Lines from The Zeppo belong to their author. No copyright infringement intended.
Setting: The middle and after the BTVS season three ep, The Zeppo.
Summary: What the hell were Angel and Buffy arguing about anyway? My little idea.
Pairing: b/a
Rated PG
Written for Leni's b/a ficathon for Yseult. Hope you like it!
Buffy whirls on me, her body trembling, her words harsh and loud.
"I don't know what to do!"
I pace, answering. "Then let me decide for you. I can face this thing."
She shakes her head vehemently. "You can't."
"Look, I- I can at least buy you enough time for Willow's spell to bind it," I say, my eyes burning from the effort not to allow emotion into the discussion. She's not having it.
I stammer quickly before she can answer. "Buffy, this is worse than anything we've ever faced. It's the only way."
Her voice cracks, and tears spill down her cheeks. "I can't watch you die again."
My dead heart shatters into a million pieces at the look on her face. I approach her, and lift my hand to her face, caressing it gently.
"I love you," I whisper softly to her. My own tears start to fall now.
"I love you," she insists, taking my hand.
"Nothing can change that. Not even death," I tell her, and she jerks away from me, flinging my hand down.
"Don't talk to me like that! You may be ready to go, but I am not ready to lose you. Okay, this is my fight, and if you won't do it my way, then you're…"
Someone clears their throat, and we both turn in surprise to see Xander standing at the edge of the massive curtain by the garden entrance. We gape at him like fish; I didn't even hear him coming.
Distracted much?
"Hey. I've got this, um…there's this, uh…"
Buffy stares at him, raising her eyebrows expectantly. He coughs, embarassed.
"It's probably a bad time."
Not the brightest banana in the bunch, Harris.
He turns to go, but turns back around, a polite question on his lips. "Can I help?"
We both shake our heads wordlessly, and he shrugs. "Okay."
And he's gone.
*
Two days later, and I'm lying in bed, listening to the crickets chirp, and the water burble from the fountain in the garden. The large lump on my head is healing, and the effects from the concussion are mostly gone. My hands are behind my head, and I drowse in the comfort of my room, covers to my waist.
Never underestimate the pleasure of clean sheets and a vanilla candle or two.
A tingling hits the base of my spine, and I jump up, pulling on pajama pants hastily. I am seemingly lounging about innocently on top of the hastily made bed, reading a book as she enters, carrying flowers in the arm that's not in a sling.
"Hey!" she says brightly, almost too brightly. I can sense the undercurrent of worry and hesitation underneath her chipper demeanor.
"Brought you some daisies," she says, placing them on top of the dresser, in place of the non existant mirror. She arranges them artfully, playing with the stems, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. I want to kiss it so badly that I'm halfway to her before I realize what I'm doing.
"You like?" she says, and I nod as I sit back down on the bed, book over my lap. She has a strong effect on me. On my mind and and my body.
"So, how are you feeling? How's your lump?" she sits next to me on the bed, and I should be scooting away from her but I don't want to. So I don't. She touches my head gingerly with one finger, and a hiss of pain escapes me. She jerks her hand back like she's been scalded.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Angel," she says, a blush flaring it's way up her neck and cheeks. My eyes follow the flow of blood up her face, and I shake my head a bit to clear my mind.
"I'm fine, Buffy. You didn't hurt me," I tell her, and place my hand on her arm to stop her from getting up.
A zip like lightning shoots up my arm, and we gasp audibly together. She turns to me, and lays a hand on my bare chest, right over my unbeating heart.
"I thought if I stayed away from you, it would get easier," she whispers, and I cover her hand on my skin with my own. I will take any touch from Buffy I can get.
"It's harder," she adds hoarsely, the pitch of her voice dropping with the words. I nod in agreement. "That thing we fought, the opening of the Hellmouth…" she vacillates, lowering her head, not wanting to look me in the eye.
I don't move, waiting for her to finish. She lifts her head finally, and I groan at the hollow, distraught look in her eyes. I pull her to me. She burrows in the crook of my neck, and I wrap my arms around her back, and plant a kiss on the crown of her head.
"Let's just pretend, just for a minute, that it's day," I say softly. She murmurs a soft "Huh?" but I shush her, and continue.
"The sun's out, we're at the beach. You have on that blue striped bikini I saw you eyeing in the store the other day," I say, and she smiles slightly. "I've got a basket of food, chocolate, peanut butter-"
"Crunchy?" she says, rubbing her head against me. I nod.
"Definitely. And as many sandwiches as we can stuff down. It's a balmy spring day, and no one else is around. I lie next to you on the blanket you brought, and the radio's on, and the rays beat down on our bodies. I tell you how beautiful you are, and you smile and dare me to race you to the water. Well, of course I have to, and you let me catch you, knocking you into the surf at the edge of the water. And we sit there, together, laughing at nothing, and being together. And it's always like that," I finish.
"Always like that? Where? When?" she sniffles against me, and I tilt her chin up with my fingers.
"Not now. But someday. But I can guarantee you, Buffy, it's the best place on Earth to be."
"A beach?" she says, and I hold her at arms length so she can see my face.
"The beach where you and I are."
She crooks a smile at me, and I praise whatever gods are listening that I could put that little smile there, on her pained and frightfully tired face.
"Can there be a dog?" she asks.
"What kind?" I answer her.
"A border terrier. They're a lot cuter than Jack Russells," she says, and I pull her back into my arms.
"Like Benji?" I say, and she laughs against my chest as I lay down on the bed, with her cradled on top of my body. She wraps a leg around mine, and I wind my fingers in her hair, breathing in her fragrance.
"You've actually seen that movie? My god, will wonders never cease?"
I rub my free hand in lazy circles on her back, enjoying the feel of her heat against my coolness.
"Bad time in the seventies. Not something I'm proud of," I say in all seriousness. That gets her going, and her laughter echoes around the walls of the mansion, shaking me and the bed.
I snort with her, and my laugh rumbles deeply next to her feminine one.
Soon enough she's crying she's laughing so hard, and has to sit up, wiping the moisture from her eyes. I follow suit, the noise we're making howling off the sturdy brick that makes up the interior of the room.
"Stop…s-stop, Angel!" she pleads, her hands wrapped across her stomach, evidently sore from her laughter. I try to glare at her, but can't do it. "You started it, Buffy," I say, and pinch her side with my fingers.
She sobers instantly.
"You trying to start a tickle war?" she asks, deadly serious.
I back away, hands held palm up. "No, no, of course not, I'm sor-"
You cannot defeat the Slayer in a tickle war. Trust me.
*
We sit outside on the front lawn, food spread before us. I drink a glass of wine, and she wolfs down the peanut butter (crunchy) and Hershey bars I bought. She lies back, and sighs contentedly.
"It's not the beach, but it'll do," she murmurs, arms crossed behind her head.
I open my mouth to speak of the Hell beast and the events that had just occurred, but she looks at me, and I shut it.
I'm not bringing it up if she won't.
I'm not going to be responsible for making her cry one more time.
I'm not going to make her hate me.
I'm not going to leave her alone again.
I'm not goint to hurt her.
I'm not going to hurt her.
I'm not going to hurt her.
"Angel?" she says softly, and I answer. "Hmmm?"
"Thanks."
"For what, Buffy?"
She smiles at me, and rolls to her side. "For the picnic. And the green beach," she says, indicating the lawn. "I know I don't have the bikini, but you'll just have to imagine it."
Believe me, I already have.
"Anytime. You name it," I say, and she touches a hand to my hair, and I curl up next to her, pulling her back against me.
We lie together. I stroke her hair, and she's almost asleep when I hear her mumble.
"Won't watch you die again."
I nuzzle her neck, and plant a soft kiss there. She squirms back against me, and sighs.
"You won't have to. I promise," I tell her.
This is one promise I plan to keep. Maybe not in this world, but someday.
