"Golden Slumbers"
Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Lyrics belong to Lennon/McCartney ('cause the Beatles just
ROCK).
Notes: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday
dear Dru-u-u, Happy Birthday to-o-o-o-o, yo-o-ou. (And many mo-o-o-o-o-o-ore.)
Dedication: For Dru, of course, because I can't send her naked Angels
and Spikes live and in person (try though I might). Instead, I offer her my
humble words, and for making cry, am allowing her to drown me in the pool
today.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
"Happy Birthday, Buffy."
He was vaguely surprised when his soft, late afternoon murmur was greeted with Buffy's palm pressing itself against his mouth.
"Shoosh. Don't say it. Don't even think it."
"Bffee, ips mus woar bifd--"
"Don't even mumble it incoherently!" she implored, genuine distress showing in her eyes.
Angel pulled her hand from his mouth, wrapped his fingers around hers, and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.
"Sweetheart, today is going to be a perfect day."
"Oh, God, you're like a giant jinx," she moaned.
Perplexed, Angel moved his body closer to Buffy's until he felt her naked skin press against his beneath soft silk sheets. His hand moved to her hip, and he smoothed a path from thigh to breast along her side.
"I'm a jinx," he murmured as he brushed his lips over hers. Her mouth was closed, pulled in a tight line, and he smiled a little at the challenge she presented. "Explain to me, love of my life, how I'm a jinx."
"Everybody knows that when you say something's going to be perfect it's like cursing it," she whined against his mouth.
"Don't use the c-word when we're in bed," he chastised lightly, his hand straying to her back. He ran his fingers up and down her spine, pulling her a little closer with every downward sweep.
"Sorry," she murmured contritely. "But you've still jinxed it."
"There have been some bad birthdays in the past," he conceded.
"Thank you, Mr. Understatement," she muttered. "I have not had one trauma-free birthday since I was called. Today isn't going to be any different so long as we actually acknowledge that it's my birthday. Maybe if we're really, really quiet about it, the fates will give up their yearly 'Screw Even More With Buffy's Life' contest."
"Contest?" he asked, peppering soft little kisses to her face.
"It's a theory," she explained. "I think every year, all the Powers up there think up a different way to make each birthday worse than the one before. Now in all fairness, whoever called dibs on my seventeenth probably wins all the marbles, but don't think that'll stop them from trying. Oh, no, they'll continue to do bad things to me every January until they throw in the towel and kill me."
"Definitely no discussing your death in bed," he said seriously. The subject was still a touchy one with him. Her resurrection had come with a price – one he would gladly pay a thousand times over – and it still disturbed him deeply to remember what the world had felt like without her in it.
"How am I supposed to have the perfect birthday when it's all doomed from the outset?"
"You're not the only one with theories," he informed her smugly. "I've discovered a reason that doesn't involve you being the butt of some cosmic joke for all your bad birthday luck."
"You have, hmm?" she murmured, slinging a leg over his hip. He nipped at her lower lip in response and nearly lost his train of thought.
"Every," a kiss to her forehead, "single," a lick to her chin, "birthday," he rubbed his nose against hers, "you make a fatal mistake."
"What?" she murmured, Eskimo kissing him back.
"You get out of bed."
Rolling them until she was on her back, hovering just above her, Angel grinned down at his entire world, encased in a deceptively delicate looking frame, her eyes the sparkling blue of the sea today, staring up at him with absolute adoration.
"Your solution to my birthday doldrums is to ravish me until midnight?"
"I wasn't going to stipulate a cut off time," he informed her, dead pan. "We've already slept most of the day away. We're halfway home already."
"What about the party?"
He was sure he looked like a deer caught in headlights. "What party?"
"The one Cordelia and Willow have been planning, via phone, for the last three weeks I'm not supposed to know about? The one that the gang is driving down from Sunnydale for?"
"Oh, =that= party," Angel said, nodding. "Yeah, that's not until tomorrow."
Buffy frowned. "But my birthday's today."
"But your birthday's cursed, love," he reminded her.
"C-word," she pointed out.
"Sorry."
She gripped his hips with her legs and rolled them until she straddled his chest. Her hands captured his wrists, and she pinned his arms above his head.
"Talk. Why no party tonight?"
"Because a party would interfere with our testing my theory," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, we can't not celebrate and you're never in a very celebrate-y place on the actual day of your birth."
"So this party I've been dreading isn't until tomorrow," she said slowly.
"Right."
"And," she continued, sliding down his body until the erection he'd had since she'd flipped him on his back bumped against her backside, "we really don't have to get out of bed until tomorrow?"
"Cordelia will be leaving a tray of food, water, and blood outside the door before she goes home tonight," he confirmed, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Baby," she murmured, moving her mouth to tickle his ear with her breath, "if we're spending the next day in bed, you're really not going to need pig's blood."
That said, she bent backwards until she was practically lying between his legs, still straddling him. He swallowed deeply at Slayer Flexibility and rose up until he grasped her around the waist. He brought her mouth to his for a hard, possessive kiss, and he growled when she nipped his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He had been admittedly uncomfortable with anything resembling bloodplay when they'd begun exploring the sexual side of their relationship. He'd tried to resist how very much he wanted to taste her, how the rush and flow beneath her veins called out to him on the most basic level there was . . . he might have even been successful, had Buffy not proved such an eager and adept student in sharing their bodies.
She was hardly a virgin; though the thought made him cringe, and his mind shied away from it, during their time apart, Buffy had become fully versed in sex. What she lacked was variety and experimentation. Angel had been – for lack of a better term – a slut before the curse, and his sexual repertoire crossed the line of 'experienced' and sailed right on into 'master.' That wasn't ego talking, either; a hundred and fifty some odd years of debauchery had just taken an effect.
With barely a year and a half under her belt, Buffy had been curious and =very= interested in experimentation. After they'd found a groove together again, she'd confessed that Riley hadn't been sexually adventurous. He enjoyed sex, and she enjoyed it with him, but she'd never felt comfortable testing the boundaries between them. Not to mention the fact that she'd been half afraid of hurting him if she really let herself go.
Buffy had absolutely no problem letting herself go now.
Her tongue came out and lapped at the blood pooling on his lower lip. They'd shared everything that had happened in their lives since he first left Sunnydale. Her disclosure about Dracula had been the first time he lost control with her while they were making love. The knowledge that another had tasted her . . . She was =his=, and before he'd been able to process his own intent, he'd sunk his fangs into her jugular.
Afterward, he'd been apologetic. Buffy had assured him there was no need. At first, he'd been almost appalled that she enjoyed having him drink her nearly as much as he did. Of course he knew from experience the erotic satisfaction a vampire took from feeding, and being fed from by its mate; Buffy, however, was a Slayer. He'd been positive anything reminding her that he was technically her mortal enemy would be placed securely in the category 'major turn-off.'
His Buffy was full of surprises.
Somehow, they'd worked their way back to their sides. Their legs were hopelessly intertwined, Buffy was clawing at his back while he kissed her breathless, and his hands were buried in her hair, angling her head this way and that, trying to find that perfect angle. Since kissing Buffy at any and every angle was sheer bliss, it was hard to stay still.
Then suddenly, the frenzy passed, and that was exactly what happened: stillness. He'd noticed it before between them. They'd be making love frantically, and then, like magic, a gentle lassitude would take hold. The total liquefication of muscle and bone would take place, and it would take great effort to continue softly stroking one another's skin. Their lips would touch, barely part, and come together again, mere centimeters from the last point of contact.
Her breath exhaled into his mouth, and he forced his dead lungs to work as he took her inside him. When she was this close, her heart beating against his chest, he could feel a day when their hearts would beat together. It wasn't supposed to happen; he no longer expected it; day to day, he hardly even longed for it.
But he hoped. Hope had saved him; saved her after her second death. He had to believe hope would see them through to the end.
"Is everyone really coming tomorrow?" Her voice was hushed, respectful of the peaceful quiet between them.
"Everyone's really coming," he confirmed, his voice as soft as hers. His fingers traced the sharp, strong planes of her shoulder blade.
"Dawnie's missed them," she commented.
"I know. She's adjusting to living here, though. And at least she gets to see your dad."
"Every other month," Buffy muttered.
No matter how hard he tried, Angel couldn't understand Hank Summers' ability to stay away from his two smart, incredible, beautiful girls. Dawn was growing into a lovely young woman, and she seemed fascinated with the inner-workings of Angel Investigations. Buffy was afraid Dawn would decide to be a demon hunter when she was all grown up. Angel didn't have the heart to tell his love that her baby sister had a destiny as much as she did. It might not be as clear-cut, and she might not have something as obvious a calling, but it was there. No one who loved Buffy Summers could avoid the world she lived in.
"Willow has a surprise for you," Angel murmured, hoping to distract Buffy from her 'I could kill dad' thoughts.
Her face brightened. Success. "What kind of surprise?"
"You'll have to wait until tomorrow night. She swore me to secrecy, and you know she'll know if I tell you."
Buffy pouted, then let the pout turn into a seductive leer as she rubbed her chest against his. "I'll let you do that thing you love to do to me if you tell," she tempted.
He chuckled, and let the joy he felt at having her close, trying to bribe him with borderline-obscene sexual acts show on his face. "You'll let me do that to you anyway, because you love it, and no."
Willow's surprise was that she and Tara were transferring to UCLA. As she'd explained on the phone the night before, Buffy and the slaying was the reason she'd stayed in Sunnydale to begin with. Since the Slayer was building a new life, for her and Dawn, here with Angel, Willow wanted to be a part of it.
Angel Investigations was growing; they would be hiring on two witches part time. Luckily – or unluckily, if you were Cordelia – business was booming. The visions were coming with more frequency, and it worried Angel. Cordelia insisted she was fine, and she'd certainly thrown herself into helping Willow coordinate Buffy's un-birthday party. Cordelia was in pain, though, and she seemed to need him more now than she had before. Cordelia was strong, but she needed him.
"Where'd you go?"
He blinked, and focused on Buffy. "Sorry. I was worrying."
"I know. You had that little line," she brushed her fingertips across his forehead. "I'm contemplating depraved sexual activity, and you're worrying. Am I losing my touch?"
In answer, Angel pulled her thigh over his, opening her to him. Keeping them on their sides, he slipped inside her gently, swallowing her tiny gasp of surprise with his mouth.
Depravity was fun; they'd had some memorable nights doing things that sometimes made Buffy blush the next day whenever she'd look at Dawn. But at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to make love to her. On the anniversary of her birth, his thoughts had been plagued with her death, and holding her close, worshipping her with his body, being able to look into her eyes . . . it was the only thing that banished the terror, the emptiness that had filled him with the news of her loss.
"You'll never lose your touch with me," he assured her in a quietly intense voice. Their hips had begun a rhythm born of instinctual recognition; their bodies reacted to each other's as though they had been made to fit together, until they melted into a single, boneless, sated creature.
Minutes faded together, and the only thing Angel knew was the increasing rhythm of Buffy's heartbeat. Their faces pressed together, then moved apart, and they scattered kisses over whatever patches of skin they could reach as their gentle coupling progressed.
Once he would have feared how much he truly lost himself in her. There was always the ever-present threat of becoming of monster, of truly emptying himself of everything, leaving only a shell capable of being animated by the evil that lived inside him.
Now, though, he knew that the only repercussions of filling Buffy, of letting her fill him, was their own mutual satisfaction and a bond that only grew deeper every day.
"I love you," he whispered against her mouth. "God, how am I supposed to live without you?"
"I think he just said somethin'," Fred called out hopefully. She was crouched near Angel while Wesley, Gunn, Cordelia and Willow huddled by the reception area.
They quickly moved closer to Angel, hoping for some sign that he was about to emerge from the catatonic state he'd slipped into nearly an hour before.
"I was worrying," the vampire mumbled. His lips barely moved, and his voice was only audible because they so desperately wanted to hear it.
"Angel," Willow said quietly.
"Angel," Cordelia parroted. "Come on, Angel, she wouldn't want this."
His eyes seemed to flicker for a moment, to focus on the sound of Cordelia's voice, but it was only for a moment, and soon, he went back to sightlessly staring straight in front of him.
"This happened to Buffy," Willow said, tears thick in her voice. "When Glory took Dawn. It all came crashing down on her, and she lost it. She went inside herself like this. I went in after her. Maybe I could go in after Angel."
"I don't know if that's advisable," Wesley interrupted.
"I can do it, Wesley," Willow snapped.
"It's not your abilities I doubt, Ms. Rosenberg," Wesley assured her. "It's just that Angel's mind – a vampire's mind – is so much more complex, so much more dangerous than a twenty-year-old girl's."
"Are you saying that . . . he would hurt me?" Willow asked, a note of disbelief in her voice.
"Not intentionally, no," Wesley assured her. "The point I'm trying to make is, we don't know what might happen, and to take action when none is necessary could do more harm than good."
"English is right," Gunn said. "Angel's been goin' through some heavy shit lately. This Buffy meant as much to him as y'all say she did, I'm thinkin' this might be the blow that breaks him for good."
"But we have to do something to help him," Cordelia insisted.
"We can't just leave him like that," Willow agreed.
"No, we can't," Wesley said. "And we won't. But neither will we merely leap into the thick of things without thinking each move through."
"Fine," Cordelia snapped. "I'm going to go upstairs and change my clothes. By the time I get back down here, you'd better have a plan all laid out, or I say we let Willow dive on in to Angel's deep dark pool."
"You'll never have to find out, love," Buffy whispered against his mouth.
Angel blinked. Her body was warm, alive, and =right there= next to him, but for a second, he'd been sure she was gone, that he'd never hold her again. His grip tightened, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck as he thrust against her.
"You're gone," he gasped as her lips skimmed his forehead. The aching, gnawing chasm of grief he'd felt on the horizon threatened again; he'd gone catatonic, he remembered, to keep himself from dying.
"You know the way," she whispered, holding his face between her hands; forcing him to look at her. "You can make this right. You can make this real."
"How?" he asked. He rocketed from the pure bliss of the dream he'd mistaken for his reality into the utter terror of what a future with no possibility of Buffy in it left him. He was not allowed to die; he couldn't just join her. There were people here who depended on him, people he had to save, friends he had to be here for. There were destinies to fulfill, and miles to go, and a hundred other things he didn't want to think of. All he knew was the desire to lie down and sleep forever because the only place he'd find Buffy again was beyond this life.
"You're a champion," Buffy whispered as she turned him onto his back, never letting the contact between their bodies break as she straddled him. Her hands found his and their fingers twined as she rocked her lower body against his. "I'm lost, Angel. It wasn't my time. They know that. You have the power to make this right. Only you. Angel, you have to."
"I don't know . . ." His confused words were lost in her kiss as she bent her body at the waist. Their bodies were touching everywhere now, and she was making such sweet, achingly soft love to him as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed . . .
"You do know," she insisted, still moving, still thrusting, still possessing him. Her limbs were becoming mist-like, swirling around and through his body until he felt her everywhere, screaming in his blood, tightening beneath his skin, and occupying the same place she always had, buried deep in his heart.
"Buffy," he whispered as he felt her pleasure and his course through his body.
"Would you die for me, Angel?" she asked.
He forced his gaze to her eyes . . . and found himself inside of her. His center was revealed to him inside of Buffy, an inner-reserve of strength he was sure belonged to her, something she was allowing him to borrow so that he could save her.
"Of course," he answered.
A quiet, rapturous smile crossed her face.
"Then you know."
Fred's scream brought a half-dressed Cordelia sprinting down the stairs.
"Sorry," Fred said sheepishly. "I'm a little on edge."
The reason she had screamed became clear as Angel leapt to his feet. It seemed to take him a moment to get his bearings, and when he did, he looked from Cordelia, to Gunn, to Wesley, and finally, to Willow. Fred stood behind his left shoulder, looking ready to bolt at any moment.
"You're back," Willow said as something that might have been called a happy smile had she not been grieving so intensely crossed her face. "Wait. Why are you back? Oh, did someone shake you?"
"You might say that," Angel answered softly, a determined glint in his eyes.
"Angel," Wesley began compassionately, "I understand this is a difficult time for you, and if there's anything you require--"
"Thanks, Wes," Angel answered. "I actually need Cordelia to do something."
"Anything," Cordelia said easily, placing a hand over Angel's arm. "Angel, I'm so sorry—"
"No time for sorrys," Angel said briskly. "Cordy, I need you to take me to see the Host." He glanced up at the haggard looking redhead beside his best friend. "You and Willow."
"Angel," Wesley began.
"You too, Wes," Angel said. "Gunn, take Fred to get a taco." He turned and headed for the lobby door.
"Angel," Wesley called out again, half surprised when the vampire actually listened and turned to face him.
"We're kind of on a time table here, Wes," Angel said tightly.
"Why are we going to see the Host?" Wesley asked helplessly.
"Because he has to give me an address," Angel answered simply.
"Why?" Willow asked.
Angel's gaze tracked his friends in turn, finally settling back on Willow to answer her question.
"I passed Their Trial. They still owe me a life, and I intend to collect."
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
The last thing she remembered, was a blinding white light, searing pain, and then . . . peace.
That peace, that perfect stillness would have been the greatest sensation she had ever known, had it not been for the ache in her soul that cried out strange names she didn't recognize – it called for 'Giles', 'Willow', and 'Xander'. It called quietly for 'Tara' and 'Anya,' it even called for 'Spike.' It screamed for 'Faith' and something called 'unfinished' and 'unsaid'.
Her soul spared a thought for 'Cordelia' then moved straight on to the loudest of all the cries – her soul howled for 'Dawn' and it wept for 'Angel'.
Then, suddenly, the agony and the peace fled, and she started to notice . . . that she felt tired. And sore. And slowly, all the names she'd been thinking of came back to her, only now, they =meant= something. She could recognize them for what they were, and a sob tore from her mouth as she remembered what the light meant.
Forcing her tired, protesting body up, Buffy frantically looked around for signs of Glory, Doc, Dawn, anything . . .
And found that she was no longer at the construction site.
Instead, she was inside what appeared to be a ravished banquet hall. There were cracks in a marble pillar to her left, an upturned feast to her right, and several strewn pieces of armor all around. It looked very much as though someone had thrown a tantrum in here, and no one had bothered to clean it up.
"It was a rage the likes of which we had not seen in a millennia," a cultured voice that reminded Buffy of the first time she met Giles spoke from behind her.
Buffy spun around until she came face to face with . . . a butler?
"It was rage borne of futility and failure; of the refusal to accept impotence in a situation beyond anyone's control. We were quite moved with his display. Plus, the ravaged appearance of the room is more disquieting to potential challengers, don't you think?" He looked Buffy up and down, then made a clucking sound in the back of his throat. "My dear, please forgive me, you must be freezing."
A robe appeared in his hand from out of nowhere, and only as he handed it to her did Buffy notice she was completely naked. Blushing furiously, she hurriedly donned the white cotton robe, cinching the belt tightly around her waist.
"Also forgive my manners," the butler continued, "and allow me to welcome you back to this mortal plane, Ms. Summers."
"Back?" she asked, a sinking feeling filling her. She remembered the last time she died. She was starting to think that the 'last time she died' didn't apply to the incident with the Master five years ago; not anymore.
He made an affirmative sound in the back of his throat. "If you'll just follow the staircase to your right, you'll find yourself ejected into the City of Angels, near Franklin and Vermont, if I'm not mistaken."
Buffy took a deep breath. "How am I . . . ?"
The man before her smiled gently, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Never before have I been stunned by a man's capacity to love. Yet this creature – who should possess no mercy – shows unconditional love and bravery toward those that he holds close. He sought us not once, but twice, and both times, he asked nothing for himself. He did, in fact, sacrifice something on both occasions.
"In short, you are back in this world, my dear, because you are loved, and we were in his debt."
It took her several minutes to remember the name of the Hotel Angel had given her. He'd only said it out loud once, when he'd called shortly after they'd moved in. She remembered thinking it sounded timeless, like him, and she recalled that she'd been too nervous to tease him.
Jeeves told her what Angel gave up for her; he explained about the prophecy, about Shanshu, that Angel had given up his light at the end of the tunnel so that she would live. Part of Buffy was horrified that he would sacrifice something so huge for her, but the rest of her simply sat in stunned admiration at the depth of his love. It took the sting that remained of his leaving away at last. The little girl inside her, so insecure that she still didn't believe he'd left for any other reason than he didn't want to be with her, finally felt secure, finally, truly understood why he did what he did.
No one told her it was safe to be with him now; she just felt in her bones that it was. Maybe she was lying to herself, because she so badly needed him, but as she finally stood outside the doors of the Hyperion, her bare feet scuffed and aching from the miles she'd walked that night, Buffy finally felt right for the first time in years.
The lights had been turned out. Buffy breathed in deeply, and sensed a single heartbeat inside the hotel. 'Willow', she thought, unsure how she knew her best friend was staying here.
It was not Willow she needed to see now, though. There would be time to embrace the sister of her heart, later. There would be time spent rocking Dawn to sleep while she sobbed out her relief, time spent regaling Giles with the memories she had of her death, and accepting his reserved gratitude at her return. Xander would grab her up in a bear hug, and Anya would understand that they were just friends, and not be made jealous by it. Buffy would be glad to see Tara again, when she was fully herself, and not the thing Glory had turned her into.
((Death is your gift.))
Now, Buffy knew, there would be time to visit Faith in prison and put things right between them. Dying this time seemed to be having the opposite effect it had the previous time – whereas Bitca Buffy had come out to play then, now, she understood more than she ever had.
((Love. Give. Forgive.))
Her footfalls were light and soundless as she approached Angel's bedroom door. It was open, as though he were waiting for her. She entered his room and shut the door quietly behind her. The robe she wore slipped to the floor and puddled there.
((You are full of love.))
Pulling the covers back, Buffy crawled into Angel's bed, felt the weight of Angel's sheets cover her, and pressed her body against his. He slept, though it was a troubled sleep, and she heard small whimpers come from his mouth. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled his head to her breast and rocked him gently.
She was scared, scarred and disoriented, but she recognized him; would know him anywhere, would take comfort in him anywhere.
((It's brighter than the fire, blinding.))
He felt her, but his mind would not allow him to wake, for if he were dreaming, and he opened his eyes to an empty bed, he knew he would throw back the curtains and greet the dawn, no matter how many people loved and needed him.
Another bargain with The Powers That Be was struck tonight. He'd given away his light at the end of the tunnel to bring back the only light his life had known in more than two centuries. In return, he was given a blessing – a gypsy curse no longer held his soul to his body. Because he would never become human in body, would never receive the reward They had set before him, They had made a compromise.
They made him human in spirit, and with that spirit, came the unconditional possession of his own soul.
The tears he shed in his sleep dried against his cheeks as he felt a heart beating next to his chest. It was her heart, and the sensation was more amazing than that of his own heart beating. She was here, lying in his bed, at his side, he knew it, he could feel it, and he allowed her to draw his head to her breast. The soft lullaby of her heartbeat brought him joy, brought him perfect, peaceful contentment, and he knew that his soul was safe.
((Love will bring you to your gift.))
She felt him sigh against her; felt him begin to stir. She was too tired for the reunion that awaited them, she needed her own rest first, so she pressed her lips to his forehead, and whispered against his hair,
"Sleep, Angel. You're home. You're safe. We both are."
((Death is your gift.))
((And death has brought me love.))
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
The End