from her mouth once again, she pressed her chest to his groin,
and continued stroking him, rubbing him between her breasts.
"Does that feel good, baby?" she whispered.
Propping himself up on his elbows, because Dear God, was she really . .
. Her skin was so warm, her hand around him had been magic, but this . .
. he let out a moan. "Good," he whispered, reaching a hand down to
softly stroke her shoulders, the curve of her jaw. "God, you feel so
good . . . I can't . . . I can't imagine what I ever did to deserve you,
but I'm so grateful I did it." He knew he wasn't quite making sense, but
Jesus, she was . . . with her breasts . . .
She smiled softly at him, feeling tears once again press against her
eyes. "You are just you," she whispered, and languorously climbed his
body until they were face to face once more. "Just you. That's all I
want. All I need." She pressed her wet core against him, and with a
moan, her eyes slipped shut. "Aaangel. God..." Reaching between them,
she reclaimed his now erect penis, and rubbed him slowly up and down her
aching, throbbing slit, stimulating her clitoris. "It's so good...
Ahhh... hot... sweet... never... had both before..." Passion and
tenderness. Consuming, devouring fire, and soft, gentle comfort. Angel.
He let out a hiss, one of his hands moving to her hip, stroking her
skin, aiding her movement against him. Every drop of love, of sweet,
selfless desire he'd ever known had come from her, because of her. His
free hand, he brought back to her breast, cupping its luscious weight
against his palm; flicking the nipple with his thumb. "I want to give
you everything," he whispered hoarsely. "Everything you've never had and
always wanted."
"Yes," she sighed, and looked into his eyes once more. "I want it all,
with you. And I want to watch you come inside of me... right now..."
She rose up higher on her knees, and guided him that first inch into her
entrance with a gasp of blissful shock. She teased him with the edges of
her muscles, gripping just the tip of him inside of her, as she
continued caressing the root with her hand.
"Jesus," he hissed again, wondering if Buffy would help him find
religion yet. Certainly not conventional religion, but some form of
Slayer worship, perhaps . . . except his faith was utterly singular,
belonging only to the woman above him, surrounding him, tantalizing him
. . . "You first," he managed to grit out, still gently caressing her
breast with one hand, the other slipping lower so that his thumb could
gently slide over her clit.
"Ah!" she cried out, taken by surprise at his tender strike. She was
halfway there already, from touching him, hot just from making him come,
and she immediately felt the first shocks of what promised to be
incredible bliss ripping through her. "Yes. God, Angel," she moaned,
rocking against him, thrusting her breasts and sex into his hands.
His hips moved of their own accord, natural instinct prompting him to
sink himself as far inside of her body as he could go. He let the rhythm
of her hips set their pace, as well as the friction of his thumb against
her clit. With his other hand, he began to pinch her nipple, lightly,
exerting just enough pressure to make it count. "That's my girl," he
murmured, glad for the previous orgasm she'd so selflessly bestowed upon
him, allowing him enough control to take her with him. "Let me see you."
For a split second, the memory of those words from a very different
mouth began to slither into her mind. She never let it form. He was gone
forever. And she WAS this vampire's girl.
She rose up on her knees and rode him harder, moaning deeply in time
with his thrusts, never taking her gaze from his. She brought her hands
up to her chest, caressing the hand attending to one breast, while
mimicking his actions herself with the other. "Mmmm.. it's so good...
with you... inside of me," she panted, sliding him in and out of her
with increasing force and speed. "I want you deeper. Deeper, Angel...
harder."
She was a Goddess and she was *his* and she was magnificent. "Deeper,"
he agreed, angling his hips for a deeper, rougher penetration. The sight
of her tiny hand playing with her own breast, giving herself pleasure .
. .The hand she covered with her own, he turned until he could grasp
hers, bringing it down between her legs, urging her to touch herself.
"Show me, love," he urged huskily, letting his now free hand clutch her
hip firmly, giving him the opportunity to thrust with more pressure,
more accuracy. "Let me see how good you feel."
"Uhn, yes..." she gasped, slipping her finger into her own wetness,
feeling him move inside of her. The sensation of their bodies pulsing,
rocking together, his hand on hers as she touched herself, driving him
home and home and home...
Throwing her head back, she cried, "Angel! YES! NOW OH GOD! NOW!"
With a vicious, guttural grunt, he came inside her with a muffled
"Buffy!" as he bowed up from the floor, burying his face against her
chest.
She let out a long string of frantic, grunting cries as she exploded
around him, feeling him fill her, soothe her, cool her from the inside.
She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, still arching onto
him. "I love you... so much... "
He was beyond speech, feeling her clench around him, those
superstrongslayermuscles making his eyes roll up into the back of his
head, draining him dry, emptying him so that she could fill him up again
with her love, her comfort, her sweet, sweet bliss. His hips continued
to thrust weakly long after he was spent, his hands stroking her back in
wide, uneven waves, loath to stop touching her for even a second.
Still wrapped tightly around him, she dissolved in his arms, let the
aftershocks take her, making her shiver from head to foot. She giggled
softly as he eased back down to the floor, taking her with him.
"Normally, laughter after sex might make a guy a little insecure," he
murmured, grinning a little himself, "but since I'd cut off my right arm
to make you laugh . . . I'm going to take it as a compliment." He
pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, holding her closer still.
"I can't help it," she giggled. "God, I can't believe..." She rolled off
of him and reclaimed the sheet from the floor, but only wrapped it
around her feet. "Can I tell you something that's... sort of
disturbing?"
"More disturbing than any of the other things we've shared tonight?" he
asked, an eyebrow cocked. He had rolled onto his side and propped his
head up on his arm, his hand moving to rest lightly over her belly.
Buffy beamed... which felt just as silly as the giggling and she was
able to knock it off just as well. "Mm. Well, it's not really one of my
more heroic moments."
"I'm familiar with those, too," he assured her quietly, an
unpretentiousness between them he'd never felt before. With anyone. He
let his palm, his fingers, trail up and down her torso, concentrating on
her stomach as though she were a nervous child he was trying to soothe.
And for the first time in as long as he could recall, the word "child"
didn't make him want to crumble into a heap of dust.
She sighed and closed her eyes. "When Spike and I first... started,
there was this... thing with the geeks and the demons in the woods," she
turned to look down at him. "Did I tell you about that? When I thought I
killed that woman? The time wonky thing?"
"Katrina," he said after a moment of thought. "You only told me that you
did finally realize you were under a spell of some kind. That it made
you think about Faith."
Buffy nodded, and slid down to lie beside him once more, her head
pillowed on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy circles around his
chest. "Well... I was going to tell the police, but I overheard the cop
say her name. But... before that..."
"Before that," he prompted gently after a moment of silence, his arm
around her back now, gently stroking her hip.
"Spike tried to stop me. Outside the police station. And... I lost it. I
mean totally. I freaked right out on him. I mean... here I was, trying
to do the right thing, even though Faith and I might end up next door
neighbors for the rest of this century, and he comes along and starts
harping on me not to throw my life away!" She snorted, shaking her head.
"He might as well have just stood there shouting, "I DON'T HAVE A
CONSCIENCE! I'M EVIL! SOMEBODY STAKE ME!" So... I hit him."
He stared at her for a moment, then shook himself. "I'm sorry, is the
part where I'm supposed to be disturbed?"
She shot him a look. "He *was* trying to help in his very special,
psychotically twisted way. But no... that's not the disturbing part. He,
um... when I hit him... he said... " She swallowed deeply. "He said
'that's my girl.' Then... I totally snapped, and... pounded the crap out
of him. I mean... big time. More than he deserved, at that point."
Trailing off, she picked a piece of lint off the sheet beside where his
hand lay on her hip. "It was like... he was stepping on that part of me
that I kept from him... that belonged to you." She raised her head and
smiled at him. "That still belongs to you. But I... I was screaming at
him. About him not having a soul... to have him say anything that you
ever said to me... it was like he was trying to make himself into you,
and it made me sick. I might have killed him with my bare hands."
His hand drifted up to her face and he stroked her skin; pushed her hair
away from her eyes. "He touched something inside of you that you didn't
give him permission to," he murmured. "He violated it. And when you
violate a Slayer, you're playing some pretty deep odds." He considered
her for a moment. "I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the idea of nearly
killing Spike with my bare hands."
She blushed at the compliment to her Slayerness... yet another part of
her that she felt was bruised by Spike. That she had lain with the
enemy... and liked it. Most of her brain still balked at the idea. Then,
the other thing he'd said finally registered. She propped herself up on
one elbow and peered suspiciously at him. "Did you kill him, Angel?"
"Does it matter?" he hedged.
With a mock glare, she warned. "No cryptic. I'm making it officially
against the rules." She softened again. "I just need to know. What
happened that night? And why were we never cursed with his presence
again?"
He winced a little, looking down, breaking her gaze. "The term 'pounded
the crap out of'?"
"Yes..." she urged.
"That's like a slap on the wrist compared to what I did to him," he
confessed, still not meeting her gaze. He was ashamed that he lost
control like that, and more than a little -- unsure? -- that she might
be put out with him over his treatment of Spike. The other vampire had
hurt her, yes, but she had also been with him for the better part of a
year . . . "But I didn't kill him. Just made it clear that if he so much
as tried to take your hand to help you up, I'd make him wish he was
never spawned."
In spite of Buffy's better judgment, a wave of relief washed over her.
Followed quickly by a wave of love and admiration for the Champion
beside her. She smiled. "Thank you. For doing that for me. And for not
killing him. It really wasn't his fault. He was just being himself. I
always knew that. But... thank you."
His head snapped back up and he looked into her eyes. He concentrated,
trying to sense any hidden recriminations . . then smiled a little in
alleviation at finding none. "I was afraid you might be a little . . .
pissed . . . at me for fighting your battles."
Buffy shrugged. "I wasn't really in a position to do any fighting,
then." She gently traced his lips. "It means a lot that... you picked up
my slack."
"That's what I'm here for, right?" He leaned in close to her face,
brushing his nose against hers, kissing her fingertips, whispering
against them roughly, solemnly, "I've got your back, love."
The beaming commenced once more. "I have yours, too. Always. But...
could you do me one little favor?"
"Anything," he agreed with a smile.
She brushed a little kiss to the tip of his nose. "I love you very much,
but please... can you not call me luv?"
* * *
"It's not easy
To be me."
~Finis~
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