TITLE: Happy Endings Are All The Same
AUTHOR: Sunny D
DISCLAIMER: Thankfully it all belongs to Joss
RATING: PG
PAIRINGS: B/A, B/S implied
NOTES: takes place in BtVS S6 up to 'Doublemeat Palace' and Angel early S3,
but Pylea, Darla and Connor never happened, (oh if only.)
Afternoon sunshine burned brightly around the edges of Angel's heavy bedroom drapes. Another thin slice of light crept under the door from the hallway. Neither was enough to disturb the dark, stillness of the room.
Buffy stirred, her first movement in hours, and Angel hesitated in turning the page of the book that he wasn't really reading. She expelled a stream of air and he leaned forward to touch the now dry towel to her forehead, gently brushing back her hair. She settled, burrowing deeper into his sheets and he discarded his book to stare at her in rapt attention, wondering how long it would take her super-strong body to recover from the alcohol, how long he had left to be this close to her, and how long he could enjoy the wonderful sensation of her presence under his skin.
He remembered her hurrying off a bus and across a motorway, too excited to be concerned with oncoming traffic. He remembered her crushing embrace and her strangely altered scent as she held him as though he were the float that would keep her from drowning. And he remembered the pain in her eyes as she stepped out of his arms realising that he would not give free reign to his emotions - despite all she had been through.
When they met in that car park there was no fictional 'normal' for her to aspire to, no life of laughter and sunshine to expect, even he couldn't pretend. She had experienced Heaven, what could compare? Except she had looked at him with those eyes that told him he was the only thing Heaven didn't have - and unable to stand it, he had looked away.
The painful recollections were disturbed by Buffy's suddenly ragged breathing, and he reached for the bucket again, but her body had already expelled everything it could dislodge and her breathing returned to normal. Gingerly touching a dark circle under her eye, Angel wondered how long it had been since she last slept so peacefully. Would she have these circles if he'd damned the consequences and insisted she come back to LA with him that night? He wouldn't have had to insist, not because she still believed that love conquered all - that innocence had faded a while ago - but because she'd looked so lost, so in need of somebody to take care of her, and she'd looked at him with trust and longing. Would Dawn still be alive if he had responded to her obvious need and taken them both under his wing, loving one slowly back to life and giving the other stability? Instead he'd walked away, again, reasoning that she was strong and whatever she suffered would be nothing compared to the anguish Angelus could cause.
And here they were once more, another crossroad, another heart-wrenching decision to be made. Angel touched her mascara smudged eyelids gently and wondered which of her many expressions they would open to reveal. If she woke up and looked at him with those beseeching, vulnerable eyes that made him want to offer his soul to any interested party, could he make that decision again? How many times could he break her heart because he loved her and didn't trust himself?
Afternoon sunshine burned brightly around the edges of Angel's heavy bedroom drapes. Another thin slice of light crept under the door from the hallway. Neither was enough to disturb the dark, stillness of the room.
Buffy stirred, her first movement in hours, and Angel hesitated in turning the page of the book that he wasn't really reading. She expelled a stream of air and he leaned forward to touch the now dry towel to her forehead, gently brushing back her hair. She settled, burrowing deeper into his sheets and he discarded his book to stare at her in rapt attention, wondering how long it would take her super-strong body to recover from the alcohol, how long he had left to be this close to her, and how long he could enjoy the wonderful sensation of her presence under his skin.
He remembered her hurrying off a bus and across a motorway, too excited to be concerned with oncoming traffic. He remembered her crushing embrace and her strangely altered scent as she held him as though he were the float that would keep her from drowning. And he remembered the pain in her eyes as she stepped out of his arms realising that he would not give free reign to his emotions - despite all she had been through.
When they met in that car park there was no fictional 'normal' for her to aspire to, no life of laughter and sunshine to expect, even he couldn't pretend. She had experienced Heaven, what could compare? Except she had looked at him with those eyes that told him he was the only thing Heaven didn't have - and unable to stand it, he had looked away.
The painful recollections were disturbed by Buffy's suddenly ragged breathing, and he reached for the bucket again, but her body had already expelled everything it could dislodge and her breathing returned to normal. Gingerly touching a dark circle under her eye, Angel wondered how long it had been since she last slept so peacefully. Would she have these circles if he'd damned the consequences and insisted she come back to LA with him that night? He wouldn't have had to insist, not because she still believed that love conquered all - that innocence had faded a while ago - but because she'd looked so lost, so in need of somebody to take care of her, and she'd looked at him with trust and longing. Would Dawn still be alive if he had responded to her obvious need and taken them both under his wing, loving one slowly back to life and giving the other stability? Instead he'd walked away, again, reasoning that she was strong and whatever she suffered would be nothing compared to the anguish Angelus could cause.
And here they were once more, another crossroad, another heart-wrenching decision to be made. Angel touched her mascara smudged eyelids gently and wondered which of her many expressions they would open to reveal. If she woke up and looked at him with those beseeching, vulnerable eyes that made him want to offer his soul to any interested party, could he make that decision again? How many times could he break her heart because he loved her and didn't trust himself?