It's been a long time since he wondered if he was a thing worth saving.
He feels them fall around him, smells their blood long before he sees their bodies—his champions, his team. His family. Wesley. Fred. Cordelia. He's lost so many to his cause over the years, but he has no time to mourn now. Now, there is only slicing and ducking and stay awake, make it through and he knows that he won't. Maybe with his end (because it's not his death, it's not, that happened long ago) his demon will finally die. Humanity… Even before he signed away the shanshu, he knew he'd never had a right to it. There are some things that cannot be atoned for.
Something carves a deep cut in his arm before he can block it, and he feels blood spill out of him. He smells something rich and heady and sweet on his next inhale, recognizing the scent of blood that used to pump through her veins. I won't let you die. Drink!
The demon in him salivates, and he turns his head away. He's been injured enough over the past five years that it should all be gone by now, replenished with the pig's blood he usually drinks, or the human blood his demon stole last year (he doesn't want to think about the feasts he's had the past couple of days). But Slayer blood—her blood—lasts longer. If he didn't know better, he'd say it seemed to almost live in his heart. Despite the pain, his lips curl. From the day he'd first seen her, she'd made the monster more human than the man ever was.
Love isn't brains, children, it's blood…
He knows what he wants, what he's always wanted. The first time he felt it, tasting salt and coconut lotion and Buffy on his tongue, cold skin momentarily warmed by a love so pure he could have sworn his heart stuttered in his chest. But it's been years since then, and he doesn't even know if he could be happy now, given the chance. He knows enough of the cosmic scales, knows that the heaven she found herself in would never be his fate. No, nonexistence is his best bet.
He prays to a God he doesn't believe in for justice. Grace has never been an option.
The demon feels it before the soul—a stake plunging through his heart, skin and bones and blood dissolving into ashes to ashes, dust to dust and in his last waking moment he prays he isn't brought back, this time.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Booth's dreams are weird.
They're pretty trippy, populated by the strangest characters he's ever heard of. He sees a world much more dangerous than the one he lives in (and that's legitimately saying something). Some things are the same though—the blood on his hands, the son he would do anything for, the helping of the helpless.
Thump, thump.
When he wakes, he forgets most of them. What he does remember he puts away with his pajamas before taking the metro to work, images of silky blonde hair fading like early-morning fog.
He knows who he is.
He is Agent Seeley Booth, and if he's ever surprised to catch his own reflection in the windows, well, everyone has their quirks. His overactive imagination needs to get itself together.
He's riding the metro one day, pressed against the rest of the crowd, when he feels a hand brush his and I have sometimes thought that far ahead I'm so grateful that you came I felt your heart beat I won't let you die drink always strong is fighting and we can do it together close your eyes give me time I love you kiss me can you at least tell me your name he knows it, he knows he does, it's-
His heart stutters in his chest.
Thump, thump.
The touch disappears. He whips his head around to catch a glimpse of blonde hair and for a moment he swears he smells coconut. Then there's nothing but splitting pain filling the space where his brain should be.
He curses and wishes he had Advil.
The dreams get worse. They bring migraines with them now. He once spent half a Sunday curled into a fetal position, room blacked out, trying desperately to catch the snippets of a life spinning through his mind.
Thump, thump.
If this is redemption, I'd rather have oblivion.
He's given up trying to understand the absurd thoughts that cross his mind, but he learns to live with them. At first he thought about seeing a shrink, but somehow the images and thoughts seem too personal for that. Plus he doesn't want to get locked up in the looney bin. They are a burden he shoulders, and they feel light compared to… well, he's not sure what to compare them to, but they still feel lighter than that much pain should, like he's carried heavier burdens in his time.
Who knows? Maybe he has.
Jeez. I need a drink.
Sid brings him an apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and he can't explain the sudden disappointment that laces through him when he realizes it's not cookie dough fudge mint chip. Part of him still wants alcohol, but he figures apple pie will probably hit the spot anyway.
"Bring me anything, Sid. I'm starved."
Thump, thump.
The words sound like a foghorn in his brain, although the voice is quiet and the restaurant is crowded.
He turns around slowly, and his heart stutters. It's the girl from his—no. No, that's not possible and he's absolutely positive that it's just some weird coincidence that his overworked and undersexed brain came up with.
Still, she looks older than the fading memories he has of her. Her hands hang loose at her sides, slim and delicate, a silver ring on her third finger. Despite her (many, and seriously impressive) visible scars, his eyes catch on two tiny dots on her neck, almost unnoticeable around the silver chain of her necklace. Dust covers her shirt, dulling the shine of her blonde hair, and he thinks that she looks like heaven, if heaven had steel in its bones and magic in its blood.
And then she sees him. Her lips part, and either he's a dead man or everything she's ever wanted incarnate. He can't help hoping it's the latter.
Thump, thump.
She's still staring at him.
"Is there a problem, ma'am?"
She walks closer, and for a moment he almost thinks she's going to kiss him before she draws her fist back and clocks him square in the jaw, sending him sprawling with the kind of force that 90-pound young women are not supposed to wield. He feels his skin break, senses blood trickle down his cheek.
Not so delicate, then. "What the—"
Then she's dragging him out the back door and into the cold she just walked in from, her forearm on his windpipe and his back pressing into the wall. Her eyes spit fire, and sweat beads on her forehead, no more than four inches away. He notices absently that she's stronger than he is—he couldn't break her hold if he tried.
"What kind of game are you playing here? Huh? Hiding like this? Not telling me you were alive? It's been seven years. Seven years!"
There's no oxygen going to his lungs. "I—I can't—"
"Don't even pretend this is hurting you."
Blackness encroaches on his vision. If she doesn't let up she'll kill him.
You can't do it. You can't kill me.
Give me time.
He must be going purple.
Close your eyes.
He does, and then the pressure on his throat disappears. He keels over instantly and begins hacking, drawing life into his lungs. When he looks up her eyes are wide and she's staggering back like he's been attacking her.
Thump, thump.
"Oh my—you're—you're human. You're breathing."
He's regained enough of his breath to be angry. "What is wrong with you?!"
"What's wrong with me? You're the one new with the heartbeat!"
"Yeah! Attacking innocent apple pie eaters? What did I ever do to you?"
She steps closer, her eyes hard, moves to touch the blood on his face.
"Gah!" He flinches away. "What were you thinking? You could have killed me!"
"You know it's a good thing I didn't fantasize about you turning human only about 10 zillion times, because this would have been a real let down," she bites out.
"Turning human? That's it, I'm taking you in. Federal Agent Seeley Booth," he says, flashing his badge.
"What kind of act is this?You… I felt your heart beat!" Anger laces her voice. "You couldn't have dropped a line, you know, 'Hey, I'm human now, thought you should know I wasn't a pile of dust in L.A., have a good life?' Do you know how hard it was to go on, after I thought you had—"
"L.A.? Look, I have no idea who you think I am, but I don't know you!"
Tears spark in her eyes at his words, and he feels guilty. "After everything," she says, trying to steady her voice, "Didn't you at least owe me that?"
A beat.
He says nothing.
"Please," she whispers. Please, please. I'll never forget. I'll never forget.
Thump, thump.
The migraine comes on with brutal speed, and he falls to his knees, gasping.
"What is it?"
"It's—" He throws out a hand, intending to shove her away, but instead finds himself sobbing at the pain, pulling her closer on instinct and wrapping his arms around her middle like he's drowning.
Let's get to work I ain't getting any older if nothing we do matters then all that matters is what we do I'll stay as long as you need me I wasn't sure I could do it if I woke up with you one more morning it's over you still my girl am I a righteous man I feel like I haven't seen you in months you can't kill me I love you I can't stop thinking about how much I want to kiss you
Can you at least tell me your name?
"Angel."
She says it at the same time his memory does, and his eyes flash open.
"Buffy."
He's human. He's human, and she's here, she's everything he never deserved, this is everything he never deserved. He weeps into her body, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his chest, and she loosens his arms and joins him on the ground. Buffy holds him like he is life itself (the irony does not escape him). He hears her heartbeat beneath his ear, echoing his own. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
He doesn't know what's happened. He's Angel, and he turned into dust, but he's Booth, too—Booth with a childhood and a son and a career he loves and a heartbeat. The logistics are seriously head-spinning. How? Why?
Buffy's grip tightens around him.
Am I a thing worth saving? In his soul, he knows the answer. There are some things you can't atone for.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Someone didn't care.
There's coconut and salt and Buffy on his lips. His heart stutters in his chest.