Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon.
Warnings/Spoilers: Post-Finales
A/N: This is a Wishlist fic that came from a promt provided by jaq_of_spades. The prompt was: "she's scared he's looking for a girl, and she's a woman, scarred by life and living."
A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.
He looks the same. She should of been expecting that - he is a vampire after all - but instead it is the first thing that hits her when she sees him across the room as she enters Council HQ; jarring and comforting at the same time. He looks exactly the same - leather coat, spikey hair and all.
It scares her (a wave of anxiety she quickly pushes down with a tight smile) to think that when he turns his head and sees her he might still be looking for that girl he first met in that Sunnydale alleyway. She knows quite well he won't find that Buffy in her. Because he might be perpetually unchanging but she isn't. She has grown so accustomed to change since becoming a Slayer it has become one of her only constants. It has made her stronger.
It is that strength that lets her walk right past his stunned expression and down the hall to Giles' office to report to him about her latest mission. She had been told, even as she had been preparing to leave for Iceland, that he would most likely arrive while she was gone but demonic uprising waits for no gal (well at least no Chosen gal). And even after she talks to her Watcher she still has to hit the Communications Center and give the wizard on duty the information about the cult that had worked in conjunction with the demons so he can send a message out to all of their merry band of Slayers, Watchers, and various other people and creatures around the world (and their few off world and trans-dimensional members) to be on the look out.
It is over two hours later before she catches up with him again - this time in the Council library. He is sitting with his back to her paging through on of their many ancient tomes but as soon as she enters he looks up, his demon sensing her Slayer. The nostalgia threatens to drown her, swallow her whole. The setting, the way he looks, the way he feels to her senses, the warmth in his eyes.
The only thing different is her. She silently grabs a hold of her differences like a life raft. She is different now and that is good. The little girl she used be has been tested by life and become stronger to survive her present.
And she is stronger - much stronger than she was in high school (mentally and emotionally but very much physically too. So much so that the very Slayer part of herself itches to spar with him. Wonders if he'd be surprised by the way she fights now, if he'd be able to adjust). But it isn't just her, all of the Scoobies have been doing this for most of their lives and are now a combination of adaptable, powerful, confident and just terrifyingly competent (not to mention world weary beyond belief) that scares many (often - though not definitely not always - without meaning to). They are an organization now, a school, responsible for over a thousand young girls. They had to change the small scale way they did things in order to survive - in order to take responsibility for what they created that day, to support and care for the new Slayers and not be (to never be) the old Council.
And Angel, she loves him (she is pretty sure she never stopped - isn't sure she ever learned how to stop loving anyone. Still loved him when he was rampaging as Angelus despite how much the demon made sure that hurt. Thinks she still loves Spike too), but he wasn't there for any of that. He was off living his life while she was here living hers.
That is what finally pushes her to stop staring and walk across the room to him. She puts her hand forward to shake. "Hi, I'm Buffy," she says with a smile, not bright and sunny like she always gave him over the stacks once upon a time on the Hellmouth, but instead tired but hopeful like she was now.
It takes him a moment to catch on (and probably ascertain for himself that this was her making a random decision to start over and not a mystical memory loss) but finally, still looking a bit confused but willing to play along, he took her hand simply saying, "Angel."
"Well, Mr. Angel," she shakes his hand firmly feeling oddly light and pleased with herself, "would you like to go out for coffee with me?"
And his face clears of confusion and he smiles in remembrance of last time she asked him, but unlike last time, he looks at her intently and says, "I'd love to."