"Dealing - Antique Love"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com

"Do you want me to wag my finger at you and tell you, you acted rashly? You did, and I can. But I know you loved him, and he has proven more than once that he loved you. You couldn't have known what would happen. The coming months are going to be very hard -- I suspect on all of us. But if you're looking for guilt, Buffy, I'm not your man. All you will have from me is my support... and my respect."
- Giles

Willow had gone in to see Buffy an hour ago. All she'd said was that it "hadn't gone as badly" as she'd feared. That gave Giles little comfort, and he admitted finally, to himself at least, that he was terrified to enter that bedroom, to face the girl he thought of as his daughter, and see nothing but a demon.

"Hey, G-man."

Giles didn't bother to chastise Xander this time. Just moved over on the small bench that sat in one of the Hyperion's many hallways, giving the boy room to join him. They sat in companionable silence for a few long minutes, until Xander started babbling about snack food, or some such nonsense, and Giles snapped.

"Was there something you wanted?"

Xander looked down at the floor nervously. "Have you seen her yet?"

"No," Giles answered shortly.

"Will did," Xander continued. "She said it went fine. No, she didn't say 'fine,' she said it hadn't--"

"Gone as badly as she'd feared, yes, so I've heard," Giles muttered.

"I don't think it's possible for it to go as bad as I'm fearing it will," Xander confided.

"Why do you say that?" Giles asked, glancing at Xander from the corner of his eye.

"Cause my worst case pretty much involves me treating her the way I treated Angel after Jenny, and there's no way I can do that to Buff."

"Yes," Giles murmured in agreement, briefly flashing back to holding a crossbow to an obviously depressed Angel's chest a day or so before Christmas...

"I'm scared I'll look at her and all I'll see is Anya," Xander continued, more to himself than to Giles, "that all I'll think is 'I'll never kiss Anya again,' and 'Anya will never embarrass me in public again,' and that it's all Buffy's fault. Giles... I'm scared I'll =say= that to her."

Xander's frightened gaze turned to Giles', and he wished to God that he had the words to calm the boy's fears.

"So am I," Giles whispered.

And with that, they lapsed back into silence.

The door made what was to Giles' ears an atrociously loud creaking noise as he opened it.

Inside Angel's bedroom there was no light. Windows were blocked against the coming dawn, even though there was several hours of darkness left yet. Giles left the door open, the bright chandeliers from the hallway giving him enough light to see well enough not to go bumping into things.

Buffy's form was clearly visible on the bed, curled into a near fetal position, blankets pulled all the way up to her blonde head, as though fighting off an imaginary chill. Her appearance was one of deep slumber, and Giles thought it slightly odd that she was sleeping again so soon. Of course, she'd spent most of the past two days sequestered away in this room, unable -- or afraid -- to face them.

Angel was the only one who saw her for the first day, and at the time, Giles had thought that for the best. If any of them could understand what she was feeling, what the best thing to say and do for her was, it would be the =other= souled vampire on the premises. Feeling as he had been all day, however, as though he'd abandoned his slayer when the going got tough, Giles was beginning to wonder if Angel's orders had been the wisest after all.

The bureau in the corner was overflowing with clothes, and Giles moved to it, giving his nervous hands something to do -- he began folding pajama sets, sweaters, jeans, tank tops, and slacks that the girls must have picked up when they went shopping. It was good of them to think of it, Buffy needing clothes. It was something he certainly hadn't thought of.

When he reached her undergarments, Giles turned away quickly. He would die for her, live away from England for the rest of his natural life, even eat those disgusting things Xander referred to as 'sno balls' if she asked him to -- but he would =not= fold her underwear.

"They don't bite, you know."

He spun around quickly, more disconcerted than he cared to admit to find Buffy's hazel eyes staring at him. There was no confusion in her gaze, no fogginess. Buffy hadn't been sleeping, and Giles wanted to ask her why she'd bothered to pretend at all.

Here was his moment, then. As he looked into her eyes, this was his true test as her Watcher. He had taken a sacred oath, that should something like this ever happen to her, he would stake her the moment she became a threat. Unable to, unwilling to, he'd shirked his responsibilities to the demon who'd loved her, possibly more than Giles himself did.

Watchers weren't supposed to become emotionally attached to their charges. That was why he'd been fired, and that was why, no matter the cost to the world, that he was totally unable to plunge a stake through her heart.

And as he looked into her terribly sad, lonely eyes now, he wondered how on earth he'd ever imagined he could hate her.

"Yes, well, I'd just as soon not go pawing through them, thank you," he said at last. "People talk enough about the young girl always hanging around the dapper English gentleman old enough to be her father. No use adding fuel to the fire."

"That's okay," Buffy said quietly, "I like my men to have had at least one bicentennial, anyway. You're just too young for me, Giles."

"I'm sure Angel will be quite relieved," he assured her, moving closer to the bed. He stood by it, looking down at her, and she'd never looked more like a scared child than she did when she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"You and Angel... you're getting along?"

"Quite well, actually," Giles confirmed.

"You're not... mad at him anymore?"

What she was trying to say became clear to Giles, and he knelt down on the ground, brought a hand up and gently brushed the hair from her face.

"I'm not mad at him," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eye, "I respect him, and consider him a trusted friend and ally."

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. "And you still love him as much as you ever did?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The bark of laughter Giles let out was something he couldn't have contained if the world had truly depended on it. Given their lives, that possibility wasn't as absurd as it seemed.

"My darling girl," Giles murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Giles," she whispered, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt, "please... please... tell me..."

"What?"

"I don't know," she whimpered.

Giles put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close and began gently rocking her as he patted her back, the gesture only mildly awkward. Despite all they'd been through, Giles still wasn't entirely comfortable with physical displays of affection. Buffy, however, depended on them, and right now, he'd give her anything she needed.

"Everything will be all right, Buffy. It'll all work out as it's meant to in the end."

"Why didn't the Watchers give fuller accounts of it? The journals just stop..."

"I suppose if they were anything like me, previous Watchers just found the topic too..."

"Unseemly? Damn. Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."

"Painful. I was going to say."

"I've been letting things fester. And I don't like it. I want to be fester free..."
- Willow

"Cordelia and I went shopping yesterday. We bought you some pajamas and sweaters. Angel said to get you anything you might need, so we did. I got some of that Stilla lipstick you love, you know, the -- the Robin ...

"Oh, and you wouldn't believe how Faith is being. All 'Ooo, I'm the slayer now, I'm having dreams, aren't I cool?' And Wesley is being really sweet to her, which is big of him, considering how she almost tortured him to death. Did he tell you about that? Oh, I guess he wouldn't have, considering you guys never really talked, and then since you've been in L.A....

"That guy, Gunn, who works for Angel is really nice. Totally gone on Cordelia, which, I know, is like -- =Cordelia=? But she's different now. I mean, she's still the same old Cordy, only nicer. And she's psycho-protective of Angel, but in a different way than you were psycho-protective of him. I think that maybe we're becoming friends, real friends, instead of forced friends like we were before. Not me and Angel, but me and Cordy.

"Not that Angel and I aren't getting along! Because, I mean, we are, we totally are. But we always kind of did. I always thought of Angel as a friend, not just as your Angel, but kind of like our Angel, not like Xander is our Xander, but... maybe more like Giles, actually. Angel's been great to talk to, actually, he helped me see some stuff about you, and . . . I mean, he helped me to understand... you understand why we weren't going to curse you, right? Are you mad about that? Oh, God, never mind, I shouldn't have even asked!

"Here, I got you some silk ones, and some cotton ones. I got lavender, because you always liked lavender, and pink cotton ones with little cappuccino cups on them, cause, you know, foamy-goodness, and I got these, they're supposed to be periwinkle, but I think they're just light blue, although I guess that's sort of periwinkle... right?"

"Thank you."

Willow deflated like a balloon. Thank you? All she was getting was a thank you? And a sullen, withdrawn one at that, while Buffy kept her gaze cast downward, huddled on Angel's bed in one of his dark, 'I am the shadow' shirts and a pair of sweatpants, picking at the button on one of the many pairs of pajamas she'd just been given.

"You're welcome," Willow said quietly, subdued. Granted, she hadn't been Casual Girl since she came into the room, but at least she was =trying=. And here Buffy was, not even looking at her--

"Do you hate me?"

"No!" Willow approached the bed finally, sat down on the edge, wincing when Buffy looked cornered and scared. "No," she repeated again, vehemently.

Tears were coursing down Buffy's cheeks, and there was a hitch to her voice when she spoke.

"Because I wouldn't blame you if you did," she whispered. "I hate me, and I have to live with me. You get to do a drive-by loathing. Hit and run."

"You're my best friend," Willow finally sobbed, tears leaking from her own eyes as she moved closer to Buffy, gripped the both of her hands tightly.

"I hurt you," Buffy whispered, "I hurt you all so much... you guys are my family, and I..."

"It wasn't you," Willow protested weakly.

"Yes it was," Buffy insisted, her eyes wide, "it was me, it was. I can remember everything I felt, why I did the things that I did... Will, it was me, and I can't..."

"Well, then, okay, it was you, and... and I forgive you. So there." The words were filled with bravado, but when she looked deep inside herself, Willow saw the truth in them. This was Buffy, who'd saved them all a thousand times, who would have given her life for any one of them. This was her friend, and Willow forgave her.

"You can't," Buffy began.

"But I do," Willow interrupted, her tone firm. "And it doesn't get to be your decision, Buffy Anne Summers."

"I love you, Will," Buffy whispered. "I don't deserve you."

"I think you do," Willow disagreed easily, "but I won't argue with you about it right now." She looked down at the blanket for a moment, then back to Buffy. "I'm still hurt," she began hesitantly.

"I know things aren't right yet," Buffy said quickly. "And I know that they'll never be the same again." Her gaze was drawn to what Willow assumed was the pint of blood Angel had told them Buffy had refused to drink. Beside it, sat a pale white rose. "They can't be," she added under her breath. "But, Will, I'll do anything -- =anything= -- to make it up to you."

Willow squirmed a little, really not wanting to do this, but if they had any chance, total honesty was a must...

"Buffy, nothing you do is ever going to make this up to me," she said softly.

The stricken look in Buffy's eyes prompted her to continue quickly.

"Tara was inside my heart," she continued, "so deep inside that I can't get her out, even though she's not with me anymore. It's like Oz. I think that maybe it's just how I'm built. Once someone's in here, they're stuck with me for life."

"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered.

"Don't," Willow said kindly, "I don't want you to apologize. I don't want that. I just & I want you to understand why you can't make it up to me. It's not like spilling wine on my favorite sweater."

"I knew you were still pissed about that," Buffy muttered, then covered her mouth in horror.

Willow, however, laughed softly. "See, it's okay," she said soothingly. "We'll be okay, Buffy."

Gradually letting her hand fall back to the bed, Buffy looked nervous about something. Finally, she met Willow's gaze again and smiled slightly.

"Tell me more about Tara?"

Vivid, sudden images flashed through Willow's mind, of being held all night long, of full, soft lips pressing between her shoulder blades, those same lips calming and loving against her own, her forehead, strong, capable hands holding her face, brushing away her tears, a voice softly telling Willow stories to put her to sleep...

"She saved me," Willow confessed quietly. "After Oz left, I thought I'd never be able to love anyone again. I thought that I'd had my shot at true love, and he'd left me for my own darn good. And then I met Tara. And she showed me places I'd never seen before. Being with her, loving her, made me realize that Oz wasn't my whole world. That no one could be my whole world, because there was too much of me for anything to be that narrow."

"I'm so glad you had her," Buffy said. "I'm so glad you found that."

"Wasn't Riley like that for you?" Willow asked without thinking.

Buffy looked at her sadly, and shook her head. "No," she said, very quietly, and Willow winced.

"Buffy, I'm sorry," Willow said, wanting to kick herself.

"Why, because I sucked Riley dry, left him in a cemetery, and moved on to Mom and Dawn?" Buffy shook her head. "=You= have nothing to be sorry for."

"It was so stupid of me to have brought it up," Willow insisted. Stupid, stupid -- hadn't Angel asked them all to go easy on her for awhile? Hadn't he specifically said NOT to mention any of the people Buffy had killed unless she brought them up first?

"Thank you for the clothes," Buffy said, subdued again. "I'm really tired, Will. I'd like to..."

"I could ask Angel to come back," Willow said hopefully.

"I'd like to be alone," Buffy said, her gaze once again focused on the container of blood on Angel's nightstand.

"Okay," Willow said quietly, gathering up the clothes she'd bought and plopping them in the drawers Angel had cleared for Buffy in his bureau.

"I'll just..." Willow sighed, realized Buffy couldn't even hear her, and shut the door as she left the room.

"Leave you alone," she finished in the empty hallway.

"Well. He's a fool. He's just a big, dumb jerk person if you ask me. And, I mean, he's a super-maxi-jerk to do it right before the prom."

"That's not his fault. He's 243 years old. He doesn't get the prom."

"But he should. If he--"

"Will, it's okay. You don't have to make him the bad guy."

"But -- that's the best friend's job. Vilifying and grousing."

"Sometimes I envy you so much it chokes me. And then sometimes I think I've got the better deal. To be that close to her and not have her ... To be all alone even when you're holding her, feeling her, feeling her beneath you, surrounding you, the scent of -- no, you know what, you've got the better deal."
- Spike

"Hey, when he gets back, tell your watchdog he's slipping."

Buffy's eyes widened, and Spike got a kick out of it.

"Spike?!"

His gaze ran over her body appreciatively. She was sitting on top of the covers, wearing a pair of rose colored pajamas that -- in his estimation -- were way too baggy. The slayer looked shaggable all covered in demon goo, but put her in one of those fetching little tank tops with those leopard print pants of hers--

"What are you doing here? What part of me beating you unconscious is failing to grasp your attention?"

"Do you know how hard it was to get in here?" Spike asked, completely ignoring her snarky remarks. "Peaches has been militant about you the last four days; won't let anyone he thinks will upset you in. Only reason I got around him is 'cause Xander wanted to show him something."

"Xander wanted to show Angel something?" she asked, choking on her words a little. "It wasn't a sharp, pointy, wooden something, right?"

"Nah, the two poufs are getting on like old mates lately." Spike rolled his eyes. It was disgusting, watching the two of them share a laugh, or a sympathetic glance. The very second they realized what they were doing, they froze, and the mood of friendship was broken, and it went back to being wary-not-quite-hostility. It was better than watching the bleedin' news reports that interrupted Passions, though, so Spike kept his thoughts to himself.

"I'll have to talk to Xander about that," Buffy murmured absently.

"Yeah, assuming he'll talk to you," Spike said cheerily.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Just that he's having the hardest time with the whole thing. You turning evil and all." Spike shrugged. "Don't get the hang-up, myself, but he's been moping around more than the rest of 'em, like you done something to him personal, besides, you know, whacking his girlfriend."

"You're the most vile thing on this earth," she said seriously, then grimaced.

"Except, of course, for me.

"Oh, hey now, don't be so rough on yourself," Spike insisted. "So you went a little evil there for awhile. Got it good and out of your system, didn't you? You were always pretty uptight, Summers. Maybe you needed this."

"Are you making money as a motivational speaker on the side, Spike?" she asked snidely.

"Fine. You don't want my help--"

"I've =never= wanted your help, not even when I paid for it--"

"I'll just get out of your hair, then!" He turned to leave.

"Good riddance," she called sweetly.

"No, you know what, I'm not going yet, not until you bloody listen to me."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "What exactly is it I've been doing for the last ten minutes?"

"You know what absolutely bloody =galls= me, slayer?" he asked, once again ignoring her.

"What?"

"That some two-bit pot-head got to you first."

Her entire body froze up. Showing more drive than she had in the last two days, she sprung up from bed, stalked over to Spike, and slammed him against the wall; held him there by his throat.

"Come again," she said, her tone filled with steel.

"Some idiot vamp got lucky, just like I said they would. Had himself a real good day. Caught you in one of your mopey, woe-is-me, no man loves me enough to stay moods and took you out of this world, then brought you back. Probably thought he'd make a place for himself in the vampire hall of fame, turning a slayer--"

Abruptly, she turned from him, let him fall to the floor. There had been a look on her face, though, a look Spike had caught because he always noticed those things, the subtle, hidden secrets people didn't want others to know.

"Just go," she said tightly.

He thought about pursuing the topic, but she was already sawed off at him, and given her current mental state, he wouldn't put it past her to dust him with a chair leg.

"I been taking care of Red for you," he said at last. "Watching out for her, making sure she doesn't fly off the deep end. I even made sure she was eating right."

She still didn't turn around, but he watched as she wrapped her arms around her middle.

"I did it for you," he added, as though it would matter. It didn't, of course, and somewhere inside him he knew it. That didn't mean he could just stop trying, though. He loved the bird, didn't he? He was obsessed with her, and you didn't just give up on obsession because it was hopeless.

"Thanks," she said finally, but from her tone, she was a million miles away. He could have been the other girl, the cheerleader, for all Buffy knew right now.

"Yeah," he muttered, heading out the door, "pat Spike on the head but heaven forbid you tell him he's a good dog..."

He'd go see if the little witch was all right; make sure her confrontation with the slayer a couple of days before wasn't still bothering her. Then he'd go find a quiet corner to smoke in.

God knew Angel would have his head if he so much as thought about lighting up around the bloody humans.

"Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace... Part of you is desperate to know ... What's it like? Where does it lead you? That's also a warrior's question. A warrior's curiosity. The only reason you've lasted as long as you have is, you've got ties to the world. Your Mum. Brat kid sister. Scoobies. They tie you here but you're just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it and the second, the =second= that happens, I pray to God I'm there. I'll slip in -- have myself a real good day."

"I know what it's like. You think you matter -- you think you're part of something, and you get dumped. It's like the whole world is moving -- but you're stuck. Like those animals in the tar pits? You're sinking a little deeper every day, and nobody even sees... "
- Faith

"You're not helping her," Faith told him flatly.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Angel said coldly.

"I don't know," Faith muttered, almost laughing. "That's rich. Angel, the King of Pain is the only one who gets this, right? Bullshit. You can't coddle her, Angel. You can't protect her from what she's done, and you of =all= people should know that."

"I'm not trying to protect her from it," he said quietly, and Faith paused for a moment.

Giles had gone back in to see Buffy a few times, but none of the others, besides Angel, had been into a return trip. Not even Spike. Faith had been dreading her eventual confrontation with the other slayer. Angel had been like Captain Courageous, protecting the poor, innocent girl from her moustache twirling friends. In Faith's book, that wasn't doing Buffy any good.

Tracking Angel down to the kitchen, confronting him while he made everyone dinner -- maybe that wasn't the nicest thing she could have done, but it was the only thing she could think of. B had to get better. Faith felt like she owed it to the other girl to help her.

"So what's your deal, then?" Faith asked finally.

Angel opened one of the ovens, put several pans of chicken and something that smelled good in to bake. He turned to Faith and looked at her for a minute in that penetrating way he had that always made Faith feel naked, but =not= in a good, sexual way. In an exposed, he-can-see-all-the-dirty-parts-and-they-don't-scare-him way.

"I know exactly what she's going through right now," Angel said, and Faith thought she detected a tinge of anger in his tone. "I may have had to remember a hundred and forty odd years of it, but it's the same, at its most basic level. She remembers perpetuating evil, and =liking= it." He shook his head. "That's the worst part, you know. Remembering how much you liked it."

"Yeah," Faith agreed, folding her arms over her chest. That really was the worst part. Thinking about how you got off on someone else's pain. "You didn't treat me like some delicate flower," Faith insisted.

"Because you wouldn't have tolerated it," Angel countered. "You're different people, Faith. Not better or worse -- just different. I'm not going to handle Buffy the same way I handled you."

"Are you sure this isn't just because you love her the way you do? Cause man, the way you've always been with her, you'd cut off a limb before you'd hurt her. And... getting to the meat of all this... it's going to hurt her."

"You act out," Angel said, pacing across the kitchen, "Buffy folds in on herself. You strike, she huddles. Right now, Buffy has closed in on herself in a big way. What I need to do is reinforce to her that I'm there, so that when bottling up doesn't work for her anymore, she'll act out =at me=, and then maybe I'll have a chance at helping her."

"You passive aggressive bastard," she said with appreciation in her voice.

"I know Buffy," he said quietly, turning back to the stove where he started peeling a few potatoes.

Faith thought that maybe he did. But she knew her too. You didn't spend all that time out in graveyards with someone and not get to know them.

And Faith had a few things she wanted to say to Buffy the Vampire.

"Hey."

Buffy looked at her from her place on the bed, took long, measuring glances until Faith felt her skin starting to crawl.

"Hey," Buffy said at last, going back to reading.

"What's that?" Faith asked, stepping further into the room.

"My diary."

Faith winced, but Buffy wasn't looking at her so she missed it. Thank God for small miracles, Faith thought grimly. If Buffy found out they'd all been reading it like pulp fiction, she'd probably go nuts and beat them all unconscious.

"Giles told me how Spike was reading it aloud," Buffy continued, and Faith nearly bolted from the room right then. "It was smart of Will to think of that. It might have helped you kill me."

"I've been having the dreams," Faith blurted out, then cursed herself silently. That wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.

"You're the slayer," Buffy said calmly. "The one and only, if what Giles has been telling me is true."

"It's just a theory," Faith said lamely.

"A good one," Buffy insisted. "Congratulations. I hope you do the job the way I always believed you could."

"I'm sorry," Faith said, and once again, that hadn't been what she'd intended to say. "I really am sorry, B."

Buffy looked confused. "Are you apologizing to me?"

"Yeah, I was hoping you'd gotten over that 'I will beat you to death,' thing," Faith said, trying to smile.

"Faith, you killed a man," Buffy said carefully. "You stole my body, slept with my boyfriend, tried to kill Angel..."

"I know all this," Faith began, feeling the helpless rage build up again.

Buffy leapt off the bed, and stalked up to Faith, got right in her face. "I remember what my mother tasted like," she said clearly, right in her face. "You do not have to apologize to me ever again."

That said, she turned and climbed back into bed, set her diary aside, and pulled one of the pillows against her chest, hugging it tightly.

Faith, having run out of words for once, quietly left the room.

"You're all about control. You got no idea what it's like on the other side, where nothing is in control, nothing makes sense. There's just pain, and hate, and nothing you do means anything... and you can't ... even..."

"Shut up."

"Tell me how to make it better."

"Willow... she told me to tell you..."
"Tell me what?"
"Kick his ass."
- Xander & Buffy

Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. What had he spent all that time doing? There was the moping, sure. And Cordelia and Gunn had taken him out on one of those dates they didn't have to call dates so long as there was a third party accompanying them. He'd talked Will down from a metaphorical ledge after she had her encounter with Buffy. Guilty didn't begin to describe how she felt for bringing Riley up.

Xander knew he was going to triple her guilt quota with his own. He could be such an ass when he was hurt and scared, and dealing with vamp Buffy -- even souled vamp Buffy -- was about the most hurt, scared, and angry he'd ever been. Add angry to the mix and no one was safe, not from Xander Harris, King of Cretins.

"Are you going to pace out here all day, or do you want to go see her?"

Jumping, Xander glared at Angel. "I am =so= gonna tie a little bell around your neck," he said warningly.

"I'm sure she'd like to see you," Angel told him quietly.

"Yeah. But not after I actually see her." Xander grimaced. "You know what I mean."

"It won't be like it was with me," Angel offered.

"Says who?" Xander snapped, noticing for the first time the small tray Angel carried. "You only killed Jenny. It hurt Giles more than it did me. Anya was..." Xander stopped himself. He had no words for what Anya had been to him.

"You never liked me," Angel insisted. "We had issues that extended far beyond the vampire thing."

"Buffy loved you," Xander agreed.

"Just go see her, Xander," Angel suggested softly. "I'll go in with you."

With a sigh of resignation, Xander held the door open and let Angel precede him. Buffy wasn't on the bed, and Xander started glancing around the room, trying to find her.

"Probably in the shower," Angel told him without turning around. He exchanged the tray beside the bed for the one he held. Walking to the door, he knocked once, firmly.

A few moments later, Buffy emerged, her hair damp, wearing a pair of light blue pajamas.

"You have a visitor," Angel told her gently, and her gaze moved to Xander, where he stood by the door, ready to bolt.

Great job at being comforting, he thought morosely.

"Hi," she said, and Xander wondered if she knew she looked like she was about to burst into tears at any moment.

"It'll be dawn in an hour," Angel said as he left the room. "Xander, when you're done, talk to Willow and Wesley, they're out in the garden, ask them when they'd like breakfast."

"Alone at last," Xander commented nervously.

Buffy's eyebrows were drawn together. "Everyone keeps visiting at weird times," she said slowly. "I know why I'm not wandering around during the day... but why is everyone else..."

"We haven't been keeping normal schedules since..." He trailed off, assuming she was bright enough to piece that together.  "Angel's been really...good. About keeping us fed."

"Yeah, he's good at making sure you're... fed," Buffy agreed, looking uncomfortable as she abruptly turned and began pacing the floor. "When did you and Angel get all buddy, buddy, anyway?"

"We're not," Xander disagreed immediately, then stopped himself. They =had= been slowly working toward a wary peace, and he supposed they'd had some good conversations lately... "When we got here, he didn't act like we had no right. He just let us stay, let us into his life and helped in whatever
way he could." Xander shrugged. "He kinda... grows on you."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, and she looked like she was remembering something good. "I didn't like him at first either," she shared ruefully. "But then I really, =really= liked him."

"So don't need the visuals," Xander assured her.

"I don't know how to apologize to you," Buffy said abruptly.

"'I'm sorry, Xander,' is probably what I'd go with." He tried for flippant, but he feared it came out angry.

"'I'm sorry' seems like a slap in the face after what I did," Buffy confessed. "Or maybe a knee in the groin."

"Are you?" Xander asked, surprising himself with the question.

"Am I what?"

"Sorry."

Now it was her turn to look horrified. "Xander, how can you even... of =course= I'm sorry! I... you'll never know =how= sorry . . ."

"Yeah, I just... I needed to hear it. I'm sorry. For needing to."

He shook his head and started pacing the room. It didn't seem right, her having to say she was sorry when he never had. There were a lot of things he should apologize to her for. The thing with Angel and Acathla -- he wasn't sorry he'd done it. Even given hindsight, he'd do it again, not tell her about Willow trying the curse. Buffy was blind when it came to Angel, and Evil Angel would have used that. If he'd felt her trying to stall him, he probably would have killed her.

He couldn't apologize to her for that, though. Willow said they both knew, and had forgiven him already. The other things, the way he'd been about Angel, about her leaving that summer... those things he didn't feel he could apologize for, either. He was sorry he'd hurt her, but he still firmly believed she'd been selfish the way she'd handled things.

The anger itself wasn't the problem; it was the way he'd handled it. That was something he'd come to terms with over the years. All part of growing up, growing into your own skin, he supposed. But now he was expected to look at Buffy, and see nothing but his friend, and forget what she'd done to Anya?

No, he argued with himself. That's something he'd been doing a lot of, ever since he got split into two. It's not about forgetting, he thought. It's about forgiving. Forgiveness would be easy if you could really forget whatever sin had occurred -- but it would be meaningless. The real meaning of forgiveness occurred in remembering all the bad, and wanting someone in your life anyway.

"I loved you for a long time, Buff," Xander said quietly.

Buffy winced, looked awkward. "I... I know."

"I think that's what's hardest to deal with," he added. "The way I loved you... with all my young, naïve boy's heart. It's different, separate from how I love you now. Like a sister, or a fellow soldier."

There were tears in her eyes. "Xander, you don't know how many times I wished I could have loved you back the way you wanted me to. I think my life would have been so much easier..."

"Yeah, but... maybe not better," Xander said gently. "Easier doesn't mean better." He shut his eyes for a moment, and prepared to say one of the hardest things he'd ever had to. "I never could have loved you like he does," Xander said finally, feeling no need to explain who 'he' was. There had only been one 'he' in Buffy's life that mattered, anyway, no matter what they'd all tried to pretend.

"Don't sell yourself so short," she said lightly.

But Xander, for the first time in his life, didn't want to be light. He wanted to be dead serious. He'd tried it out a few months back, after Riley left. He'd thought that was best for Buffy then. He always just wanted what was best for her, even now, after everything that had happened.

"It's got nothing to do with me," Xander countered, "it has to do with you. I can love someone as much as Angel loved you -- I loved Anya like that. But I could never love =you= that much. This is a major breakthrough for me, you know."

"I know," Buffy assured him, something like awe lighting her eyes.

"He's been through as much as any of us over the past couple of weeks," Xander continued. "And uh... that's all I can say about him that's nice at once, so I'll stop talking now."

Buffy approached him hesitantly, and when he saw what she was trying to do, he opened his arms wide and hugged her tightly.

"You finally grew into a man, Peter Pan," she whispered into his ear.

"Yeah," he agreed, thinking of Anya as he held Buffy, his next words meant for her as much as the blonde he currently held. "Thanks for your help, Wendy Lady."

"If what he needs from you just isn't there -- for God's sake, let him go. But if it is? If you can go deeper... Let him get to know that raw, unguarded heart you tried to put away... Maybe you'd better risk something too."

"I saw you before you became the slayer. I watched you, I saw you called. It was a bright afternoon, out in front of your school, you walked down the steps... and I loved you."
- Angel

In the late evening, he brought her roses, the color of faded antique lace.

Buffy never had the energy to rise before sundown. Angel did, and he often left her to sleep in the big bed she'd begun to think of as theirs. It seemed to be a given that they should share their lives, even if the curse that bound his soul to his body still, after all that had come before, prevented them from sharing their bodies. Of course she had a brand spankin' new curse of her own, so putting it all on him wasn't entirely fair anymore. Damn gypsies.

There had been an incident, several nights before, when she'd still been sullen from Spike's visit earlier in the day, which still brought a tear to Buffy's eye when she recalled it. They'd been reclining on the bed, and he'd been reading to her, something old, Dickens maybe. Whatever the novel, his voice had been low and soothing, lulling her to sleep like the lullabies her mother once sang to her as a little girl.

It was the thought of her mother that had done it, Buffy was sure now. Thinking of Joyce, or Dawn, or any of the others never failed to dredge the ever-present guilt to the surface, to make it raw and palpable again, choking her with the bitter taste of her crimes.

What she'd attempted that night had been cruel and insidious, more so, one could argue, than all the death she'd perpetuated soulless. For this she did with a ruthlessly silenced conscience.

Her arms crept around his shoulders, and she felt him tense, then relax. Touching each other hadn't really been big on their 'to do' lists. Both had been remembering times past, awkward goodnight hugs, stilted, worried pecks on the mouth. Desperate embraces were something other couples got to share. Forbidden lovers were gifted with intense stares from across too-wide distances, not late night snuggles.

But Buffy was starved for him, starved to feel something besides the unending, bitter regret that had permeated her mood from the moment her memories had cascaded over her. She was numb, unable to shed a tear or express a single moment of rage, save the times she was confronted with her crimes in the physical manifestation of her friends.  And so her hands had crept beneath the collar of his shirt, and her mouth had pressed small, loving kisses to the nape of his neck as she sought to lose herself in him.

The automatic stiffening of his muscles had begun to ease with gentle brushes of her lips, soft caresses of her hands. It had been so long since she'd made love to him, centuries, surely, since the night of her seventeenth birthday. Mindless sex didn't count, even the mind blowing kind they'd had as demons. It did nothing to stave off the ache that steadily built for him, in her heart, in her womb.

Turning in her arms, his own had crept around her, cradled her body against his until he'd pulled her into his lap. Big, rough hands had touched her everywhere above the satin of her pajamas. His tongue had swept against hers, made love to her mouth while his hands had sifted through her hair, blazed a trail along her back and pulled her closer still.

It was only when her hands finally crept too low, moved too dangerously that he had pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Buffy, we can't," he'd said sadly.

"Why not?" she'd asked sullenly. "It's not like there's any big danger."

His confusion had been clear, but she'd ruthlessly denied its existence at the time.

"I don't do it for you anymore, remember, Angel?" she'd said harshly. "I'm just a cold, dead thing. No living warmth for you to be drawn to, no sacred destiny for you to guard. There's nothing here for you anymore. You managed to nail Darla without saying adios to your soul, and you guys were a thing for what, this side of a century? I've got nothing to compete with that, so we should be good to go."

Buffy would have been ashamed of her actions, whatever the reaction from Angel. Then, she'd expected a burst of anger in return, or worse, stony silence followed by his hasty departure from the room. That was how they'd always handled their blowouts in the past -- one of them would leave until the other had cooled off, upon when they could have a rational conversation about their 'issues.'

Those being the only eventualities she'd prepared for, Buffy had been totally shocked to feel his palm press against her cheek; so shocked that, when he'd dropped a baby soft kiss onto her forehead and moved to pull her back into his embrace, she hadn't even struggled.

By the time her paralysis had worn off, her back had been spooned to his front, his arms had been wrapped around her, and his mouth had been moving softly against the side of her face as he quietly quoted sonnets from memory

"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body..."

The verse occurred to her now, because he was reciting it again, because she'd told him that she liked it. They were once again curled up on their bed, not his, not Angel's, theirs. He rested on his stomach, she on her back, and one of his arms rested unobtrusively over her middle, his hand gently rubbing her belly. His face was next to her ear, and his voice, whiskey-soft like liquid gravel filled her senses.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."

Suddenly, the intimacy of the moment was too much for her, his love, the words he spoke that so echoed her every feeling about this man beside her... what had she done to deserve this? This feeling of contentment, of belonging, it wasn't right. It should be harder than this, she deserved more pain, more punishment for what she'd done...

She hadn't even realized she'd leapt from the bed, began pacing and speaking her thoughts aloud until he was there again in front of her, gripping her arms, forcing her to look at him, shushing her in his liquid gravel tones.

Now, though, she could not be silenced.

"You treat me like I'm some kind of glass doll, like I'm precious to you, and I'm =filthy=, Angel," she hissed, stalking over to the bedside table, snatching up one of a half dozen roses he'd brought her from the garden outside. "Wesley plants these beautiful roses, you all take care of them, and you bring them to =me=?" Savagely, she hurled the rose at the wall, watching as a few of its petals fluttered to the ground behind it.

"I bring them to you because you need as much beauty in your life as possible right now."

Oh, that was so like him. Say the perfect thing and expect her to deflate. Well, that was the old Buffy. The pre-blood-drinking Buffy.

"Beauty?" she spat. "There is NO beauty in my life. There's nothing but pain, and rage, and betrayal. I'm =disgusting=, Angel. I'm worse than Spike, because at least he's got a good sense of humor about it. I can't keep doing this, I can't keep feeling like this--"

"Well guess what," he snapped, stalking over to her, grabbing her arms in a vise-like grip, "you have to. This is your life now, Buffy, this is your existence. You have to deal with it."

"How do I deal, Angel? Dealing implies acceptance, and I don't accept that this isn't some kind of really bad dream I'm going to wake up from."

"I promise you it's not," he said. His voice was cold, but there was such warmth for her in his eyes... the last of her control snapped, and she lashed out at him, beat against his chest with every word she shrieked.

"Don't you get it?! I hate being a vampire! I hate remembering what my mother TASTED like! I hate not being able to go out in the sun! I hate knowing that Willow and Xander are miserable BECAUSE OF ME! I hate that I'll never have a normal life! I hate that I can't make love to you! I hate that this pig's blood doesn't taste as good as Dawn's! I hate that I can tell the difference! And I hate the way you're looking at me right now." Her last sentence was delivered quietly as she collapsed in on herself, a tiny sob pulled from the depths of her very real, very beaten soul.

"How am I looking at you?" he whispered into her ear, one hand moving to cradle her head, the other running up and down her satin-clad back.

"Like you love me anyway," she whimpered. "Like I'm not ugly. Like I'm something worth fighting for."

"And you say you can never tell what I'm feeling just by looking at me," he chided softly.

She began to sob in earnest at that, dug her nails into the skin at the back of his neck, let him lift her until her face was pressed securely in the crook of his neck. Then they were back on the bed, and she curled her legs around his, pressed herself as close as she could get while she cried out a thousand hours of sorrow into the velvet coolness of his skin.

After she'd gained a semblance of control over her emotions, she looked up at him, found his eyes to be nothing but open and loving, and a little bit sad. The way he held her, so naturally, so carefully, gave her the courage to tell him something she wasn't sure she'd be able to tell anyone else.

"He wasn't going to turn me."

Angel shook his head a little. "I don't under--"

"The vamp that killed me. He was just going to drain me. I don't even think he knew I was the slayer. Isn't that just the saddest thing you've ever heard? A slayer being taken down by some idiot vamp who didn't even know she was the slayer?"

"Not the saddest thing," he said quietly, fingers stroking through her hair, against her scalp, eradicating the headache she hadn't even realized she'd developed.

Nothing had ever felt more right than lying in Angel's arms, and letting him listen to all the secrets she'd never thought she'd be able to say out loud.

"I was ready to go," she continued quietly, keeping her gaze on his. She wouldn't chicken out and look away. She'd face whatever scorn he felt for her head on. And maybe, just maybe, if he understood, she'd see that, too. "I was saying goodbye to Mom, and Dawn, and all the others . . . I was ready.

"But then all of a sudden, it hit me that this was it. I was going to die. No more me. And I grabbed his wrist, and I tore into it, and I drank from him. I didn't think about what I'd be coming back as, I didn't think about what I might do, I just... I had to live.

"So it's my fault. Everything that happened to Mommy and Dawn ...to Anya and Tara... all the others. =I= made myself what I am. With you, at least Darla was responsible... and then the second time, it was my fault..."

Angel seemed uncomfortable with the second part of her statement, so she didn't continue, but nor did she take it back. Buffy always had, and always would, she suspected, feel responsible for making Angel go away, for bringing forth the demon that lived so close to his skin.

"You try to resist," he began quietly, "because you know it's unnatural and wrong... but you can't. Because in the end, when you're staring at death, and it's opening its jaws to swallow you whole, you'll do anything -- kill, claw, scream -- =anything= to keep it from you.

"You're a survivor, Buffy, more so than any person I've ever known." He brought one of his hands to her face, began gently tracing over her forehead, her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw with the tips of his fingers. "You couldn't let go, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. You didn't want anyone to die, yourself included."

Her desperate hands clutched him even tighter, and she tried not to think about how badly she wished she could pull him on top of her, strip him naked and let him feel the vast, aching emptiness inside of her bones.

"Xander told me a long time ago that I hid myself away ever since you left," she whispered into his throat. "And I do, but I can't help it. I'm so scared of loving like I loved you again and being hurt. Left. I won't even let myself love you again, the way I did, and I feel like I've loved you my whole life, even before I knew you."

"I know," he answered after a moment, his arms and legs holding her tighter against him. And she thought that he really did know, that he'd been hurt just as much as she had when he'd had to leave. It didn't help the pain, but it made it a little easier to trust him.

And she did trust him. More than she used to.

How could you not trust the only thing in the world that made you feel safe?

"Buffy, this is worse than anything we've ever faced. It's the only way."

"I can't watch you die again."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Nothing can change that. Not even death."

The End

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