Chapter Eight
Whoever brought the words, "I just need some time" into common usage should have been skinned, boiled in oil, eviscerated, then drawn and quartered and fed to giant slugs, in Angel's opinion.
He knew he should have eaten Noah Webster when he had the chance.
Irrational, maybe, but being murderously angry with a long-dead linguist was far easier than resenting Buffy for a perfectly normal, reasonable, and completely understandable request.
Or so he'd been telling himself for the nine days since his and Buffy's single kiss saved the world.
He prowled the night streets like a demon possessed – which, he supposed, he was. Possessed with a sudden, utter and unbalanced loss of patience and understanding. How much more time did she *need*? Six years wasn't long enough? Hadn't she seen and felt and learned the same things he had from their most recent brush with death?
That moment, when they'd faced the end side by side, Angel had known without a shadow of a doubt what the universe had been trying to tell them right along.
Love *was* enough, sometimes. If you let it be.
It was that simple... and that melodramatic. Why didn't Buffy see that the Something Missing they'd both been suffering from since they parted was each other? How could she not understand that they may be complete, but were never truly whole when they were apart?
Okay, so... maybe he hadn't given her many reasons to believe over the years, especially in the way he had drifted in and out of her life like some emotional pit stop. But that was over now. Denial, repression, rationalizing, abusing and hiding behind logic. All of it. Done.
He just couldn't fathom how Buffy didn't see it. She didn't really believe all that garbage about being somehow 'tainted', did she? How could she? How could she fail to see that he loved her more, not less, for her layers and shadows and mistakes? Hadn't he told her so? Hadn't she felt it in that kiss they thought would be their last? Didn't she know it had to be right when what they shared had the power to stop Armageddon?
But no. After they'd gotten everyone patched up and debriefed, collapsed from exhaustion on the couch in the library, and he finally thought they would have the time to speak freely...
She needed time to think.
Time! If the other night had taught him anything, it was that time was *short*. Their lives were so fragile... so very fleeting. They couldn't just continue throwing chances away when there very well might not be any more chances. The world could end tomorrow – or five minutes from now. Didn't they deserve what little happiness they could have together while they could have it?
So, fine, it had taken forever for him to figure that out, himself. To realize, yes, he'd left Sunnydale ostensibly for Buffy, but really, deep down, he'd gone because he never felt worthy of her love. He'd needed to find his own way, his own self and his own sense of purpose – which he had done. And sure, he'd had a chance to spend a brief human life span with her, and sacrificed it on the altar of their destiny – to save her life, when she had only died anyway. And yeah, when she came back from the dead, he'd turned and walked away because it was still just too hard. But...
But... what? Considering his own failures in their relationship, what right did he have to be so angry with her for feeling overwhelmed by the sudden, seemingly divine directive that they belonged together? Buffy had more than earned the right to dictate the path she would walk through her life, hadn't she? And hadn't he been filled with ironic pride when she sent him away so she could become cook... so she could grow into herself? Who did he think he was to invalidate her decisions, disrespect how she felt about things... the way he always had?
He had always pedantically made the overreaching choices regarding their relationship for both of them, as though she were a child. Even when she had never really been a child at all, but a great warrior who just happened to be... young. And now, just because he was so certain of what he wanted, he was having a temper tantrum because she wasn't.
Which, he figured, made him pretty much the biggest selfish, domineering, thoughtless, chauvinistic jackass in the universe.
He sighed and turned to make his way back home... until he realized where his aimless walkabout had taken him.
Standing at the foot of the dorm wing of the Slayer School, four stories below the balcony outside Buffy's bedroom.
He smiled sardonically to himself. Wasn't Fate just a mean, twisted bitch?
The climb was quick and fairly simple – the virtual forest of old, tough ivy on the brick walls of the building made a better ladder than the trellis at her house in Sunnydale. In a matter of moments, Angel was perched outside her window, a perfect view of her peacefully sleeping form filling his vision.
So he would give her the time and space she needed. But that didn't preclude spending the few hours remaining until dawn indulging in an old, comfortable – albeit slightly creepy – pastime.
Watching the great love of his very long life take her well-deserved rest.
~
Buffy was dreaming about donuts. Which might have been a nice respite from her incessant thoughts, daydreams and night visions about Angel, if the donuts in question weren't 15 feet tall, fanged, taloned, armed with automatic weapons, and unbelievably mean about her wardrobe choices.
It was going all right – she was all Neo with the bullet-dodging, and managed to take out three of the dozen killer donuts with a giant cement hot dog (which Giles gad graciously assured her contained absolutely no relish of any kind), but then the leader – who wore a suspiciously familiar leather duster – informed her that she had been cursey-cursed to walk the earth wearing a size 12, triple E shoe for all eternity.
She jolted awake with a shriek, in stark terror of being forced to have her heels custom made by Frankenstein's monster in some demonic Belgian shoe factory.
The Angel dreams were better.
She combed her fingers through her nasty bedhead, and ignored the tingle running down her spine, the slight cramping in her gut that she always got when she thought of her ex-sort-of-maybe-future... whatever. The sensation was strong enough to drive her out of bed, and possibly to drink. Tea, at least.
How could she possibly appreciate the physical space Angel was giving her to get her head on straight when he was constantly invading her head every damn minute? With the exception of the Killer Donut break, of course.
She put on the kettle and wandered over to the French Doors leading out to her balcony, and swept them open to the warm May night. A good brood looking up at the full moon was just what she needed.
Somehow, she wasn't all that surprised to find Angel perched directly before her on the railing, a split second away from leaping four stories to the ground. He froze and flashed her a sheepish smile.
"Hi," he greeted her.
"I'm torn," she replied, "I've got snide remarks about your amazing lack of understanding of the concepts "time" and "space", wry comments about how you haven't lost your talent for stalking, nostalgic melancholy over bedroom window memories... and wondering if you by any chance brought donuts."
Caught, Angel climbed down off the railing and in the worst attempt at casual he'd ever performed, brushed non-existent dust off his coat. "No donuts, sorry," he apologized. "As for the rest... it's your line. You choose."
"What are you doing here, Angel?"
Looking thoroughly chagrined, he confessed, "Brushing up on my lurking skills. As you can see, I'm rusty." He smiled. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"I'm sure," she rejoined, giving him a knowing look. "Lurking really is a solo activity."
"Honestly... I wasn't planning on coming here tonight." He leaned back against the rail and tucked his hands in his pockets, staring up at the moon, not quite sure if he wanted to see what was in her eyes. "I was out walking, and when I looked up, here I was. I am trying to respect your wishes. I guess I'm just not doing very well."
When he finally took a chance and looked at her once more, Buffy wore a strange expression somewhere between sleepy amusement and a thrilled smile. "Well, you're here now. You might as well come in and have some tea."
Angel followed her into her bedroom, taking in all the details of her new life. After the Hellmouth collapsed, destroying Sunnydale, Buffy had had to start from scratch. The things she surrounded herself with now reflected the woman she had become – the dark, sensual décor that still managed easy comfort. The antique weapons interspersed with pastel landscapes and photographs of her friends and students. Volumes of prophecy and demon lore piled on the tables next to the latest 'W', 'Vogue', and 'Cosmopolitan'. An antique china doll stood next to an old, ravaged stuffed pig.
"Is that Mr. Gordo?" he wondered aloud, surprised how comforting it felt to see that old toy again.
Buffy followed his eyes to the pig's space on her bookshelf. "Yeah, believe it or not. He's lived in my weapons bag for like, ever. He's kind of beat up, but... he's the only thing I have left from Sunnydale."
Angel watched her move to the kitchenette, go through the motions of making tea with practiced grace, and refrained from reminding her that Mr. Gordo wasn't the only thing left from her tenure on the Hellmouth.
"Buffy, I can go, if you'd rather. I meant it when I said I didn't mean to intrude..."
She returned with the tray and set it on the table, gesturing to the empty chair beside her before she sat. "No. I'm actually glad you came. I've been wanting to talk to you, and... I've just been procrastinating."
Dread clenched his chest tightly as he took the seat she offered. "Okay..."
Buffy took a deep breath. "I've been doing a lot of thinking since what happened the other night. In fact, I haven't been able to think about much else."
Angel claimed his tea and sipped just for something to do... besides bolt in terror before she could tell him she didn't want to see him again, which was his first instinct.
"There's... a lot between us," Buffy went on, "A lot of pain, a lot of old wounds. Everybody says that the good memories stick better, but... it never seemed that way to me. The things we've been through... the ways we've hurt each other over the years... when I see you again, it's like those things are always standing between us. I don't get flashes of the way we used to talk when we patrolled, or how I used to make you laugh, or how lying in your arms always made me feel so safe. Or how beautiful it was the night we made love..." she fingered the rim of her teacup, watching the memories come. "I see me running you through with a sword. I see you telling me you don't want to be with me. I see you dying of Faith's poison. I see you walking away from me without saying goodbye. And just... leaving, over and over again."
"Buffy..." he attempted to interrupt.
She waved him off. "No, just let me finish... please. I need to say this. So... there's all this pain between us. But... even with that, somewhere in my heart, I always hoped...maybe... someday... And then that last time... I knew I was going to die. Or at least, I thought I was. Probably. I was confused about who I was, what I wanted. Angry that I might never get the chance to find out. And all that stuff with Spike..." she shook her head, "It was too much to begin with, and then you showed up – the same knight in shining armor you've always been to me. I didn't want to hope anymore, or dream, or anything. I just wanted to shake it all off... the past... you. All of it. I promised myself that if I survived, I wasn't going to let anything tie me down ever again. No baggage. When what I really wanted was to just crawl into your arms and feel safe again, even if that meant the end of the world. Hence, the cookie dough speech – independent, not-dead, 100% carry-on free Buffy in instinctive defense against total insanity."
She was quiet for a long time, remembering that night. How he had stood there, her every wild, impossible dream come so incredibly true... and she had just thrown it away.
"I understand," Angel finally assured her. "I did then, and I do now."
"No, you don't," she argued, turning to face him. "There's so much you just don't know. See... the baggage thing – the all-solitary-nun-Buffy 'baking-in-progress, hands-off' thing... they were true at the time. I was tired of carrying. But the cookie dough... that, I think I was wrong about, now."
"You weren't wrong, Buffy." He took her hand. "A little weak in the metaphor department, maybe, but what you were telling me wasn't wrong."
She digested that for a moment. "Okay, maybe 'wrong' isn't the word, exactly. I mean... I really *don't *know who I'll turn out to be, or where I'll end up in the world. There's still so much I want to see and do and learn... about... everything. About myself. And the other night, when I was sure it was the end... the *real* end... and you kissed me, something finally just... clicked."
"What's that?" he asked softly.
Buffy looked the man she loved – the only man she'd ever really loved – straight in the eye. "The fact is, I might never be 'done'. I mean... is anybody ever finished growing up?"
Angel gave her a tender smile. "250 years, and I'd say I'm still a work in progress."
"Right. So... I figure the baking timer on the oven of my life won't go off until I die. And considering my history with the whole death thing, probably not even then. But... for all that... I do love you, Angel. That hasn't changed even a little bit for as long as I can remember. Even the past two years, when I was trying to put everything aside and just... be... you were still right there, dead center in my heart. And I missed you. No matter how much time passed, I still missed having you near me. I think I could bake for a thousand years, and never love you, or want you in my life any less than I ever have." She reached up to brush the familiar turn of his cheek. "Or as much as I do right now."
He felt the first wave of true hope he'd had in years washing through him... seeing the emotion in her eyes, feeling her gentle touch... "What are you saying, Buffy?"
"I'm saying... I know it won't be easy. We'll probably fight all the time, and throw things, and hurt each other. I'll probably flake out on you a lot. But... I think... I mean, I want... I'd like to... if you want... I'd like for us to take another chance. Start from scratch, you know? Love should be part of the baking process, shouldn't it? And I don't want to wait a million years for you to enjoy my warm, delicious cookie goodness."
Barely able to speak around the love flooding his being, Angel whispered, "Betty Crocker must adore you."
"But do you? I mean... enough to... I'd understand if you're not interested," Buffy offered.
He drew her in and gave his reply in the form of a long, deep, tender kiss.
When she pulled away, Buffy looked a little dazed. "So was that a 'yes, I'm interested' or a 'I'd rather kiss you than answer that question'?" she murmured.
Angel brushed the tip of his nose to hers. "What do you think?"
The same hope he was feeling caught in Buffy's long-neglected heart and forced a brilliant smile to her lips. "I'm not sure. Maybe you should tell me again."
And with a soft laugh that soothed her aching soul, he did. And this time, there was no room for doubt.
~
The End
Stay tuned for the sequel, The Last Cut is the Deepest, COMING SOON!
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