Apocalypse: Sunnydale, Part III cont.
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(Author's note: "The Back 40" refers the the farthest section of crop fields from the main house.)
Angel stayed in the back 40, working the fields as far away from the city as possible. But since the underground only spread for 50 miles in each direction, there was only so far he could go... and it didn't seem far enough. He wanted to be on another planet... somewhere where he couldn't constantly feel her presence. Since Buffy's return, he hadn't come into town at all. Jeremy came a couple of times a day to check on him, and bring him clothes and news, but he hadn't seen Rhea at all. The boy's visits were brief, and he barely mentioned his mother, so Angel imagined that Willow must have explained things to him.
The only thing that needed doing out here was threshing early wheat and hay for animal feed. This was Johnson's plot, and the old man usually preferred to use machines for this kind of high-yield, cheap work. When Angel had come to him and asked if he could harvest and acre by hand, he had given him a funny look. Just so long as he got the grain he needed, the farmer cared little for how it was done.
"Odd boy," he observed to his wife as he watched the vampire walk away.
Angel had to do it. He had to keep moving, keep busting his ass, keep plunging headlong into the backbreaking chore, working himself until he dropped, and barely had the strength to drag his carcass back to his camp at the glade.
He could feel her in the air -- he had been mistaken when he thought their bond was broken. He knew intimately, with a stirring deep in his soul, the minute she had passed into the entrance tunnel, and for the past week of his self-imposed exile, he could feel the electric pulse of their blood bond every second. It invaded every cell of every living thing around him, so that even the grain itself seemed to hum with her. Buffy changed the world like that. Angel seemed to inhale her with every breath, to the point where he could smell nothing else. So he stopped breathing.
One by one, he felt the little bits of things that had made him feel human again falling away. A sensation so common to him, it had almost become his arch-enemy. Sometimes he thought this... this questioning of the right to exist, this tearing self-definition, was truly the curse he had to bear.
He chopped, and pulled, bunched and wrapped and heaved until his immortal bones ached. The acre was almost finished, and it had taken him less than two days.
His mind wandered, every now and again, despite his best attempts to pound thoughts out of his mind with manual labor. It wasn't working any better than Tai Chi, or meditation, had.
Finally, the last bale was wrapped, and he tossed it on the wagon. Looking at the massive mound of hay he'd harvested, he stopped. What was he doing? Why was he out here, like some simple-minded coward, hiding? What was he hiding from?
Angel wasn't even sure he knew, anymore, why he wanted so desperately to avoid her.
At first, it had been guilt, and some fear. He felt bad for Willow, sorry for the abrupt way that things came to an end between them. But Jeremy had brought him a note from his aunt, addressed to "Mi Cara" -- My Friend -- that explained her feelings about he matter. About how she understood the difference between what was between Angel and Buffy, and what the two of them had shared.
"I know what it feels like, to love someone with your whole being. I loved Xander like that for most of my life. I don't begrudge you your feelings for Buffy. I, better than anyone, besides the two of you, know how deep your bond lives.
I know how you are. You feel guilty and responsible, and you're torturing yourself because you think you're hurting me. You're not. Above and beyond, before and after all else, Angel, you are my friend. That hasn't changed, and it won't, ever. The rest? I do love you, but it has never been in 'that' way. You know, the way that springs from your chromosomes... that is your body's very foundation. The way that seems, some days, to be the only reason you keep living...
I love you because you gave me my heart back again. You brought me back from a dark place, an empty place, that I had been lost in since Xander died. And I want to do the same for you. So don't worry about me, Angel. You have never given more than you had to give, and I've never asked for it. Believe me, I am stronger for having shared what we have in the past couple of years. But I know the difference... I know what this is, versus what that is. I know where you belong.
So stop being such a stubborn idiot, and come see Buffy."
Angel read it a hundred times, hoping that maybe he would come to believe it and take her advice. But the only thing he got, outside of her precious understanding and forgiveness, was one less answer to his ultimate question:
What was he hiding from?
He looked out over the now-empty field at the artificial sun, just beginning to set over the horizon. It dawned on him that there was no reason he couldn't just leave the underground. He didn't need to breathe, and there was little doubt he could find more than enough rodents wandering the deserted streets to survive. It would be better, faster, more humane for everyone, if he was just gone from here... no longer in the position to draw pain to the people around him like a black hole.
But the possibility of leaving this, the only home he had known in centuries, devastated him in a whole new way, and brought the question yet again to his mind... more specific, and more clear, now:
Why did he feel like he had to run from Buffy?
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Spike slapped the cards down on the table and grinned at the Slayer, "Full House," he said.
"Damn it!" Buffy barked, and threw her handful of nothing on the table in front of her.
"You may kick demon ass, Slayer, but you suck at poker," he drawled, "You owe me 20 credits."
Buffy got up and went to the kitchen, "Yeah, well, when I get a job, I'll pay you back. Do you want more coffee?" she punched her code into the beverager and stuck her cup under the dispenser.
"Yeah," Spike said, "What do you mean, job? Don't you have a job? Aren't they going to make you a general or the queen or something?"
Buffy returned to the table, handing him his mug before she sat down, "Nope. They're retiring me from the Corps. You'd think there was no more demons or something, the way they discharge vets."
Spike shrugged, "They haven't discharged me."
Buffy shot him a withering look, "And that couldn't possibly be because they enjoy not having you around, I'm sure. I know I'm happier when you're on a mission."
Spiked grinned at her. He had so missed their verbal sparring. Nobody could toss an insult like the Slayer, "Hm. Whereas, you're so bloody pleasant to have around."
Buffy wound up for her comeback, but stopped. She looked slowly up from her cup and smiled at him. For almost 30 years, he had been her worst enemy. But he'd also saved her ass more times than she could count. She trusted him, despite the fact that he was in it strictly for the profit. Sometimes, if she hadn't known better, she'd almost accuse him of having developed a soul, himself.
Spike rolled his eyes, "Oh, don't go all soft and sentimental on me. It gives me a headache," he said.
"Want some Tylenol?" she shot back, "Oh, sorry. I forgot -- no living bloodstream."
"Yeah, well, Tylenol isn't enough for a Buffy Summers Headache, anyway. Need more like a pint of whiskey..."
"Well, I have some wooden, pointy medicine that might help ease your pain..." Buffy went on.
Spike had already moved on to his next topic, "So, what do you want to do now, then?"
Buffy shrugged, "I don't know. I've been a soldier for so long, I don't think I know how to be anything else."
"Well... there's always the pro poker circuit..."
Buffy sneered at him.
They lapsed into companionable silence for a few moments.
"Why didn't you tell me Angel was here?" she asked finally.
Spike's head shot up, and he looked at her curiously, "Was there some reason why I should?"
"It would have been nice to know... to be prepared," she answered.
Spike shrugged, "I rescued you. Not my job to help you sort out your twisted love life."
Buffy stared down into her mug, "I just wish I'd been ready, that's all. I thought he was dead. A long time ago."
"So, you've seen our Peaches, then?" Spike asked. He might not like to get involved in his Sire's personal business, but he loved a good soap opera as much as the next bloke, and he was always on the lookout for more insult material.
The Slayer shook her head, "No. He's gone somewhere..."
That took Spike by surprise, and he was unable to hide it, "President of the 'Up With Slayers Society' hasn't stopped to see you, then?"
"No. In fact, he hasn't been in town since I got back," she said sadly, "Maybe it's just as well. We can't possibly have much to say to each other anymore, anyway."
Spike turned fully to her and leaned forward on the table, "Who are you trying to fool? The two of you are like bloody magnet and iron. Always have been, even when you married that git, what was his name?"
"Riley," Buffy answered flatly.
"Right. Soldier Boy. Even then, you still got that moony look on your face all the time, and I could tell you were off thinking about my poor sap of a Sire. And when he came back, he couldn't talk about anything else but you. Cried like a baby at that stupid memorial ceremony a few years back..."
Buffy stared at him. Why was it that this soulless blood-sucker always seemed to know her and Angel better than they themselves did?
"Things are different now," she said weakly, "That was a long time ago."
Spike snorted, "Yeah. Okay, whatever." He got up and put on his coat.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Why, do you want me to stay and kick your ass again? I think I've divested you of enough money for one day. Besides, some us do have jobs, and frankly, all this woe and angst is starting to make me itch. Why don't you just go see the poor bastard and get it over with? You two. Like a couple of retarded housecats, chasing your own tails in endless bloody circles, instead of just turning around and catching each other's..."
He opened the front door and walked out.
"See you at dinner on Sunday!" Buffy called after him.
He raised his hand in acknowledgement, and was gone.
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( Author's note: Translation: "Cad e mar ata tu, Sabia?" = "How are you, Sweet?")
Angel was wrinkled up like an old prune by the time he finished his marathon shower. Exile tended to make one pretty filthy.
He sighed as he eased into a soft pair of sweats, and absently stared at his utter lack of reflection in the mirror.
He'd finally gotten to the point where he thought he might be standing on solid ground again. He still had his life, which he loved... still had the kids, still had Willow as his friend. The rest of it? He could handle it. He'd handled far worse. Worse, like thinking he'd never see Buffy again. But had he ever really believed it, deep inside?
He didn't think he had. He had tried to convince himself that she was dead, but his heart and soul had known it wasn't true. It was only a matter of time before she would return, he'd known it all along.
The door to his apartment buzzed as he walked to his bedroom. Probably Willow, stopping to give him a good scolding for disappearing the way he had, or Rhea, coming by for help on her Latin.
"Yeah. Come in!" He called absently.
The door slid open, and the texture of the air immediately changed, shifted, became thicker, and hotter. He looked up, and froze in his tracks when he saw Buffy standing in the doorway.
She looked terrible, worn and haggard and... yellow? So thin and weak... so frightened.
Angel didn't think he had ever seen anything so beautiful. He was immediately overwhelmed by her presence. All the little hairs on his body stood on end, and he held the towel still to his head, forgotten, as he gaped at her.
"Hi," she said casually.
He couldn't identify the look on her incredible face. He didn't know what her wan little half-smile meant. Did she know everything? Was she alright? What had she come there to say?
Angel blinked at her.
Buffy cocked an eyebrow at him, "Aren't you going to say hello? I mean, I haven't seen you in like, 12 years, and I've been back from the dead -- again -- for two weeks, and not so much as a Mylar balloon?"
He could hear her heart pounding and her blood rushing through her veins. He felt like he'd turned to raging hot stone... like he was seeing a ghost, or some physical part of him that had been torn away years ago.
Buffy stood, suddenly twice as uncomfortable, and fidgeted nervously, leaning her weight from one leg tot he other. An old quadricep injury that never quite healed right made it hard for her to stand still for too long, and she had no inkling where to sit, or if it was okay for her to be there, or how to move, even.
He was beautiful... gorgeous... exactly the way she remembered him, down to the detail.
Angel was so overwhelmed with memories and conflicting emotions, he couldn't find anything clever to say. He couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't think, at all.
The only thing left to do... the only urge that came from his deepest instinct, he did. He dropped the towel, took the length of the room in two long strides, and grabbed her, scooping her up and crushing her frail body in his arms.
Buffy gasped with joy and pain, and threw her arms around his neck.
Tears washed through him, over him, and out of him like a torrent, and he sobbed into her soft hair. He cried so hard, he had to lean on the edge of the easy chair to keep from toppling over, still clutching her in his arms.
"Buffy..." his voice came, broken, through his hitching sobs, "Buffy... Buffy... Buffy..."
She broke down too, at the sound of him softly chanting her name. She never thought she'd hear his sweet voice again, and its sound was so precious, it felt as though he were breathing life into her soul.
After a time, he held her away from him a little to look at her, drinking in her face like she was a lush oasis, and he a man centuries in the desert. It was all still there, almost exactly how he remembered... her creamy skin, her soft, green eyes, her full lips turned up in a little smile despite the stream of tears that ran off them.
Angel reached up and traced the lines of her face with his fingertips, re-memorizing every detail, every little change that the years had marked on her.
"Are you really here?" he asked finally, the question more like a gasp -- a first gasp-- of air, than a string of words.
She nodded and smiled, "I could ask you the same thing," she said, casting her teary eyes to the floor, "I never thought I'd see you again."
He cupped her chin and raised her eyes to meet his.
"I never doubted it, not for a minute," he said with a certainly he hadn't fully realized, and softly kissed her.
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