Marking Notches
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Rating: G
Summary: Angel doesn't know that Buffy counts numbers. But he has his own way of keeping track.
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to Counting Dawn. I think this one needs a little work so if anyone actually reads this, I'd appreciate a constructive criticism.
Dawn was coming. Angel could feel it in his bones, a holdover from before his redemption, from his vampire days. He hid his smile in Buffy's golden hair, a reflex of secrecy that was another anachronism.
He slid out of bed quietly, knowing it wouldn't wake his beloved Slayer. She was notoriously an anti-morning militant. It was another notch, he thought, that she let him rouse her out of bed into half-wakefulness and then attempted to watch with him the coming light that slowly filled the sky with gold and amber and liquid copper.
He counted his notches.
Under the tight wrapping on the handle of his favorite katana, the old, battle-worn one, there were miniscule slits from the advent of its matching wakizashi, slits he could no longer see with his human eyes. He knew they were there though. When the nights turned to dying, he used come inside into his sanctuary, strip down and slide the wakizashi against his skin to coat it in his own blood. Then he would unwrap the katana and mark every defeated enemy upon its hilt.
Every notch brought him closer to freedom, he hoped. He didn't pray. The closest he came to praying was rubbing his thumbs against the bare hilt as he studied the already memorized picture of Buffy that stood on his desk through every change in his undead life. Every new home. Every new desk. Every day.
Every morning he now unwrapped the katana, leaving the wakizashi in its spot on the wall, and rubbed his fingertips along the naked hilt. He watched Buffy as he did it and thought maybe every morning it would have been fitting to add another notch. But the katana no longer seemed like the proper receptacle for it.
He re-wrapped the weapon and set it back in its place. Walking softly on the plush carpeting, he approached the bed and leaned over Buffy. He pressed a kiss to her temple and gathered her into his arms.
As the tentative tendrils of light began to invade the velveteen black sheen of the sky, he settled the sleepy Buffy onto the porch swing and sat next to her, one arm slung around her shoulders in casual comfort.
Dawn broke and he thought this is what all those notches were worth. Quiet time, Buffy's head on his shoulder and the sun.
He kissed the top of her head and thought he loved her.
He thought he earned her. Earned this.
He hid another smile in her hair and was content.