Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or situations. Written for fun, not profit.
"How can you grow old? You were my triumph"—The Delays, Long Time Coming
They meet at a diner off the freeway. When he arrives he doesn't even need to scan the restaurant, just knows where she's sitting. She knows he's coming too; stands up to greet him. He had thought it might be awkward. After all, she had died since the last time they spoke. He certainly hadn't expected her to push against him roughly and kiss him with bruising force. If he were prepared, he might have pushed her away, but as it is, all he can do is melt into her arms, pull her closer and pretend.
She doesn't let up, not even to breathe and he suddenly realizes that something was different. This was not the way Buffy kissed, not the way her arms wrapped around him. He tries to pull back, but she won't let him, pulling his head down to hers until he is finally forced to shove her arms back. Only when she is no longer touching him does he come back to reality, back to the murmurs of the diner patrons.
They stand, almost touching like that for what seems like hours until she finally slides into the booth and mumbles an apology. He sees then, the circles under her eyes, how her skin seems tightly drawn across her face, how her collarbones jut out from beneath her tank top. "Buffy…" he says. He wants to say more, but he doesn't have to.
"I'm sorry, Angel. I just wanted to see. If things could be…if I could be how I was."
Angel is not, as a rule, a crier, but he thinks he could cry right then, looking at her. Willow had sounded so pleased, so proud, when she had told him that Buffy was back, that he had hoped against all reason that Buffy too would be happy. Deep down, he thinks he knew all along that she wouldn't be, couldn't be.
"I know," he says, and grasps her hand across the table. Her face softens, just the tiniest bit, but then she seems to remember, and pulls her hand back again.
"I can't, I can't tell any of them. They love me so much. I don't deserve them."
"You can tell me, Buffy," is all he can say. He wants to tell her that he'd take it all away from her if he could, if he could bear her pain for her, but he knows that's not what she needs to hear.
"You're not there," she replies. She seems to hesitate and then says, almost spitefully, "He's there."
Angel thinks she must mean Soldier Boy, but he can't bring himself to be jealous, not now. Instead he just feels horrible, and feels that pull that he always feels when he's around her and he finds himself saying "I could come back. I could be there."
She catches his eyes and says his name, just as he had said hers moments ago, and of course, she doesn't have to say more. He remembers then, about his year, and about Darla, and all of it, and he knows he can't let her become that for him.
"I wish I could though," he finally says, wishing he hadn't been stupid enough to give her that hope.
"No, don't wish that, Angel. I'm proud of you, you know? I miss you, but you've got this, like, mission now. I can't be the reason you give that up."
All he can think about is that night when he stood out on the bluff and she told him strong was fighting. He wishes she didn't have to be strong anymore. "You have a mission too," he tries to remind her, but she just laughs a hard laugh and says that's the only thing she does know.
She stands up and folds her arms across her chest, as though she's trying to keep warm, even with the heat coming off of the grill to her left. "I'd better go. Don't try to contact me."
He watches her leave, this woman who had been his salvation in more ways than he could count, and wishes that he could save her. But the world doesn't work like that, so he does the next best thing. He heads back home, to the life that she gave him. He's got work to do.