Title: Upon the Earth and Upon the Wind and Upon the Water
Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Email: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Classification: Fluff, Angst, Romance, Future Fic -- B/A, B/S, A/Fr
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Everyone who has something of mine, you can have
this if you really want it. Everyone else, just drop me a
note. I swear I'll say yes.
Disclaimer: Me no own. Og own.
Thanks: to Lisa, Serena, Dru and Kaz -- you guys really do
cover my ass beautifully, and I'm more grateful than you
know.
Spoilers: Oh, let's say the whole freakin' canon, shall we?
y'know, in a vague way.
Author's Notes: Pablo Neruda is responsible for the World's
Longest Title (tm) as well as the verse herein. I've had
this story half finished on my hard drive for months, (it
was actually intended to be an answer to the challenge
posted to Sunlight & Shadow ages ago, but I completely
missed the deadline ) and the latest influx of angst
(Thank you Margot and Ducks) pushed me over the edge I'd
been balancing on, thus requiring massive amounts of fluff.
Although one out of four beta readers cried just so you
know.
Summary: Angel's human. Instant B/A reunion, right? Not so
fast, my eager reader . . .
~
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them
~
Funny, how if she hadn't NEEDED that hot dog on a stick, she
would have missed him by a few minutes.
She already misses him, of course. That's hardly the point.
She misses him with every breath she takes, because taking
breath reminds her of him now. In fact, she's more grateful
for every breath that she takes now because of how grateful
she is for every breath that he takes. Given the correlation
she's drawn between breathing and him, it really isn't all
that surprising that she thinks of him so much.
But that's all irrelevant to what is happening here. Running
into him. Literally, because here he is, coming out of the
building she's going into.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Lame. Of course, they don't say each others' names. Saying
each other's names always leads them to places they can't
face going. She has never quite understood why they couldn't
face them.
"How are you?"
His voice is impassive and polite, inquiring about the
health of someone who was once at the very center of his
universe.
"Good. I'm good. And you? You look well."
She has never been so polite. It's Giles' influence. Having
a very proper English gentleman for a father since her
sixteenth birthday had to have an effect on her sooner or
later. With the maturity of true adulthood, the cursed
thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon (three years away
still, but it looms nonetheless), Buffy has finally learned
how to act like everyone expects her to.
"I am well," he answers, and while she's glad for him,
another part of her, the same part that secretly wishes she
were unable to view him in the harsh light of day, screams
in agony and rage that he has been able to flourish without
her.
There is no cause for such thoughts. She does not pine for
him every day. Her life has gone on. Once, when they were
forced apart by circumstance, she had been unable to
completely let go of him. Always, 'what if?' delusions
drifted through her dreams. 'He's a vampire,' she would tell
herself sternly. 'You're the Slayer. He left so you could
have a life, not miss him so much you're in danger of dying
from it.'
The missing had stopped being such a constant ache after The
Big Showdown. He'd been in a relationship, a woman whose
name Buffy couldn't recall. She'd been pretty. Had seemed to
truly care for Angel. Buffy herself had been with Spike. It
hadn't been love on her side, and even now, she wondered if
it had been on his. She likes to think so. It makes
something inside of her happy to imagine loving her being
enough to bring something akin to redemption to a soulless
creature.
They were not in love, but they were together. Buffy slept
in Spike's bed, and he in hers. She never pretended the way
she had with Riley. There was no reason to hide her strength
or her darkness from Spike. He knew, he understood, and for
a time, she found comfort in him. After Riley came back,
after he learned she'd taken the solace in an evil demon
she'd been unable to find with him, he'd left again, and
that time, Buffy was sure he'd been able to stop loving her.
That had made her happy as well. Riley loving her wasn't
right. He got his clean break, and it lessened her guilt
over hurting him when Xander got the invitation to Riley's
wedding a couple of years later.
So many moments, so many hurts, so many little wounds
inflicted on the men who'd loved her.
But she is losing herself in memories, and the living
manifestation of her greatest joy and most heartfelt sorrow
stands before her, and she only saw him in the sunlight one
other time, for a few moments before he climbed into his big
black car and left her again.
"I never noticed the little blond highlights in his hair
before," Willow had said to her when she finally worked up
the courage to broach the subject.
"I did," was all Buffy had said, and all talk of Angel and
sunlight and redemption and 'why the hell aren't you guys
together?' had been swept under a rug.
Buffy notices everything about him now. The blond, the
chocolate brown, the healthy glow. His skin is tanned and
golden, and a small ache in her breast briefly wishes for
cool, pale marble beneath her fingers. Then again, her
fingers aren't touching him, which is good, because
ex-lovers who haven't spoken in centuries aren't supposed to
touch each other when they accidentally meet on the
sidewalk.
"So uh, what brings you to L.A.?" he asks, and she panics
for a moment. Had she only come with the hopes of catching a
glimpse of him? This was something she had attempted just
after his transformation, when she'd recognized their
stupidity. But no, she realizes, she has a viable excuse.
This trip to her old home is not about him.
"Work," she answers easily. "You know me. Nose. Grindstone."
"Right." He smiles, and it's an easy, wondrous sight.
"What brings you to this particular corner of the universe?"
she asks, then mentally chastises herself. It is none of her
business, even if he did start this line of questioning.
But he answers "Work" in kind, and gives her another smile.
They do not ask each other what 'work' is now. Such
questions would prolong the meeting, and Buffy can feel his
skin itching to be away from her as much as hers itches to
be near him.
"I guess I should let you go," he says, and begins to walk
away.
It is the sight of his back that spurs her into action.
"Angel," she calls out, and he stops, and she swears,
shivers a little. He turns back to her, walks the few steps
he'd taken and stops again, standing a little nearer than he
had been before.
Buffy takes a moment to remember how to breathe.
~
She's kept track of him over the years. Given their mutual
friends, it became laughably easy to get all the
insignificant details of his life.
There hadn't been a need to sneak peeks at his life before.
Back when they'd been fellow soldiers, after the initial
pain of their breakup had cooled, if Buffy felt like talking
to him, she would. She'd pick up the phone, or catch a bus
to L.A., or write him an email. He'd do the same. They
weren't friends, but they were there for each other. There
was healthy respect and love between them, even if fate
refused to let them be lovers.
Years passed. People died. Buffy's second death, her
subsequent resurrection, it all took a toll. Dawn,
especially, took everything hard, and the wounds Glory
inflicted never completely healed. There was such pain in
the years that followed the Hell God's attempt on their
lives, such pain mixed with such near-perfect happiness.
Buffy had people in her life she knew would never leave, and
it helped ease a lot of her insecurity. And of course she
missed Angel, but it wasn't like it had been before. They
didn't live in each other's worlds any longer, but they
still sort of orbited each other's systems.
It all changed that day. Angel's redemption, Shanshu; Wesley
had given them a quick recitation of it while he gathered
troops to hurry to Angel's side in battle. A vision of
Cordelia's demanded the Slayer's presence at the side of the
Vampire with a Soul. Buffy hadn't had a problem with it;
Angel was fighting for his humanity, and there was no other
cause she'd believed in half as much her entire life.
Over the years, the memory of the battle, the details of it
have faded from Buffy's mind. All she can clearly remember
is Spike's desperate embrace as he begged her not to leave
them. She had been knocked unconscious; had saved Angel's
life while he was distracted with trying to protect the girl
Buffy had quickly realized was his lover.
Things between them weren't serious, Angel and the woman
whose name Buffy had honestly blocked from her mind. If
she'd been thinking rationally at the time, she would have
seen that. The two of them were lovers, but they weren't any
more in love than she and Spike had been. Angel would have
lost his soul to a woman he loved.
Later, Spike confessed what he did that night Angel became
suddenly human. He was ashamed, and that honest emotion was
enough to earn Buffy's forgiveness, though she could never
bear to let him touch her again.
He'd gone to Angel, to the man who'd been his Sire for all
intents and purposes, and lied to his face. Spike had always
fought dirty for anything he felt was his, and even though
he'd known he would never be able to possess Buffy, not
truly as his, he couldn't bear to simply let her go.
And so Angel heard from Spike of the great love in Buffy's
life; the normal man who didn't have over a century of evil
staining his soul or his love; someone who had asked her to
marry him, who she was planning to marry. Unwilling to
disrupt her happiness, to throw a wrench into the works of
her life, Angel had done the thing he'd always done --
whatever was the most self-sacrificing and noble.
This time, he'd come to say goodbye. He hadn't mentioned her
mythical fiancé, and so she had assumed his reason for
leaving was the pretty little thing with the big brown eyes
that looked at him so adoringly.
When he showed up on her doorstep that night, he explained
that he wanted the best in life for her, and that he wasn't
the best. He said he didn't want to be in her way. He
promised that if she ever needed him, if she ever =wanted=
him, all she had to do was call . . .
Now, of course, she could see all that he'd been offering
her -- in his mind, she'd belonged to someone else, and he
had been telling her he still belonged only to her, and all
she had to do was claim him. Her hurt pride, her childish
heart, however, had refused to see the emotion behind his
words, and she'd told him she was fine without him, and that
she hoped he and whatshername were very happy together.
Funny (not funny ha-ha) how she realized so much after he
left, after Spike's confession, after it was too late to
claim him because he'd done just what she told him to do --
he'd married a woman whose name she couldn't be bothered to
remember. He'd made a life for himself. A human life, free
of demons and darkness, if Cordelia via Willow was to be
believed.
She still hears from Spike occasionally. He writes her
letters from the road. He's hooked up with a crew of demon
hunters, he says, and plans to be the Last Demon Standing
when all is said and done.
The Cleansing had taken care of most of the vampires of the
world. Angel and Spike had been the only two in Sunnydale to
survive, Spike because of the magical wards Willow prepared
for him, and Angel because of his Shanshu.
Now, groups of demon hunters scattered the globe, making war
on the harmful demons that were left, and letting the
peaceful ones be. Some vampires, like Spike, switched sides
and chose to drink pig's blood and fight the good fight. It
seemed a creature's will to survive even overrode its
instinctual desires for death and blood.
Buffy still slays, but she stays close to home, and she
hasn't had to save the world in nearly four years. It's a
record, and one she takes comfort in.
Sometimes, when she works up the nerve to come to L.A., she
wants to go down to the Santa Monica Pier and watch Angel
draw, the way Cordelia says he always does. He has a child,
a little girl, and he and his wife named her Kathleen
Elizabeth. He wrote her a very lovely letter ((Had it not
been for you, Buffy, I wouldn't have survived long enough to
live.)) that expressed his endless gratitude for the
significant part she played in setting him on the right
path. His daughter's name was the living testament to that
gratitude, and, she admits to herself now, the love he has
always felt for Buffy.
Angel has a talent ((Soon.)) for charcoals. He renders
people, places, objects, in perfect detail. His work is
shown in local galleries around Los Angeles, and the artist
who signs his work with an 'A', followed by an angel's wing,
is well loved by those who know him. Buffy has purchased
several of his works anonymously, and she hangs them in the
room she uses to write. They bring inspiration to her muse,
and remind her that once, she knew a great love.
She does not blame herself for his absence from her life any
longer. She does not blame him, either. There is too much
evil still left in the world to add to it, and blaming
either of them for circumstances would be an evil almost
more insidious than the one they'd fought so hard against.
A year ago, Buffy came to Los Angeles to watch him, the same
way he'd always watched her: from the shadows. She saw his
little girl, a tiny dark sprite, tugging at her Daddy's
shirttail. Her mother, Angel's wife, had been beautiful, and
Buffy had only stared at them for a moment before she forced
her weary feet to take her away from him again.
It's nearly a year now since she heard about how sick she
was. Angel's wife had some kind of disease that was
incurable, and decidedly supernatural. Her death, Willow
said, had hit Angel hard. No one knew the details of it;
Angel's inner sanctum had circled around them during the
end, and in the last few days of her life, it had only been
the three of them, mother, father, and child, given the
opportunity to say a proper goodbye.
Buffy mourned her. Not because she had known her, or because
she wished she was still alive -- but because Angel mourned
her. His pain was like a tangible thing to her, and she
cried herself to sleep for a solid week after his wife's
passing.
She still did not go to him. She has considered it, of
course. It just seemed so gothic-romance novel to travel the
distances that separated them, to 'comfort' him in his hour
of mourning. What did she expect? Did she think he would
open his arms ((his heart and his bed)) to her, welcome her
home and ask her to be his daughter's new mommy?
Even if he were so inclined, that could never happen. The
little girl ((=Angel's= DAUGHTER)) whom he clearly adored
didn't know Buffy Summers from a hole in the ground. Her
mother had just died. Divorce and death were much more
similar than anyone knew, and as a child of divorce, Buffy
never wanted to be the person who took the place of
someone's parent.
That purely rational line of thinking had kept her from
going to him. Occasionally, she recognizes that, while it is
a valid reason, it is not the real one. The real, true,
honest to God reason she does not go to him is the simple
fear of rejection. The bone-deep terror that he won't want
her back. Angel loved deeply, and he'd loved another woman
enough to marry her, to have a child with her . . .
Resigned as she has become to never being with him again, it
does not stop her from remembering. It does not stop her
from imagining.
In the stillest part of the night, the time when she once
would have been outside fighting ((hunting killing stalking
flirting holding hands and kissing in the cemetery)), she
now spends lying in bed, thinking of all the things that
might have ((never could have)) been.
There have been nights she thinks of Riley, but only ever
for a few beats of her heart ((Angel's heart)) and thoughts
of him pass through her mind the same way Riley himself had
through her life -- sweetly, occasionally painfully, without
really leaving much of an impression either way.
Mostly, these late night musings belong to Angel, like so
many parts of her do.
She has replayed their love affair a thousand times. She has
examined ((if only I'd done-if he'd just-maybe if we'd
have)) each moment carefully. Always, she comes to the same
conclusion.
They were doomed from the beginning, and she would not
change a second of it for anything.
Well, maybe she'd change one thing. She'd change the end.
She'd make it so there never was one.
~
"Buffy?" he questions softly. He has not said her name out
loud in so long, the syllables of it roll off his tongue
strangely, heatedly, like he's just eaten too much Wasabi.
He eats now, not because he's trying to pretend to fit in
with the rest of the world, but because he is desperately
hungry. Fred teases ((teased, she used to tease)) him about
his voracious appetite. In the beginning, he teased her back
by saying he was a 'growing boy.' Five years into being
human and he was no longer able to pretend he wasn't used to
it.
He is a man now, in every way, and knowing that has given
him something precious to hold onto inside his own soul.
"I don't know what I was going to say," Buffy confesses
quietly. She has moved closer to him, and he can't resist
the pull between them, and now they've both moved and he
honestly can't remember taking the first step.
"I'm familiar with the feeling," he assures her. How easy it
would be, to reach out and touch her. How totally
impossible.
It has been years since he was close enough to be tempted by
her scent ((peaches and cream)), the remembered feel of her
skin ((silk and steel)), the way her nose crinkles when
she's trying to think of something to say.
"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" she finally asks,
and he swears, there are tears in her eyes.
"I thought you had a . . ." he gestures at the building, the
reason they were standing here, trying to string words
together into complete sentences.
"I did. I do. I don't care."
His eyes widen a little at her honesty, but he nods,
understanding. "I'm supposed to pick Katie up," he says, and
he hadn't remembered it until he blurted it out.
"Oh." She shakes her head. "Never mind. It was . . . dumb.
You know me, don't think first, just jump on in, never mind
that the pool doesn't have any water in it--"
"Let me make a call," he interrupts softly. The urge to take
her hand, to calm her the way he has always been able to is
so strong he makes fists to keep himself from reaching out
to her.
Katie is with Cordelia on the set. Cordy has a long shoot
that will last well into the night. He asks Wes to take
Katie home with him, to let her play with his and Cordelia's
son. He agrees easily, and Angel turns to Buffy, flashes her
the best smile he can manage, considering his heart feels
like it's been through a blender.
He inclines his head to the left. "My car's over here."
With a smile that mirrors his own, she follows him.
~
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your golden tresses, my little tower
~
He reads her books before he goes to sleep at night.
Fred knew; she always knew. It didn't stop her from loving
him with all her soul, and a day had never passed that
didn't make Angel wish he could love her back the same way.
Buffy had believed them to be lovers, that last time he set
foot in Sunnydale. He knew that, and at the time, he'd had
neither the time, nor the energy to set her straight. After,
he hadn't seen a point to it.
Shortly before they set out for Sunnydale, Fred had pulled
him aside and told him a secret ((I'm pregnant and the
father doesn't want anything to do with me.)) that had
stunned him. She'd said it so simply, like she was stating a
fact in one of her equations. But the nervousness had
lingered in her tone, and he'd put an arm around her,
promised that they ((Wes, Cordy, Gunn, and Angel, always a
'we' or an 'us' or a 'they' whenever someone spoke of them
now)) would take care of her, and the baby.
That's what he'd been doing in Sunnydale -- taking care of
her and the baby. Buffy's insecurities always led her, and
then had been no different. Then again, he is not one to
speak of being led by insecurities, is he?
He wonders, still, what might have been if Spike hadn't come
to see him that night.
It was good, for awhile. As good as anything could be
without Buffy in it. Fred, whom he married, because she was
beautiful and sweet and loved him, and she offered
everything, herself, her child, a life Angel had craved as
much as Buffy had always craved normalcy. He had needed her
a little, too. He needed someone who knew the darkness
inside of him and didn't fear it. Her ((Their, always
Their)) daughter is the greatest love he has ever known, and
she reminds him of his sister in the moments when he allows
his memory to drift back to the quiet, beautiful girl he
killed once, centuries ago.
A year into it, Spike entered his life again. The vampire
got into a drunken brawl one night outside Caritas. Angel
had been inside, visiting with the Host, and because he
remembered Spike genuinely helping during the Final Battles,
Angel had taken him home and given him a room to sleep it
off in. The next evening, when Spike awoke, he participated
in his ritual hangover-induced bout of honesty. The
confession of his untruth years before devastated Angel.
He still remembers, vividly, climbing the stairs to his room
like a zombie, finding Fred ((his wife)) sleeping
peacefully. He remembers the tug ((Buffy)) he'd felt at his
beating heart.
That night, he'd almost left them. He'd almost climbed into
his convertible and drove balls out to Sunnydale until he
could close his arms around Buffy's waist, taste and inhale
her skin until she filled every single one of his senses,
just as she already filled every inch of his heart to
bursting.
Instead, he went to his daughter's room, watched her take
breath after breath as she slept beneath her Strawberry
Shortcake sheets, an ancient relic Fred had pulled from her
own attic when they took a trip to see her grandmother. The
old woman had taken an immediate liking to Angel, and the
feeling was mutual. This was what Fred had given him;
connection, not only to the past and present, but also to
the future. In the end, no matter how much he ached for
Buffy, it had been unthinkable to him, this idea of leaving
((abandoning)) all that he'd built over the past years.
Besides, the grapevine from Sunnydale tells him that Buffy
is well. He reads her books, feels the passion leaping off
the page at him, and he knows it. Her life is not empty. It
is filled with family and friends, and he has learned better
than anyone the importance of family and friends.
Anne Angel is the penname she chose, and with it, Buffy
spins tales of a young girl who fights vampires, and the
band of friends who help her. Her heroine falls in love with
a vampire, and Angel admits to being a bit disconcerted at
how vivid Buffy's recall of their life clearly is. He
thought that particular curse was his and his alone to bear.
Her first novel, she dedicated so beautifully ((For little
Elizabeth, who brings joy to her father)) that he nearly
picked up the phone to call her -- only the fear that they
would have nothing to say to one another stopped him.
Angel loves his work. The charcoals he paints were at first
difficult for him to do, then later, became almost
cathartic. He is able to take something he had once used to
perpetuate evil, and turn it into something beautiful. He
draws everything, the places he's seen, the ones he's only
imagined, the people he's loved, Katie, Buffy, Cordelia,
Fred. It is Fred who convinced him he could channel his
talent ((use it for good, not evil, Angel. Use the force))
into something positive.
Fred ((his beautiful Winifred)) got sick a year ago. Angel
still has trouble grasping the idea that she's gone. He
isn't sure whether he's grateful Katie is too young to
understand, or angry that she will not have true memories of
her mother as she grows into a woman. It was not a lingering
illness, nor was it anything they could seek help for. Her
time on Pylea had not been as behind her as they'd all
thought. The Host said it was something humans ((cows)) died
from on his world, that there was no cure, because his
people had never deemed it important enough to find one.
He is reminded just how much he did love Fred, how much he
respected her, how much he =liked= her, when he remembers
the last months of her life. She did not spend a day feeling
sorry for herself, or being bitter ((Angel, how can I be sad
when God gave me you and Katie Beth? I'm only sad that I
have to leave you long before I'd like)) at the hand she was
dealt.
His wife's final words to him ((be happy -- be =perfectly=
happy)) echo through his mind a thousand times a day. He
takes Katie to the zoo, with him when he paints, to museums
and restaurants. She tags along with Cordelia to this set
and that, and they are all as happy as they can be. The loss
is beginning to fade, as loss does, to the back of their
minds, and life goes on, as it always does. For the first
few months after Fred's death, Angel hadn't thought of
anything but how much he missed her, and how best to care
for Katie.
Slowly, though, he has been waking up again after a long,
deep sleep. His heart has once again began to beat and tug
((Buffy)) with every breath he takes. He is remembering all
that he carries with him every moment that he lives.
He misses her, still, miles ((worlds)) apart though they
sometimes are now. He loves her no less; he tries not to no
less.
And still, he can't stop.
~
The coffee is Starbucks, and Buffy absently notes with a
pang that Angel purchases a muffin to go with his caffeine.
It's chocolate chip, and she feels physical pain for how
much she doesn't know about him.
Angel suggests they take their excuse to remain in each
other's company to the beach, and they drive with the top
down until Angel finds the spot ((at sunset, it gets so
quiet you can hear the earth spin)) he's looking for.
Shoes are kicked off, he rolls up his pant legs, she hikes
her skirt to her knees, and they settle their feet against
the sand that will be covered with water in a few hours
time. Neither question the fact that they intend to be here
for hours.
They talk of their mutual friends initially, of the dot com
company Anya, Willow, Cordelia, Tara, and Oz started up
together, and Angel seems pleased that Cordelia has
something besides the acting to fall back on. They speak of
Xander's construction company, Wesley's satisfaction at
being a stay-at-home-dad, and Giles' pleasure at being home
in the U.K. once more. He tells her that Gunn and Faith have
been traveling the country with Spike, taking care of the
leftover demon population, and she confesses that Spike
still sends her letters from the road.
He enquires about Dawn, and she tells him her little sister
is getting married next month. They've been in love since
high school, and it's the real thing.
"That's amazing," he notes. "Finding the person you want to
spend your life with so young."
"Must be a Summers thing," she says sadly, and his heart
lurches in his chest, screaming for him to touch her. He
isn't sure why he doesn't. Perhaps it's because things are
so unsettled still. He isn't sure he would survive holding
her just once, only to have her leave his life all over
again.
When they have exhausted all forms of idle chatter, the
quiet that descends over them is disturbed only by the
gentle sound of the surf beating against the shore.
It is time, it seems, to get to the heart of things, or walk
away after having coffee like polite ex-lovers are supposed
to.
He has always had trouble considering them as ex-anything.
There are no labels for what they are to each other. They
just are.
And so, Angel tells her everything about his life as the sun
sinks in the sky, and Buffy listens with a heart bursting
for how much she has missed him.
He explains about Fred, the girl he'd rescued from another
dimension, who'd become his dearest friend. He confesses
that, while he'd never loved her madly, he had loved her in
a quiet, easy way that had made their marriage a beautiful
one. Buffy somehow manages to love him more when he
confesses that the child he dotes on so obsessively is not
biologically his.
"But she is," he insists. "She's been mine from the moment
Fred told me about her. I couldn't possibly love her more."
In turn, Buffy shares the tale of the few lovers she's had
over the years. They've gone in and out of her life with
much infrequency, and the heart of her joy has been the
close circle of friends that surround her.
"Buffy and romantic love just doesn't seem to work out," she
says at last. "They're fine separately -- Romantic love is
great, and Buffy, I hear, is beyond cool. But put 'em
together and it's a disaster of epic proportions. Which is
why I've given a happily ever after to Eliza. Oh, Eliza's
the heroine--"
"In your books, I know," he assures her softly. He has a far
away look in his eyes, and she reaches out, tugs at the open
collar of his white shirt playfully.
"Hey. No day-trips. Catching up requires the full
participation and presence of both parties."
He gives her a smile, and tries to ignore the fact that her
fingers are still lightly moving against the open collar of
his shirt. He is not successful.
"I was just thinking that I can't wait for Katie to meet
you," he confesses, though he honestly hadn't meant to speak
that particular thought out loud. Not yet, at any rate, not
until he knows for certain why she is sitting here in front
of him still.
"Oh." That is literally the only thought her brain is
capable of forming. She is not proud of it, especially
considering her vocation, but she figures she's ahead of the
game, having been able to form a verbal syllable at all.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "It's too much. You wanted
to spend the afternoon with someone you used to know, not .
. . I don't know what, but certainly not get too involved
in--"
"Why is it going to work now, when it didn't work all those
times before?" she blurts out. "The last time we saw each
other, you were human, and we still managed to get in the
way of our own happy ending. How are things different now? I
can't go into this again, I can't fall back in love with
you, in love with your =daughter= and then lose you both. I
wouldn't survive it."
"Neither would I."
She laughs. "So where the hell does that leave us?"
"I could tell you why it's different for me now," he tells
her quietly.
"Please," she whispers. "Because that thing I said about
falling back in love with you? I already did that."
He takes her hand, and presses a swift, loving kiss to her
knuckles, and his words begin muffled against her skin.
"Before, you were my salvation, Buffy. I put you on a
pedestal and I worshipped you. I never felt worthy of you, I
certainly never felt I deserved to have your love. The
difference is . . . I am now. I'm worthy. I feel it in my
bones, finally and for real. It took me a long time to get
here -- and I'm not just referring to the pulse. Every time
I look into Katie's eyes, I feel like the person I am. I can
come to you now as a man, nothing more, and certainly
nothing less.
"I don't see you as the savior of the world, although I know
you are, I don't even see you as my savior, because I found
redemption amongst the rest of humanity, even though you did
save me without knowing it all those years ago."
"No more than you saved me," she whispers. She has pulled
his hand to her own lips as he spoke and there are tears in
her voice.
"Do you know how I see you?" he asks in a hushed voice.
Buffy looks at his beloved face, noting as she does that the
sun has set and his features are to her now as they have
always been in her dreams -- shaded, dark, but glowing
nonetheless with something that comes from inside of him.
"How?"
"I see you as the only woman I've ever loved with my whole
heart, and what I want to give to you is myself; flawed,
alive, and desperately needing to wake with you in my arms
every single morning."
"Why?" she asks, her voice tinged with wonder, both at his
words and the fact that she seems incapable of speaking more
than one word at a time. If it were five years ago, she
would fear some weird hellmouth disease robbing her of
speech. Now, she's pretty sure it's just the effect Angel
has on her.
He smiles gently, the half smirk she hasn't seen from him in
ages, and he brushes the side of her hair with his warm,
gentle, =human= touch.
"Maybe I still just like you."
Her control snaps, and she leans in to kiss him, a short,
hard burst of affection against his lips. She moves to pull
away, and he holds her head with the back of his hand,
prolonging the contact, deepening it as they become
reacquainted with lips and tongues and soft, gentle fingers
re-learning the dips and plains of smiling faces.
They kiss for nearly an hour, making out like teenagers on
the beach, and it's everything they both feared it wouldn't
be again -- passionate, loving, comfortable, scary,
beautiful, exciting, and about a thousand other things they
are too full of each other to think of.
Soon, they are rolling around in the sand, trying to get on
top of each other, inside of each other. Their clothes are
lost in the struggle, and Buffy takes long, loving mouthfuls
of his warm, human skin, and tears spill down their cheeks
as they both realize that the home they've been aching for
separately all these years is at last within their grasp.
Later, they are spooned together higher in the sand, and
neither could be bothered with something so trivial as
clothing. His forearm is across her chest, while his other
arm is draped over her hips, and she can feel his heart
beating against her back.
Pressing soft, adoring kisses against the shell of her ear,
he whispers, "Come home with me."
"For how long?" she asks, because despite the security she
feels in his arms, the desperate intensity of his embrace,
she is still insecure at heart.
"To stay," he says with gentle laughter in his voice, as
though it were the most obvious answer in the world. To him,
it is. "To stay for always."
"Okay," she agrees happily as tears spill down her cheeks.
He turns her to face him and kisses her tears away. Places
his lips to the pulse in her neck, over scar tissue he is
responsible for, and relaxes with the vibration of her life
echoing that of his own.
"What if Katie doesn't like me?" she asks the top of his
head.
"Oh, we'll sell her to the circus and run away together to
the South of France," he replies deadpan.
"Angel!" she chastises, laughing and smacking him on the
back at the same time.
"No, really, she's very smart. We'd probably get a mint for
her."
He's kissing her again. "Stop," she insists.
"She's going to love you," he says seriously. "How could she
not?"
"We have to take this slow," she says firmly.
"You're not sure?" Now his insecurities are doing battle
with her insecurities for the Insecure Heart of the Year
award.
"I'm not sure for Katie. Angel, if it were just you and me,
you couldn't pry me off you with the Jaws of Life."
"Nice mental image," he mutters.
"I won't force myself into her life," she declares quietly.
A smile quirks her lips. "This is the normal stuff we get to
deal with now. You get to introduce your new girlfriend to
your daughter. Sure it's worth all the trouble?"
He pulls her fully into his arms and kisses her for what
seems like days. When they come up for air ((we both have to
come up for air!)) he takes her cheeks between his palms and
looks intensely into her eyes.
"Come home with me," he says again, quietly. "To stay. For
always. And let the details work themselves out."
There are arguments to be made, things they should discuss
and analyze and pick apart until she is sure she won't be
hurt again. But the truth is, she probably will be hurt
somewhere along the way. Unlike all the times before,
though, she isn't going to be hurting alone. They aren't
leaving each other until the Powers decide to take one of
them out. She can see that promise in his eyes, and she
feels it in her heart.
And so, she gives him the answer that is her first instinct
every time he asks her a question.
"Okay," she chirps, giggling softly as the full
ramifications of it all settles inside her for the first
time. Angel's taking her home. To stay. For freakin' always.
Thank God for that hot dog on a stick.
~
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters
until they found me
~
Oh, yeah, The End.
Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Email: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Classification: Fluff, Angst, Romance, Future Fic -- B/A, B/S, A/Fr
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Everyone who has something of mine, you can have
this if you really want it. Everyone else, just drop me a
note. I swear I'll say yes.
Disclaimer: Me no own. Og own.
Thanks: to Lisa, Serena, Dru and Kaz -- you guys really do
cover my ass beautifully, and I'm more grateful than you
know.
Spoilers: Oh, let's say the whole freakin' canon, shall we?
y'know, in a vague way.
Author's Notes: Pablo Neruda is responsible for the World's
Longest Title (tm) as well as the verse herein. I've had
this story half finished on my hard drive for months, (it
was actually intended to be an answer to the challenge
posted to Sunlight & Shadow ages ago, but I completely
missed the deadline ) and the latest influx of angst
(Thank you Margot and Ducks) pushed me over the edge I'd
been balancing on, thus requiring massive amounts of fluff.
Although one out of four beta readers cried just so you
know.
Summary: Angel's human. Instant B/A reunion, right? Not so
fast, my eager reader . . .
~
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them
~
Funny, how if she hadn't NEEDED that hot dog on a stick, she
would have missed him by a few minutes.
She already misses him, of course. That's hardly the point.
She misses him with every breath she takes, because taking
breath reminds her of him now. In fact, she's more grateful
for every breath that she takes now because of how grateful
she is for every breath that he takes. Given the correlation
she's drawn between breathing and him, it really isn't all
that surprising that she thinks of him so much.
But that's all irrelevant to what is happening here. Running
into him. Literally, because here he is, coming out of the
building she's going into.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Lame. Of course, they don't say each others' names. Saying
each other's names always leads them to places they can't
face going. She has never quite understood why they couldn't
face them.
"How are you?"
His voice is impassive and polite, inquiring about the
health of someone who was once at the very center of his
universe.
"Good. I'm good. And you? You look well."
She has never been so polite. It's Giles' influence. Having
a very proper English gentleman for a father since her
sixteenth birthday had to have an effect on her sooner or
later. With the maturity of true adulthood, the cursed
thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon (three years away
still, but it looms nonetheless), Buffy has finally learned
how to act like everyone expects her to.
"I am well," he answers, and while she's glad for him,
another part of her, the same part that secretly wishes she
were unable to view him in the harsh light of day, screams
in agony and rage that he has been able to flourish without
her.
There is no cause for such thoughts. She does not pine for
him every day. Her life has gone on. Once, when they were
forced apart by circumstance, she had been unable to
completely let go of him. Always, 'what if?' delusions
drifted through her dreams. 'He's a vampire,' she would tell
herself sternly. 'You're the Slayer. He left so you could
have a life, not miss him so much you're in danger of dying
from it.'
The missing had stopped being such a constant ache after The
Big Showdown. He'd been in a relationship, a woman whose
name Buffy couldn't recall. She'd been pretty. Had seemed to
truly care for Angel. Buffy herself had been with Spike. It
hadn't been love on her side, and even now, she wondered if
it had been on his. She likes to think so. It makes
something inside of her happy to imagine loving her being
enough to bring something akin to redemption to a soulless
creature.
They were not in love, but they were together. Buffy slept
in Spike's bed, and he in hers. She never pretended the way
she had with Riley. There was no reason to hide her strength
or her darkness from Spike. He knew, he understood, and for
a time, she found comfort in him. After Riley came back,
after he learned she'd taken the solace in an evil demon
she'd been unable to find with him, he'd left again, and
that time, Buffy was sure he'd been able to stop loving her.
That had made her happy as well. Riley loving her wasn't
right. He got his clean break, and it lessened her guilt
over hurting him when Xander got the invitation to Riley's
wedding a couple of years later.
So many moments, so many hurts, so many little wounds
inflicted on the men who'd loved her.
But she is losing herself in memories, and the living
manifestation of her greatest joy and most heartfelt sorrow
stands before her, and she only saw him in the sunlight one
other time, for a few moments before he climbed into his big
black car and left her again.
"I never noticed the little blond highlights in his hair
before," Willow had said to her when she finally worked up
the courage to broach the subject.
"I did," was all Buffy had said, and all talk of Angel and
sunlight and redemption and 'why the hell aren't you guys
together?' had been swept under a rug.
Buffy notices everything about him now. The blond, the
chocolate brown, the healthy glow. His skin is tanned and
golden, and a small ache in her breast briefly wishes for
cool, pale marble beneath her fingers. Then again, her
fingers aren't touching him, which is good, because
ex-lovers who haven't spoken in centuries aren't supposed to
touch each other when they accidentally meet on the
sidewalk.
"So uh, what brings you to L.A.?" he asks, and she panics
for a moment. Had she only come with the hopes of catching a
glimpse of him? This was something she had attempted just
after his transformation, when she'd recognized their
stupidity. But no, she realizes, she has a viable excuse.
This trip to her old home is not about him.
"Work," she answers easily. "You know me. Nose. Grindstone."
"Right." He smiles, and it's an easy, wondrous sight.
"What brings you to this particular corner of the universe?"
she asks, then mentally chastises herself. It is none of her
business, even if he did start this line of questioning.
But he answers "Work" in kind, and gives her another smile.
They do not ask each other what 'work' is now. Such
questions would prolong the meeting, and Buffy can feel his
skin itching to be away from her as much as hers itches to
be near him.
"I guess I should let you go," he says, and begins to walk
away.
It is the sight of his back that spurs her into action.
"Angel," she calls out, and he stops, and she swears,
shivers a little. He turns back to her, walks the few steps
he'd taken and stops again, standing a little nearer than he
had been before.
Buffy takes a moment to remember how to breathe.
~
She's kept track of him over the years. Given their mutual
friends, it became laughably easy to get all the
insignificant details of his life.
There hadn't been a need to sneak peeks at his life before.
Back when they'd been fellow soldiers, after the initial
pain of their breakup had cooled, if Buffy felt like talking
to him, she would. She'd pick up the phone, or catch a bus
to L.A., or write him an email. He'd do the same. They
weren't friends, but they were there for each other. There
was healthy respect and love between them, even if fate
refused to let them be lovers.
Years passed. People died. Buffy's second death, her
subsequent resurrection, it all took a toll. Dawn,
especially, took everything hard, and the wounds Glory
inflicted never completely healed. There was such pain in
the years that followed the Hell God's attempt on their
lives, such pain mixed with such near-perfect happiness.
Buffy had people in her life she knew would never leave, and
it helped ease a lot of her insecurity. And of course she
missed Angel, but it wasn't like it had been before. They
didn't live in each other's worlds any longer, but they
still sort of orbited each other's systems.
It all changed that day. Angel's redemption, Shanshu; Wesley
had given them a quick recitation of it while he gathered
troops to hurry to Angel's side in battle. A vision of
Cordelia's demanded the Slayer's presence at the side of the
Vampire with a Soul. Buffy hadn't had a problem with it;
Angel was fighting for his humanity, and there was no other
cause she'd believed in half as much her entire life.
Over the years, the memory of the battle, the details of it
have faded from Buffy's mind. All she can clearly remember
is Spike's desperate embrace as he begged her not to leave
them. She had been knocked unconscious; had saved Angel's
life while he was distracted with trying to protect the girl
Buffy had quickly realized was his lover.
Things between them weren't serious, Angel and the woman
whose name Buffy had honestly blocked from her mind. If
she'd been thinking rationally at the time, she would have
seen that. The two of them were lovers, but they weren't any
more in love than she and Spike had been. Angel would have
lost his soul to a woman he loved.
Later, Spike confessed what he did that night Angel became
suddenly human. He was ashamed, and that honest emotion was
enough to earn Buffy's forgiveness, though she could never
bear to let him touch her again.
He'd gone to Angel, to the man who'd been his Sire for all
intents and purposes, and lied to his face. Spike had always
fought dirty for anything he felt was his, and even though
he'd known he would never be able to possess Buffy, not
truly as his, he couldn't bear to simply let her go.
And so Angel heard from Spike of the great love in Buffy's
life; the normal man who didn't have over a century of evil
staining his soul or his love; someone who had asked her to
marry him, who she was planning to marry. Unwilling to
disrupt her happiness, to throw a wrench into the works of
her life, Angel had done the thing he'd always done --
whatever was the most self-sacrificing and noble.
This time, he'd come to say goodbye. He hadn't mentioned her
mythical fiancé, and so she had assumed his reason for
leaving was the pretty little thing with the big brown eyes
that looked at him so adoringly.
When he showed up on her doorstep that night, he explained
that he wanted the best in life for her, and that he wasn't
the best. He said he didn't want to be in her way. He
promised that if she ever needed him, if she ever =wanted=
him, all she had to do was call . . .
Now, of course, she could see all that he'd been offering
her -- in his mind, she'd belonged to someone else, and he
had been telling her he still belonged only to her, and all
she had to do was claim him. Her hurt pride, her childish
heart, however, had refused to see the emotion behind his
words, and she'd told him she was fine without him, and that
she hoped he and whatshername were very happy together.
Funny (not funny ha-ha) how she realized so much after he
left, after Spike's confession, after it was too late to
claim him because he'd done just what she told him to do --
he'd married a woman whose name she couldn't be bothered to
remember. He'd made a life for himself. A human life, free
of demons and darkness, if Cordelia via Willow was to be
believed.
She still hears from Spike occasionally. He writes her
letters from the road. He's hooked up with a crew of demon
hunters, he says, and plans to be the Last Demon Standing
when all is said and done.
The Cleansing had taken care of most of the vampires of the
world. Angel and Spike had been the only two in Sunnydale to
survive, Spike because of the magical wards Willow prepared
for him, and Angel because of his Shanshu.
Now, groups of demon hunters scattered the globe, making war
on the harmful demons that were left, and letting the
peaceful ones be. Some vampires, like Spike, switched sides
and chose to drink pig's blood and fight the good fight. It
seemed a creature's will to survive even overrode its
instinctual desires for death and blood.
Buffy still slays, but she stays close to home, and she
hasn't had to save the world in nearly four years. It's a
record, and one she takes comfort in.
Sometimes, when she works up the nerve to come to L.A., she
wants to go down to the Santa Monica Pier and watch Angel
draw, the way Cordelia says he always does. He has a child,
a little girl, and he and his wife named her Kathleen
Elizabeth. He wrote her a very lovely letter ((Had it not
been for you, Buffy, I wouldn't have survived long enough to
live.)) that expressed his endless gratitude for the
significant part she played in setting him on the right
path. His daughter's name was the living testament to that
gratitude, and, she admits to herself now, the love he has
always felt for Buffy.
Angel has a talent ((Soon.)) for charcoals. He renders
people, places, objects, in perfect detail. His work is
shown in local galleries around Los Angeles, and the artist
who signs his work with an 'A', followed by an angel's wing,
is well loved by those who know him. Buffy has purchased
several of his works anonymously, and she hangs them in the
room she uses to write. They bring inspiration to her muse,
and remind her that once, she knew a great love.
She does not blame herself for his absence from her life any
longer. She does not blame him, either. There is too much
evil still left in the world to add to it, and blaming
either of them for circumstances would be an evil almost
more insidious than the one they'd fought so hard against.
A year ago, Buffy came to Los Angeles to watch him, the same
way he'd always watched her: from the shadows. She saw his
little girl, a tiny dark sprite, tugging at her Daddy's
shirttail. Her mother, Angel's wife, had been beautiful, and
Buffy had only stared at them for a moment before she forced
her weary feet to take her away from him again.
It's nearly a year now since she heard about how sick she
was. Angel's wife had some kind of disease that was
incurable, and decidedly supernatural. Her death, Willow
said, had hit Angel hard. No one knew the details of it;
Angel's inner sanctum had circled around them during the
end, and in the last few days of her life, it had only been
the three of them, mother, father, and child, given the
opportunity to say a proper goodbye.
Buffy mourned her. Not because she had known her, or because
she wished she was still alive -- but because Angel mourned
her. His pain was like a tangible thing to her, and she
cried herself to sleep for a solid week after his wife's
passing.
She still did not go to him. She has considered it, of
course. It just seemed so gothic-romance novel to travel the
distances that separated them, to 'comfort' him in his hour
of mourning. What did she expect? Did she think he would
open his arms ((his heart and his bed)) to her, welcome her
home and ask her to be his daughter's new mommy?
Even if he were so inclined, that could never happen. The
little girl ((=Angel's= DAUGHTER)) whom he clearly adored
didn't know Buffy Summers from a hole in the ground. Her
mother had just died. Divorce and death were much more
similar than anyone knew, and as a child of divorce, Buffy
never wanted to be the person who took the place of
someone's parent.
That purely rational line of thinking had kept her from
going to him. Occasionally, she recognizes that, while it is
a valid reason, it is not the real one. The real, true,
honest to God reason she does not go to him is the simple
fear of rejection. The bone-deep terror that he won't want
her back. Angel loved deeply, and he'd loved another woman
enough to marry her, to have a child with her . . .
Resigned as she has become to never being with him again, it
does not stop her from remembering. It does not stop her
from imagining.
In the stillest part of the night, the time when she once
would have been outside fighting ((hunting killing stalking
flirting holding hands and kissing in the cemetery)), she
now spends lying in bed, thinking of all the things that
might have ((never could have)) been.
There have been nights she thinks of Riley, but only ever
for a few beats of her heart ((Angel's heart)) and thoughts
of him pass through her mind the same way Riley himself had
through her life -- sweetly, occasionally painfully, without
really leaving much of an impression either way.
Mostly, these late night musings belong to Angel, like so
many parts of her do.
She has replayed their love affair a thousand times. She has
examined ((if only I'd done-if he'd just-maybe if we'd
have)) each moment carefully. Always, she comes to the same
conclusion.
They were doomed from the beginning, and she would not
change a second of it for anything.
Well, maybe she'd change one thing. She'd change the end.
She'd make it so there never was one.
~
"Buffy?" he questions softly. He has not said her name out
loud in so long, the syllables of it roll off his tongue
strangely, heatedly, like he's just eaten too much Wasabi.
He eats now, not because he's trying to pretend to fit in
with the rest of the world, but because he is desperately
hungry. Fred teases ((teased, she used to tease)) him about
his voracious appetite. In the beginning, he teased her back
by saying he was a 'growing boy.' Five years into being
human and he was no longer able to pretend he wasn't used to
it.
He is a man now, in every way, and knowing that has given
him something precious to hold onto inside his own soul.
"I don't know what I was going to say," Buffy confesses
quietly. She has moved closer to him, and he can't resist
the pull between them, and now they've both moved and he
honestly can't remember taking the first step.
"I'm familiar with the feeling," he assures her. How easy it
would be, to reach out and touch her. How totally
impossible.
It has been years since he was close enough to be tempted by
her scent ((peaches and cream)), the remembered feel of her
skin ((silk and steel)), the way her nose crinkles when
she's trying to think of something to say.
"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" she finally asks,
and he swears, there are tears in her eyes.
"I thought you had a . . ." he gestures at the building, the
reason they were standing here, trying to string words
together into complete sentences.
"I did. I do. I don't care."
His eyes widen a little at her honesty, but he nods,
understanding. "I'm supposed to pick Katie up," he says, and
he hadn't remembered it until he blurted it out.
"Oh." She shakes her head. "Never mind. It was . . . dumb.
You know me, don't think first, just jump on in, never mind
that the pool doesn't have any water in it--"
"Let me make a call," he interrupts softly. The urge to take
her hand, to calm her the way he has always been able to is
so strong he makes fists to keep himself from reaching out
to her.
Katie is with Cordelia on the set. Cordy has a long shoot
that will last well into the night. He asks Wes to take
Katie home with him, to let her play with his and Cordelia's
son. He agrees easily, and Angel turns to Buffy, flashes her
the best smile he can manage, considering his heart feels
like it's been through a blender.
He inclines his head to the left. "My car's over here."
With a smile that mirrors his own, she follows him.
~
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your golden tresses, my little tower
~
He reads her books before he goes to sleep at night.
Fred knew; she always knew. It didn't stop her from loving
him with all her soul, and a day had never passed that
didn't make Angel wish he could love her back the same way.
Buffy had believed them to be lovers, that last time he set
foot in Sunnydale. He knew that, and at the time, he'd had
neither the time, nor the energy to set her straight. After,
he hadn't seen a point to it.
Shortly before they set out for Sunnydale, Fred had pulled
him aside and told him a secret ((I'm pregnant and the
father doesn't want anything to do with me.)) that had
stunned him. She'd said it so simply, like she was stating a
fact in one of her equations. But the nervousness had
lingered in her tone, and he'd put an arm around her,
promised that they ((Wes, Cordy, Gunn, and Angel, always a
'we' or an 'us' or a 'they' whenever someone spoke of them
now)) would take care of her, and the baby.
That's what he'd been doing in Sunnydale -- taking care of
her and the baby. Buffy's insecurities always led her, and
then had been no different. Then again, he is not one to
speak of being led by insecurities, is he?
He wonders, still, what might have been if Spike hadn't come
to see him that night.
It was good, for awhile. As good as anything could be
without Buffy in it. Fred, whom he married, because she was
beautiful and sweet and loved him, and she offered
everything, herself, her child, a life Angel had craved as
much as Buffy had always craved normalcy. He had needed her
a little, too. He needed someone who knew the darkness
inside of him and didn't fear it. Her ((Their, always
Their)) daughter is the greatest love he has ever known, and
she reminds him of his sister in the moments when he allows
his memory to drift back to the quiet, beautiful girl he
killed once, centuries ago.
A year into it, Spike entered his life again. The vampire
got into a drunken brawl one night outside Caritas. Angel
had been inside, visiting with the Host, and because he
remembered Spike genuinely helping during the Final Battles,
Angel had taken him home and given him a room to sleep it
off in. The next evening, when Spike awoke, he participated
in his ritual hangover-induced bout of honesty. The
confession of his untruth years before devastated Angel.
He still remembers, vividly, climbing the stairs to his room
like a zombie, finding Fred ((his wife)) sleeping
peacefully. He remembers the tug ((Buffy)) he'd felt at his
beating heart.
That night, he'd almost left them. He'd almost climbed into
his convertible and drove balls out to Sunnydale until he
could close his arms around Buffy's waist, taste and inhale
her skin until she filled every single one of his senses,
just as she already filled every inch of his heart to
bursting.
Instead, he went to his daughter's room, watched her take
breath after breath as she slept beneath her Strawberry
Shortcake sheets, an ancient relic Fred had pulled from her
own attic when they took a trip to see her grandmother. The
old woman had taken an immediate liking to Angel, and the
feeling was mutual. This was what Fred had given him;
connection, not only to the past and present, but also to
the future. In the end, no matter how much he ached for
Buffy, it had been unthinkable to him, this idea of leaving
((abandoning)) all that he'd built over the past years.
Besides, the grapevine from Sunnydale tells him that Buffy
is well. He reads her books, feels the passion leaping off
the page at him, and he knows it. Her life is not empty. It
is filled with family and friends, and he has learned better
than anyone the importance of family and friends.
Anne Angel is the penname she chose, and with it, Buffy
spins tales of a young girl who fights vampires, and the
band of friends who help her. Her heroine falls in love with
a vampire, and Angel admits to being a bit disconcerted at
how vivid Buffy's recall of their life clearly is. He
thought that particular curse was his and his alone to bear.
Her first novel, she dedicated so beautifully ((For little
Elizabeth, who brings joy to her father)) that he nearly
picked up the phone to call her -- only the fear that they
would have nothing to say to one another stopped him.
Angel loves his work. The charcoals he paints were at first
difficult for him to do, then later, became almost
cathartic. He is able to take something he had once used to
perpetuate evil, and turn it into something beautiful. He
draws everything, the places he's seen, the ones he's only
imagined, the people he's loved, Katie, Buffy, Cordelia,
Fred. It is Fred who convinced him he could channel his
talent ((use it for good, not evil, Angel. Use the force))
into something positive.
Fred ((his beautiful Winifred)) got sick a year ago. Angel
still has trouble grasping the idea that she's gone. He
isn't sure whether he's grateful Katie is too young to
understand, or angry that she will not have true memories of
her mother as she grows into a woman. It was not a lingering
illness, nor was it anything they could seek help for. Her
time on Pylea had not been as behind her as they'd all
thought. The Host said it was something humans ((cows)) died
from on his world, that there was no cure, because his
people had never deemed it important enough to find one.
He is reminded just how much he did love Fred, how much he
respected her, how much he =liked= her, when he remembers
the last months of her life. She did not spend a day feeling
sorry for herself, or being bitter ((Angel, how can I be sad
when God gave me you and Katie Beth? I'm only sad that I
have to leave you long before I'd like)) at the hand she was
dealt.
His wife's final words to him ((be happy -- be =perfectly=
happy)) echo through his mind a thousand times a day. He
takes Katie to the zoo, with him when he paints, to museums
and restaurants. She tags along with Cordelia to this set
and that, and they are all as happy as they can be. The loss
is beginning to fade, as loss does, to the back of their
minds, and life goes on, as it always does. For the first
few months after Fred's death, Angel hadn't thought of
anything but how much he missed her, and how best to care
for Katie.
Slowly, though, he has been waking up again after a long,
deep sleep. His heart has once again began to beat and tug
((Buffy)) with every breath he takes. He is remembering all
that he carries with him every moment that he lives.
He misses her, still, miles ((worlds)) apart though they
sometimes are now. He loves her no less; he tries not to no
less.
And still, he can't stop.
~
The coffee is Starbucks, and Buffy absently notes with a
pang that Angel purchases a muffin to go with his caffeine.
It's chocolate chip, and she feels physical pain for how
much she doesn't know about him.
Angel suggests they take their excuse to remain in each
other's company to the beach, and they drive with the top
down until Angel finds the spot ((at sunset, it gets so
quiet you can hear the earth spin)) he's looking for.
Shoes are kicked off, he rolls up his pant legs, she hikes
her skirt to her knees, and they settle their feet against
the sand that will be covered with water in a few hours
time. Neither question the fact that they intend to be here
for hours.
They talk of their mutual friends initially, of the dot com
company Anya, Willow, Cordelia, Tara, and Oz started up
together, and Angel seems pleased that Cordelia has
something besides the acting to fall back on. They speak of
Xander's construction company, Wesley's satisfaction at
being a stay-at-home-dad, and Giles' pleasure at being home
in the U.K. once more. He tells her that Gunn and Faith have
been traveling the country with Spike, taking care of the
leftover demon population, and she confesses that Spike
still sends her letters from the road.
He enquires about Dawn, and she tells him her little sister
is getting married next month. They've been in love since
high school, and it's the real thing.
"That's amazing," he notes. "Finding the person you want to
spend your life with so young."
"Must be a Summers thing," she says sadly, and his heart
lurches in his chest, screaming for him to touch her. He
isn't sure why he doesn't. Perhaps it's because things are
so unsettled still. He isn't sure he would survive holding
her just once, only to have her leave his life all over
again.
When they have exhausted all forms of idle chatter, the
quiet that descends over them is disturbed only by the
gentle sound of the surf beating against the shore.
It is time, it seems, to get to the heart of things, or walk
away after having coffee like polite ex-lovers are supposed
to.
He has always had trouble considering them as ex-anything.
There are no labels for what they are to each other. They
just are.
And so, Angel tells her everything about his life as the sun
sinks in the sky, and Buffy listens with a heart bursting
for how much she has missed him.
He explains about Fred, the girl he'd rescued from another
dimension, who'd become his dearest friend. He confesses
that, while he'd never loved her madly, he had loved her in
a quiet, easy way that had made their marriage a beautiful
one. Buffy somehow manages to love him more when he
confesses that the child he dotes on so obsessively is not
biologically his.
"But she is," he insists. "She's been mine from the moment
Fred told me about her. I couldn't possibly love her more."
In turn, Buffy shares the tale of the few lovers she's had
over the years. They've gone in and out of her life with
much infrequency, and the heart of her joy has been the
close circle of friends that surround her.
"Buffy and romantic love just doesn't seem to work out," she
says at last. "They're fine separately -- Romantic love is
great, and Buffy, I hear, is beyond cool. But put 'em
together and it's a disaster of epic proportions. Which is
why I've given a happily ever after to Eliza. Oh, Eliza's
the heroine--"
"In your books, I know," he assures her softly. He has a far
away look in his eyes, and she reaches out, tugs at the open
collar of his white shirt playfully.
"Hey. No day-trips. Catching up requires the full
participation and presence of both parties."
He gives her a smile, and tries to ignore the fact that her
fingers are still lightly moving against the open collar of
his shirt. He is not successful.
"I was just thinking that I can't wait for Katie to meet
you," he confesses, though he honestly hadn't meant to speak
that particular thought out loud. Not yet, at any rate, not
until he knows for certain why she is sitting here in front
of him still.
"Oh." That is literally the only thought her brain is
capable of forming. She is not proud of it, especially
considering her vocation, but she figures she's ahead of the
game, having been able to form a verbal syllable at all.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "It's too much. You wanted
to spend the afternoon with someone you used to know, not .
. . I don't know what, but certainly not get too involved
in--"
"Why is it going to work now, when it didn't work all those
times before?" she blurts out. "The last time we saw each
other, you were human, and we still managed to get in the
way of our own happy ending. How are things different now? I
can't go into this again, I can't fall back in love with
you, in love with your =daughter= and then lose you both. I
wouldn't survive it."
"Neither would I."
She laughs. "So where the hell does that leave us?"
"I could tell you why it's different for me now," he tells
her quietly.
"Please," she whispers. "Because that thing I said about
falling back in love with you? I already did that."
He takes her hand, and presses a swift, loving kiss to her
knuckles, and his words begin muffled against her skin.
"Before, you were my salvation, Buffy. I put you on a
pedestal and I worshipped you. I never felt worthy of you, I
certainly never felt I deserved to have your love. The
difference is . . . I am now. I'm worthy. I feel it in my
bones, finally and for real. It took me a long time to get
here -- and I'm not just referring to the pulse. Every time
I look into Katie's eyes, I feel like the person I am. I can
come to you now as a man, nothing more, and certainly
nothing less.
"I don't see you as the savior of the world, although I know
you are, I don't even see you as my savior, because I found
redemption amongst the rest of humanity, even though you did
save me without knowing it all those years ago."
"No more than you saved me," she whispers. She has pulled
his hand to her own lips as he spoke and there are tears in
her voice.
"Do you know how I see you?" he asks in a hushed voice.
Buffy looks at his beloved face, noting as she does that the
sun has set and his features are to her now as they have
always been in her dreams -- shaded, dark, but glowing
nonetheless with something that comes from inside of him.
"How?"
"I see you as the only woman I've ever loved with my whole
heart, and what I want to give to you is myself; flawed,
alive, and desperately needing to wake with you in my arms
every single morning."
"Why?" she asks, her voice tinged with wonder, both at his
words and the fact that she seems incapable of speaking more
than one word at a time. If it were five years ago, she
would fear some weird hellmouth disease robbing her of
speech. Now, she's pretty sure it's just the effect Angel
has on her.
He smiles gently, the half smirk she hasn't seen from him in
ages, and he brushes the side of her hair with his warm,
gentle, =human= touch.
"Maybe I still just like you."
Her control snaps, and she leans in to kiss him, a short,
hard burst of affection against his lips. She moves to pull
away, and he holds her head with the back of his hand,
prolonging the contact, deepening it as they become
reacquainted with lips and tongues and soft, gentle fingers
re-learning the dips and plains of smiling faces.
They kiss for nearly an hour, making out like teenagers on
the beach, and it's everything they both feared it wouldn't
be again -- passionate, loving, comfortable, scary,
beautiful, exciting, and about a thousand other things they
are too full of each other to think of.
Soon, they are rolling around in the sand, trying to get on
top of each other, inside of each other. Their clothes are
lost in the struggle, and Buffy takes long, loving mouthfuls
of his warm, human skin, and tears spill down their cheeks
as they both realize that the home they've been aching for
separately all these years is at last within their grasp.
Later, they are spooned together higher in the sand, and
neither could be bothered with something so trivial as
clothing. His forearm is across her chest, while his other
arm is draped over her hips, and she can feel his heart
beating against her back.
Pressing soft, adoring kisses against the shell of her ear,
he whispers, "Come home with me."
"For how long?" she asks, because despite the security she
feels in his arms, the desperate intensity of his embrace,
she is still insecure at heart.
"To stay," he says with gentle laughter in his voice, as
though it were the most obvious answer in the world. To him,
it is. "To stay for always."
"Okay," she agrees happily as tears spill down her cheeks.
He turns her to face him and kisses her tears away. Places
his lips to the pulse in her neck, over scar tissue he is
responsible for, and relaxes with the vibration of her life
echoing that of his own.
"What if Katie doesn't like me?" she asks the top of his
head.
"Oh, we'll sell her to the circus and run away together to
the South of France," he replies deadpan.
"Angel!" she chastises, laughing and smacking him on the
back at the same time.
"No, really, she's very smart. We'd probably get a mint for
her."
He's kissing her again. "Stop," she insists.
"She's going to love you," he says seriously. "How could she
not?"
"We have to take this slow," she says firmly.
"You're not sure?" Now his insecurities are doing battle
with her insecurities for the Insecure Heart of the Year
award.
"I'm not sure for Katie. Angel, if it were just you and me,
you couldn't pry me off you with the Jaws of Life."
"Nice mental image," he mutters.
"I won't force myself into her life," she declares quietly.
A smile quirks her lips. "This is the normal stuff we get to
deal with now. You get to introduce your new girlfriend to
your daughter. Sure it's worth all the trouble?"
He pulls her fully into his arms and kisses her for what
seems like days. When they come up for air ((we both have to
come up for air!)) he takes her cheeks between his palms and
looks intensely into her eyes.
"Come home with me," he says again, quietly. "To stay. For
always. And let the details work themselves out."
There are arguments to be made, things they should discuss
and analyze and pick apart until she is sure she won't be
hurt again. But the truth is, she probably will be hurt
somewhere along the way. Unlike all the times before,
though, she isn't going to be hurting alone. They aren't
leaving each other until the Powers decide to take one of
them out. She can see that promise in his eyes, and she
feels it in her heart.
And so, she gives him the answer that is her first instinct
every time he asks her a question.
"Okay," she chirps, giggling softly as the full
ramifications of it all settles inside her for the first
time. Angel's taking her home. To stay. For freakin' always.
Thank God for that hot dog on a stick.
~
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters
until they found me
~
Oh, yeah, The End.