Even now, watching the sunlight flicker over his face, I still can't
believe that he's here. That the steady rise and fall of his chest is due
to necessity rather then decades of practice.
Lying here with my head pillowed in the space between his shoulder and neck, I can hear the comforting rhythm of his heart beat.
It feels so right, so natural, but so strange at the same time. Not really strange, just different.
His hair is growing out now, dark roots crowding the familiar platinum locks. He refuses to bleach it though, saying that he wants to try a different style. This coming from the same guy who wore black jeans for at least thirty years. Hell, they were probably the same exact pair, knowing him.
Which I don't, not really. At least I don't think I do.
I thought I knew exactly who he was. But that was before.
Before the First, before the soul, before Sunnydale, before.well, before everything. Before I pushed him to the breaking point and he finally snapped.
Even after he got the soul, I thought I still knew him. I thought I understood what was going on inside his head.
But I didn't. I know that now. I'll never tell him, though.
He'll never know that I'm scared.
Scared of pushing him away. Scared of losing him. Scared of shutting him out. Scared that I'm not good enough, that I'm not exactly what he wants.
I won't tell him, because he's happy now. At leas that's what he says. Not like he'd ever tell me otherwise.
Or would he? I don't know anymore.
We're so different now, the world of vampires and darkness seems like it was a lifetime ago. I wonder what he's going to say when I tell him the news. When I share my secret, the one I've been keeping for three days.
I wish I could tell him right now, but I want to wait for the right moment, the perfect moment.
It's so hard keeping this a secret from him, especially now, after all we've been through. After everything that he's been through.
My hand feels so heavy crushed beneath his shoulder, my arm pinned under his back. My ring finger is being cut in half, the platinum and diamond ring squeezing my skin in a vice-like grip. I can feel the skin pinching between the two bands and I wish I could move my hand to adjust them.
But that would wake him up. I'll never tell him how I have to shake the pins and needles out of my arm every morning in the shower, because I know how much he loves to sleep when we're wrapped up together.
I still can't believe how much he likes to sleep. I never thought about how different it must be to sleep at night after spending a hundred plus years napping through the day.
He still hates the sun though; I think he's afraid of getting burned. Or it's just habit. Which is still weird, because he's had ages to get used to it. Six months, in fact.
No, I'm wrong, it's been seven months. Seven months on Tuesday. I
forgot.
I always forget things like that.
Like our two month anniversary. Forgot all about that. He didn't though. Not like he would ever forget something like that. He remembers every little occasion, every date, every special day.
It's almost Christmas. And I'm definitely not going to forget that. I figure that'll be when I tell him, that's what I'm waiting for.
I wonder if it'll snow. We're in New York now, so it's possible. It's defiantly cold enough to snow, even though he says that if it's too cold it won't snow. But I'm still hoping.
It's been years since I walked outside in the snow, wet flakes sticking to my hair, my nose turning red. Was it four years ago? No, I'm wrong again, it was five. Back in California. But that was different, it wasn't Christmas snow, and it wasn't with him. So that day doesn't count, does it?
He's waking up now, I can tell. I wonder how many nights he held me like this and froze the instant he felt my body begin to wake, counting the minutes until I ran away. But that was before; I'm tired of running now.
I wish I could move further up the pillow, so I could look at his face. But I'm too comfortable here.
He looks so handsome when he sleeps.
I wonder what I did to deserve this; the new house, a second chance, him.
"Morning sweetheart."
I didn't even notice his eyes were open, but there they are, endless pools of blue. Not really blue, because that's such inadequate color to describe them, but I don't know what else to say. He's the one with all the words.
They're dark, almost black when he's angry, crystal and clear when he isn't. His eyes see the outside world, but inside them, I see him. I see his love for me and I see what a good man he is.
"Hey," I whisper, leaning up to kiss his cheek because my head is firmly wedged on its makeshift pillow. But he doesn't worry about such things. The arm wrapped around my waist pulls me up until I'm practically on top of him.
I hope I'm not crushing him. Now I'm convinced that he can read my mind because he's us turning over so that we're lying on our sides, our faces inches apart. I like this position better though, I love to see his eyes when he tells me.
"I love you."
I smile up at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me. That's his morning ritual; say good morning, tell me that he loves me and then he kisses me senseless.
Today's no exception. I can feel myself melting into him as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down my neck.
"What," he asks and I realize that I've been staring up at him. Shaking my head, I reply, "nothing, just thinking." His eyebrows come together but before he can say anything I continue. "I love you."
He smiles, that genuine grin that he reserves for just me. Some people have bedroom eyes, he has a bedroom smile. But that's just another reason why I love him.
I do love him, so much that sometimes it hurts. I wish I had told him before, but whenever I bring it up, he shrugs off my apologies, telling me to concentrate on the present.
He leans over again, kissing me with a passion I hadn't even dreamed of before I met him. When we finally break apart, I'm panting for air and he's grinning in that self-satisfied way, like he's still the Big Bad.
He is though, only now he's my Big Bad. No more vamps, no more Slayers. Just us, my love and I, together, forever.
Lying here with my head pillowed in the space between his shoulder and neck, I can hear the comforting rhythm of his heart beat.
It feels so right, so natural, but so strange at the same time. Not really strange, just different.
His hair is growing out now, dark roots crowding the familiar platinum locks. He refuses to bleach it though, saying that he wants to try a different style. This coming from the same guy who wore black jeans for at least thirty years. Hell, they were probably the same exact pair, knowing him.
Which I don't, not really. At least I don't think I do.
I thought I knew exactly who he was. But that was before.
Before the First, before the soul, before Sunnydale, before.well, before everything. Before I pushed him to the breaking point and he finally snapped.
Even after he got the soul, I thought I still knew him. I thought I understood what was going on inside his head.
But I didn't. I know that now. I'll never tell him, though.
He'll never know that I'm scared.
Scared of pushing him away. Scared of losing him. Scared of shutting him out. Scared that I'm not good enough, that I'm not exactly what he wants.
I won't tell him, because he's happy now. At leas that's what he says. Not like he'd ever tell me otherwise.
Or would he? I don't know anymore.
We're so different now, the world of vampires and darkness seems like it was a lifetime ago. I wonder what he's going to say when I tell him the news. When I share my secret, the one I've been keeping for three days.
I wish I could tell him right now, but I want to wait for the right moment, the perfect moment.
It's so hard keeping this a secret from him, especially now, after all we've been through. After everything that he's been through.
My hand feels so heavy crushed beneath his shoulder, my arm pinned under his back. My ring finger is being cut in half, the platinum and diamond ring squeezing my skin in a vice-like grip. I can feel the skin pinching between the two bands and I wish I could move my hand to adjust them.
But that would wake him up. I'll never tell him how I have to shake the pins and needles out of my arm every morning in the shower, because I know how much he loves to sleep when we're wrapped up together.
I still can't believe how much he likes to sleep. I never thought about how different it must be to sleep at night after spending a hundred plus years napping through the day.
He still hates the sun though; I think he's afraid of getting burned. Or it's just habit. Which is still weird, because he's had ages to get used to it. Six months, in fact.
No, I'm wrong, it's been seven months. Seven months on Tuesday. I
forgot.
I always forget things like that.
Like our two month anniversary. Forgot all about that. He didn't though. Not like he would ever forget something like that. He remembers every little occasion, every date, every special day.
It's almost Christmas. And I'm definitely not going to forget that. I figure that'll be when I tell him, that's what I'm waiting for.
I wonder if it'll snow. We're in New York now, so it's possible. It's defiantly cold enough to snow, even though he says that if it's too cold it won't snow. But I'm still hoping.
It's been years since I walked outside in the snow, wet flakes sticking to my hair, my nose turning red. Was it four years ago? No, I'm wrong again, it was five. Back in California. But that was different, it wasn't Christmas snow, and it wasn't with him. So that day doesn't count, does it?
He's waking up now, I can tell. I wonder how many nights he held me like this and froze the instant he felt my body begin to wake, counting the minutes until I ran away. But that was before; I'm tired of running now.
I wish I could move further up the pillow, so I could look at his face. But I'm too comfortable here.
He looks so handsome when he sleeps.
I wonder what I did to deserve this; the new house, a second chance, him.
"Morning sweetheart."
I didn't even notice his eyes were open, but there they are, endless pools of blue. Not really blue, because that's such inadequate color to describe them, but I don't know what else to say. He's the one with all the words.
They're dark, almost black when he's angry, crystal and clear when he isn't. His eyes see the outside world, but inside them, I see him. I see his love for me and I see what a good man he is.
"Hey," I whisper, leaning up to kiss his cheek because my head is firmly wedged on its makeshift pillow. But he doesn't worry about such things. The arm wrapped around my waist pulls me up until I'm practically on top of him.
I hope I'm not crushing him. Now I'm convinced that he can read my mind because he's us turning over so that we're lying on our sides, our faces inches apart. I like this position better though, I love to see his eyes when he tells me.
"I love you."
I smile up at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me. That's his morning ritual; say good morning, tell me that he loves me and then he kisses me senseless.
Today's no exception. I can feel myself melting into him as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down my neck.
"What," he asks and I realize that I've been staring up at him. Shaking my head, I reply, "nothing, just thinking." His eyebrows come together but before he can say anything I continue. "I love you."
He smiles, that genuine grin that he reserves for just me. Some people have bedroom eyes, he has a bedroom smile. But that's just another reason why I love him.
I do love him, so much that sometimes it hurts. I wish I had told him before, but whenever I bring it up, he shrugs off my apologies, telling me to concentrate on the present.
He leans over again, kissing me with a passion I hadn't even dreamed of before I met him. When we finally break apart, I'm panting for air and he's grinning in that self-satisfied way, like he's still the Big Bad.
He is though, only now he's my Big Bad. No more vamps, no more Slayers. Just us, my love and I, together, forever.