"Upon the Earth and Upon the Wind and Upon the Water"
Author:
Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Notes: Pablo Neruda is responsible for the World's Longest Title T as well as the verse herein. < g > I've had this story half finished on my hard drive for months, (it was actually intended to be an answer to the challenge posted to Sunlight & Shadow ages ago, but I completely missed the deadline < g >) and the latest influx of angst (Thank you Margot and Ducks) pushed me over the edge I'd been balancing on, thus requiring massive amounts of fluff. Although one out of four beta readers cried < g > just so you know.
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them
Funny, how if she hadn't NEEDED that hot dog on a stick, she would have missed him by a few minutes.
She already misses him, of course. That's hardly the point. She misses him with every breath she takes, because taking breath reminds her of him now. In fact, she's more grateful for every breath that she takes now because of how grateful she is for every breath that he takes. Given the correlation she's drawn between breathing and him, it really isn't all that surprising that she thinks of him so much.
But that's all irrelevant to what is happening here. Running into him. Literally, because here he is, coming out of the building she's going into.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Lame. Of course, they don't say each others' names. Saying each other's names always leads them to places they can't face going. She has never quite understood why they couldn't face them.
"How are you?"
His voice is impassive and polite, inquiring about the health of someone who was once at the very center of his universe.
"Good. I'm good. And you? You look well."
She has never been so polite. It's Giles' influence. Having a very proper English gentleman for a father since her sixteenth birthday had to have an effect on her sooner or later. With the maturity of true adulthood, the cursed thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon (three years away still, but it looms nonetheless), Buffy has finally learned how to act like everyone expects her to.
"I am well," he answers, and while she's glad for him, another part of her, the same part that secretly wishes she were unable to view him in the harsh light of day, screams in agony and rage that he has been able to flourish without her.
There is no cause for such thoughts. She does not pine for him every day. Her life has gone on. Once, when they were forced apart by circumstance, she had been unable to completely let go of him. Always, 'what if?' delusions drifted through her dreams. 'He's a vampire,' she would tell herself sternly. 'You're the Slayer. He left so you could have a life, not miss him so much you're in danger of dying from it.'
The missing had stopped being such a constant ache after The Big Showdown. He'd been in a relationship, a woman whose name Buffy couldn't recall. She'd been pretty. Had seemed to truly care for Angel. Buffy herself had been with Spike. It hadn't been love on her side, and even now, she wondered if it had been on his. She likes to think so. It makes something inside of her happy to imagine loving her being enough to bring something akin to redemption to a soulless creature.
They were not in love, but they were together. Buffy slept in Spike's bed, and he in hers. She never pretended the way she had with Riley. There was no reason to hide her strength or her darkness from Spike. He knew, he understood, and for a time, she found comfort in him. After Riley came back, after he learned she'd taken the solace in an evil demon she'd been unable to find with him, he'd left again, and that time, Buffy was sure he'd been able to stop loving her.
That had made her happy as well. Riley loving her wasn't right. He got his clean break, and it lessened her guilt over hurting him when Xander got the invitation to Riley's wedding a couple of years later.
So many moments, so many hurts, so many little wounds inflicted on the men who'd loved her.
But she is losing herself in memories, and the living manifestation of her greatest joy and most heartfelt sorrow stands before her, and she only saw him in the sunlight one other time, for a few moments before he climbed into his big black car and left her again.
"I never noticed the little blond highlights in his hair before," Willow had said to her when she finally worked up the courage to broach the subject.
"I did," was all Buffy had said, and all talk of Angel and sunlight and redemption and 'why the hell aren't you guys together?' had been swept under a rug.
Buffy notices everything about him now. The blond, the chocolate brown, the healthy glow. His skin is tanned and golden, and a small ache in her breast briefly wishes for cool, pale marble beneath her fingers. Then again, her fingers aren't touching him, which is good, because ex-lovers who haven't spoken in centuries aren't supposed to touch each other when they accidentally meet on the sidewalk.
"So uh, what brings you to L.A.?" he asks, and she panics for a moment. Had she only come with the hopes of catching a glimpse of him? This was something she had attempted just after his transformation, when she'd recognized their stupidity. But no, she realizes, she has a viable excuse. This trip to her old home is not about him.
"Work," she answers easily. "You know me. Nose. Grindstone."
"Right." He smiles, and it's an easy, wondrous sight.
"What brings you to this particular corner of the universe?" she asks, then mentally chastises herself. It is none of her business, even if he did start this line of questioning.
But he answers "Work" in kind, and gives her another smile.
They do not ask each other what 'work' is now. Such questions would prolong the meeting, and Buffy can feel his skin itching to be away from her as much as hers itches to be near him.
"I guess I should let you go," he says, and begins to walk away.
It is the sight of his back that spurs her into action. "Angel," she calls out, and he stops, and she swears, shivers a little. He turns back to her, walks the few steps he'd taken and stops again, standing a little nearer than he had been before.
Buffy takes a moment to remember how to breathe.
She's kept track of him over the years. Given their mutual friends, it became laughably easy to get all the insignificant details of his life.
There hadn't been a need to sneak peeks at his life before. Back when they'd been fellow soldiers, after the initial pain of their breakup had cooled, if Buffy felt like talking to him, she would. She'd pick up the phone, or catch a bus to L.A., or write him an email. He'd do the same. They weren't friends, but they were there for each other. There was healthy respect and love between them, even if fate refused to let them be lovers.
Years passed. People died. Buffy's second death, her subsequent resurrection, it all took a toll. Dawn, especially, took everything hard, and the wounds Glory inflicted never completely healed. There was such pain in the years that followed the Hell God's attempt on their lives, such pain mixed with such near-perfect happiness. Buffy had people in her life she knew would never leave, and it helped ease a lot of her insecurity. And of course she missed Angel, but it wasn't like it had been before. They didn't live in each other's worlds any longer, but they still sort of orbited each other's systems.
It all changed that day. Angel's redemption, Shanshu; Wesley had given them a quick recitation of it while he gathered troops to hurry to Angel's side in battle. A vision of Cordelia's demanded the Slayer's presence at the side of the Vampire with a Soul. Buffy hadn't had a problem with it; Angel was fighting for his humanity, and there was no other cause she'd believed in half as much her entire life.
Over the years, the memory of the battle, the details of it have faded from Buffy's mind. All she can clearly remember is Spike's desperate embrace as he begged her not to leave them. She had been knocked unconscious; had saved Angel's life while he was distracted with trying to protect the girl Buffy had quickly realized was his lover.
Things between them weren't serious, Angel and the woman whose name Buffy had honestly blocked from her mind. If she'd been thinking rationally at the time, she would have seen that. The two of them were lovers, but they weren't any more in love than she and Spike had been. Angel would have lost his soul to a woman he loved.
Later, Spike confessed what he did that night Angel became suddenly human. He was ashamed, and that honest emotion was enough to earn Buffy's forgiveness, though she could never bear to let him touch her again.
He'd gone to Angel, to the man who'd been his Sire for all intents and purposes, and lied to his face. Spike had always fought dirty for anything he felt was his, and even though he'd known he would never be able to possess Buffy, not truly as his, he couldn't bear to simply let her go.
And so Angel heard from Spike of the great love in Buffy's life; the normal man who didn't have over a century of evil staining his soul or his love; someone who had asked her to marry him, who she was planning to marry. Unwilling to disrupt her happiness, to throw a wrench into the works of her life, Angel had done the thing he'd always done -- whatever was the most self-sacrificing and noble.
This time, he'd come to say goodbye. He hadn't mentioned her mythical fiancé, and so she had assumed his reason for leaving was the pretty little thing with the big brown eyes that looked at him so adoringly.
When he showed up on her doorstep that night, he explained that he wanted the best in life for her, and that he wasn't the best. He said he didn't want to be in her way. He promised that if she ever needed him, if she ever =wanted= him, all she had to do was call . . .
Now, of course, she could see all that he'd been offering her -- in his mind, she'd belonged to someone else, and he had been telling her he still belonged only to her, and all she had to do was claim him. Her hurt pride, her childish heart, however, had refused to see the emotion behind his words, and she'd told him she was fine without him, and that she hoped he and whatshername were very happy together.
Funny (not funny ha-ha) how she realized so much after he left, after Spike's confession, after it was too late to claim him because he'd done just what she told him to do -- he'd married a woman whose name she couldn't be bothered to remember. He'd made a life for himself. A human life, free of demons and darkness, if Cordelia via Willow was to be believed.
She still hears from Spike occasionally. He writes her letters from the road. He's hooked up with a crew of demon hunters, he says, and plans to be the Last Demon Standing when all is said and done.
The Cleansing had taken care of most of the vampires of the world. Angel and Spike had been the only two in Sunnydale to survive, Spike because of the magical wards Willow prepared for him, and Angel because of his Shanshu.
Now, groups of demon hunters scattered the globe, making war on the harmful demons that were left, and letting the peaceful ones be. Some vampires, like Spike, switched sides and chose to drink pig's blood and fight the good fight. It seemed a creature's will to survive even overrode its instinctual desires for death and blood.
Buffy still slays, but she stays close to home, and she hasn't had to save the world in nearly four years. It's a record, and one she takes comfort in.
Sometimes, when she works up the nerve to come to L.A., she wants to go down to the Santa Monica Pier and watch Angel draw, the way Cordelia says he always does. He has a child, a little girl, and he and his wife named her Kathleen Elizabeth. He wrote her a very lovely letter ((Had it not been for you, Buffy, I wouldn't have survived long enough to live.)) that expressed his endless gratitude for the significant part she played in setting him on the right path. His daughter's name was the living testament to that gratitude, and, she admits to herself now, the love he has always felt for Buffy.
Angel has a talent ((Soon.)) for charcoals. He renders people, places, objects, in perfect detail. His work is shown in local galleries around Los Angeles, and the artist who signs his work with an 'A', followed by an angel's wing, is well loved by those who know him. Buffy has purchased several of his works anonymously, and she hangs them in the room she uses to write. They bring inspiration to her muse, and remind her that once, she knew a great love.
She does not blame herself for his absence from her life any longer. She does not blame him, either. There is too much evil still left in the world to add to it, and blaming either of them for circumstances would be an evil almost more insidious than the one they'd fought so hard against.
A year ago, Buffy came to Los Angeles to watch him, the same way he'd always watched her: from the shadows. She saw his little girl, a tiny dark sprite, tugging at her Daddy's shirttail. Her mother, Angel's wife, had been beautiful, and Buffy had only stared at them for a moment before she forced her weary feet to take her away from him again.
It's nearly a year now since she heard about how sick she was. Angel's wife had some kind of disease that was incurable, and decidedly supernatural. Her death, Willow said, had hit Angel hard. No one knew the details of it; Angel's inner sanctum had circled around them during the end, and in the last few days of her life, it had only been the three of them, mother, father, and child, given the opportunity to say a proper goodbye.
Buffy mourned her. Not because she had known her, or because she wished she was still alive -- but because Angel mourned her. His pain was like a tangible thing to her, and she cried herself to sleep for a solid week after his wife's passing.
She still did not go to him. She has considered it, of course. It just seemed so gothic-romance novel to travel the distances that separated them, to 'comfort' him in his hour of mourning. What did she expect? Did she think he would open his arms ((his heart and his bed)) to her, welcome her home and ask her to be his daughter's new mommy?
Even if he were so inclined, that could never happen. The little girl ((=Angel's= DAUGHTER)) whom he clearly adored didn't know Buffy Summers from a hole in the ground. Her mother had just died. Divorce and death were much more similar than anyone knew, and as a child of divorce, Buffy never wanted to be the person who took the place of someone's parent.
That purely rational line of thinking had kept her from going to him. Occasionally, she recognizes that, while it is a valid reason, it is not the real one. The real, true, honest to God reason she does not go to him is the simple fear of rejection. The bone-deep terror that he won't want her back. Angel loved deeply, and he'd loved another woman enough to marry her, to have a child with her . . .
Resigned as she has become to never being with him again, it does not stop her from remembering. It does not stop her from imagining.
In the stillest part of the night, the time when she once would have been outside fighting ((hunting killing stalking flirting holding hands and kissing in the cemetery)), she now spends lying in bed, thinking of all the things that might have ((never could have)) been.
There have been nights she thinks of Riley, but only ever for a few beats of her heart ((Angel's heart)) and thoughts of him pass through her mind the same way Riley himself had through her life -- sweetly, occasionally painfully, without really leaving much of an impression either way.
Mostly, these late night musings belong to Angel, like so many parts of her do.
She has replayed their love affair a thousand times. She has examined ((if only I'd done-if he'd just-maybe if we'd have)) each moment carefully. Always, she comes to the same conclusion.
They were doomed from the beginning, and she would not change a second of it for anything.
Well, maybe she'd change one thing. She'd change the end
She'd make it so there never was one.
"Buffy?" he questions softly. He has not said her name out loud in so long, the syllables of it roll off his tongue strangely, heatedly, like he's just eaten too much Wasabi.
He eats now, not because he's trying to pretend to fit in with the rest of the world, but because he is desperately hungry. Fred teases ((teased, she used to tease)) him about his voracious appetite. In the beginning, he teased her back by saying he was a 'growing boy.' Five years into being human and he was no longer able to pretend he wasn't used to it.
He is a man now, in every way, and knowing that has given him something precious to hold onto inside his own soul.
"I don't know what I was going to say," Buffy confesses quietly. She has moved closer to him, and he can't resist the pull between them, and now they've both moved and he honestly can't remember taking the first step.
"I'm familiar with the feeling," he assures her. How easy it would be, to reach out and touch her. How totally impossible.
It has been years since he was close enough to be tempted by her scent ((peaches and cream)), the remembered feel of her skin ((silk and steel)), the way her nose crinkles when she's trying to think of something to say.
"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" she finally asks, and he swears, there are tears in her eyes.
"I thought you had a . . ." he gestures at the building, the reason they were standing here, trying to string words together into complete sentences.
"I did. I do. I don't care."
His eyes widen a little at her honesty, but he nods, understanding. "I'm supposed to pick Katie up," he says, and he hadn't remembered it until he blurted it out.
"Oh." She shakes her head. "Never mind. It was . . . dumb. You know me, don't think first, just jump on in, never mind that the pool doesn't have any water in it--"
"Let me make a call," he interrupts softly. The urge to take her hand, to calm her the way he has always been able to is so strong he makes fists to keep himself from reaching out to her.
Katie is with Cordelia on the set. Cordy has a long shoot that will last well into the night. He asks Wes to take Katie home with him, to let her play with his and Cordelia's son. He agrees easily, and Angel turns to Buffy, flashes her the best smile he can manage, considering his heart feels like it's been through a blender.
He inclines his head to the left. "My car's over here."
With a smile that mirrors his own, she follows him.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your golden tresses, my little tower
He reads her books before he goes to sleep at night.
Fred knew; she always knew. It didn't stop her from loving him with all her soul, and a day had never passed that didn't make Angel wish he could love her back the same way.
Buffy had believed them to be lovers, that last time he set foot in Sunnydale. He knew that, and at the time, he'd had neither the time, nor the energy to set her straight. After, he hadn't seen a point to it.
Shortly before they set out for Sunnydale, Fred had pulled him aside and told him a secret ((I'm pregnant and the father doesn't want anything to do with me.)) that had stunned him. She'd said it so simply, like she was stating a fact in one of her equations. But the nervousness had lingered in her tone, and he'd put an arm around her, promised that they ((Wes, Cordy, Gunn, and Angel, always a 'we' or an 'us' or a 'they' whenever someone spoke of them now)) would take care of her, and the baby.
That's what he'd been doing in Sunnydale -- taking care of her and the baby. Buffy's insecurities always led her, and then had been no different. Then again, he is not one to speak of being led by insecurities, is he?
He wonders, still, what might have been if Spike hadn't come to see him that night.
It was good, for awhile. As good as anything could be without Buffy in it. Fred, whom he married, because she was beautiful and sweet and loved him, and she offered everything, herself, her child, a life Angel had craved as much as Buffy had always craved normalcy. He had needed her a little, too. He needed someone who knew the darkness inside of him and didn't fear it. Her ((Their, always Their)) daughter is the greatest love he has ever known, and she reminds him of his sister in the moments when he allows his memory to drift back to the quiet, beautiful girl he killed once, centuries ago.
A year into it, Spike entered his life again. The vampire got into a drunken brawl one night outside Caritas. Angel had been inside, visiting with the Host, and because he remembered Spike genuinely helping during the Final Battles, Angel had taken him home and given him a room to sleep it off in. The next evening, when Spike awoke, he participated in his ritual hangover-induced bout of honesty. The confession of his untruth years before devastated Angel.
He still remembers, vividly, climbing the stairs to his room like a zombie, finding Fred ((his wife)) sleeping peacefully. He remembers the tug ((Buffy)) he'd felt at his beating heart.
That night, he'd almost left them. He'd almost climbed into his convertible and drove balls out to Sunnydale until he could close his arms around Buffy's waist, taste and inhale her skin until she filled every single one of his senses, just as she already filled every inch of his heart to bursting.
Instead, he went to his daughter's room, watched her take breath after breath as she slept beneath her Strawberry Shortcake sheets, an ancient relic Fred had pulled from her own attic when they took a trip to see her grandmother. The old woman had taken an immediate liking to Angel, and the feeling was mutual. This was what Fred had given him; connection, not only to the past and present, but also to the future. In the end, no matter how much he ached for Buffy, it had been unthinkable to him, this idea of leaving ((abandoning)) all that he'd built over the past years.
Besides, the grapevine from Sunnydale tells him that Buffy is well. He reads her books, feels the passion leaping off the page at him, and he knows it. Her life is not empty. It is filled with family and friends, and he has learned better than anyone the importance of family and friends.
Anne Angel is the penname she chose, and with it, Buffy spins tales of a young girl who fights vampires, and the band of friends who help her. Her heroine falls in love with a vampire, and Angel admits to being a bit disconcerted at how vivid Buffy's recall of their life clearly is. He thought that particular curse was his and his alone to bear.
Her first novel, she dedicated so beautifully ((For little Elizabeth, who brings joy to her father)) that he nearly picked up the phone to call her -- only the fear that they would have nothing to say to one another stopped him.
Angel loves his work. The charcoals he paints were at first difficult for him to do, then later, became almost cathartic. He is able to take something he had once used to perpetuate evil, and turn it into something beautiful. He draws everything, the places he's seen, the ones he's only imagined, the people he's loved, Katie, Buffy, Cordelia, Fred. It is Fred who convinced him he could channel his talent ((use it for good, not evil, Angel. Use the force)) into something positive.
Fred ((his beautiful Winifred)) got sick a year ago. Angel still has trouble grasping the idea that she's gone. He isn't sure whether he's grateful Katie is too young to understand, or angry that she will not have true memories of her mother as she grows into a woman. It was not a lingering illness, nor was it anything they could seek help for. Her time on Pylea had not been as behind her as they'd all thought. The Host said it was something humans ((cows)) died from on his world, that there was no cure, because his people had never deemed it important enough to find one.
He is reminded just how much he did love Fred, how much he respected her, how much he =liked= her, when he remembers the last months of her life. She did not spend a day feeling sorry for herself, or being bitter ((Angel, how can I be sad when God gave me you and Katie Beth? I'm only sad that I have to leave you long before I'd like)) at the hand she was dealt.
His wife's final words to him ((be happy -- be =perfectly= happy)) echo through his mind a thousand times a day. He takes Katie to the zoo, with him when he paints, to museums and restaurants. She tags along with Cordelia to this set and that, and they are all as happy as they can be. The loss is beginning to fade, as loss does, to the back of their minds, and life goes on, as it always does. For the first few months after Fred's death, Angel hadn't thought of anything but how much he missed her, and how best to care for Katie.
Slowly, though, he has been waking up again after a long, deep sleep. His heart has once again began to beat and tug ((Buffy)) with every breath he takes. He is remembering all that he carries with him every moment that he lives.
He misses her, still, miles ((worlds)) apart though they sometimes are now. He loves her no less; he tries not to no less.
And still, he can't stop.
The coffee is Starbucks, and Buffy absently notes with a pang that Angel purchases a muffin to go with his caffeine. It's chocolate chip, and she feels physical pain for how much she doesn't know about him.
Angel suggests they take their excuse to remain in each other's company to the beach, and they drive with the top down until Angel finds the spot ((at sunset, it gets so quiet you can hear the earth spin)) he's looking for.
Shoes are kicked off, he rolls up his pant legs, she hikes her skirt to her knees, and they settle their feet against the sand that will be covered with water in a few hours time. Neither question the fact that they intend to be here for hours
They talk of their mutual friends initially, of the dot com company Anya, Willow, Cordelia, Tara, and Oz started up together, and Angel seems pleased that Cordelia has something besides the acting to fall back on. They speak of Xander's construction company, Wesley's satisfaction at being a stay-at-home-dad, and Giles' pleasure at being home in the U.K. once more. He tells her that Gunn and Faith have been traveling the country with Spike, taking care of the leftover demon population, and she confesses that Spike still sends her letters from the road.
He enquires about Dawn, and she tells him her little sister is getting married next month. They've been in love since high school, and it's the real thing.
"That's amazing," he notes. "Finding the person you want to spend your life with so young."
"Must be a Summers thing," she says sadly, and his heart lurches in his chest, screaming for him to touch her. He isn't sure why he doesn't. Perhaps it's because things are so unsettled still. He isn't sure he would survive holding her just once, only to have her leave his life all over again.
When they have exhausted all forms of idle chatter, the quiet that descends over them is disturbed only by the gentle sound of the surf beating against the shore.
It is time, it seems, to get to the heart of things, or walk away after having coffee like polite ex-lovers are supposed to.
He has always had trouble considering them as ex-anything. There are no labels for what they are to each other. They just are.
And so, Angel tells her everything about his life as the sun sinks in the sky, and Buffy listens with a heart bursting for how much she has missed him.
He explains about Fred, the girl he'd rescued from another dimension, who'd become his dearest friend. He confesses that, while he'd never loved her madly, he had loved her in a quiet, easy way that had made their marriage a beautiful one. Buffy somehow manages to love him more when he confesses that the child he dotes on so obsessively is not biologically his.
"But she is," he insists. "She's been mine from the moment Fred told me about her. I couldn't possibly love her more."
In turn, Buffy shares the tale of the few lovers she's had over the years. They've gone in and out of her life with much infrequency, and the heart of her joy has been the close circle of friends that surround her.
"Buffy and romantic love just doesn't seem to work out," she says at last. "They're fine separately -- Romantic love is great, and Buffy, I hear, is beyond cool. But put 'em together and it's a disaster of epic proportions. Which is why I've given a happily ever after to Eliza. Oh, Eliza's the heroine--"
"In your books, I know," he assures her softly. He has a far away look in his eyes, and she reaches out, tugs at the open collar of his white shirt playfully.
"Hey. No day-trips. Catching up requires the full participation and presence of both parties."
He gives her a smile, and tries to ignore the fact that her fingers are still lightly moving against the open collar of his shirt. He is not successful.
"I was just thinking that I can't wait for Katie to meet you," he confesses, though he honestly hadn't meant to speak that particular thought out loud. Not yet, at any rate, not until he knows for certain why she is sitting here in front of him still.
"Oh." That is literally the only thought her brain is capable of forming. She is not proud of it, especially considering her vocation, but she figures she's ahead of the game, having been able to form a verbal syllable at all.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "It's too much. You wanted to spend the afternoon with someone you used to know, not . . . I don't know what, but certainly not get too involved in--"
"Why is it going to work now, when it didn't work all those times before?" she blurts out. "The last time we saw each other, you were human, and we still managed to get in the way of our own happy ending. How are things different now? I can't go into this again, I can't fall back in love with you, in love with your =daughter= and then lose you both. I wouldn't survive it."
"Neither would I."
She laughs. "So where the hell does that leave us?"
"I could tell you why it's different for me now," he tells her quietly.
"Please," she whispers. "Because that thing I said about falling back in love with you? I already did that."
He takes her hand, and presses a swift, loving kiss to her knuckles, and his words begin muffled against her skin.
"Before, you were my salvation, Buffy. I put you on a pedestal and I worshipped you. I never felt worthy of you, I certainly never felt I deserved to have your love. The difference is . . . I am now. I'm worthy. I feel it in my bones, finally and for real. It took me a long time to get here -- and I'm not just referring to the pulse. Every time I look into Katie's eyes, I feel like the person I am. I can come to you now as a man, nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
"I don't see you as the savior of the world, although I know you are, I don't even see you as my savior, because I found redemption amongst the rest of humanity, even though you did save me without knowing it all those years ago."
"No more than you saved me," she whispers. She has pulled his hand to her own lips as he spoke and there are tears in her voice.
"Do you know how I see you?" he asks in a hushed voice.
Buffy looks at his beloved face, noting as she does that the sun has set and his features are to her now as they have always been in her dreams -- shaded, dark, but glowing nonetheless with something that comes from inside of him.
"How?"
"I see you as the only woman I've ever loved with my whole heart, and what I want to give to you is myself; flawed, alive, and desperately needing to wake with you in my arms every single morning."
"Why?" she asks, her voice tinged with wonder, both at his words and the fact that she seems incapable of speaking more than one word at a time. If it were five years ago, she would fear some weird hellmouth disease robbing her of speech. Now, she's pretty sure it's just the effect Angel has on her.
He smiles gently, the half smirk she hasn't seen from him in ages, and he brushes the side of her hair with his warm, gentle, =human= touch.
"Maybe I still just like you."
Her control snaps, and she leans in to kiss him, a short, hard burst of affection against his lips. She moves to pull away, and he holds her head with the back of his hand, prolonging the contact, deepening it as they become reacquainted with lips and tongues and soft, gentle fingers re-learning the dips and plains of smiling faces.
They kiss for nearly an hour, making out like teenagers on the beach, and it's everything they both feared it wouldn't be again -- passionate, loving, comfortable, scary, beautiful, exciting, and about a thousand other things they are too full of each other to think of.
Soon, they are rolling around in the sand, trying to get on top of each other, inside of each other. Their clothes are lost in the struggle, and Buffy takes long, loving mouthfuls of his warm, human skin, and tears spill down their cheeks as they both realize that the home they've been aching for separately all these years is at last within their grasp.
Later, they are spooned together higher in the sand, and neither could be bothered with something so trivial as clothing. His forearm is across her chest, while his other arm is draped over her hips, and she can feel his heart beating against her back.
Pressing soft, adoring kisses against the shell of her ear, he whispers, "Come home with me."
"For how long?" she asks, because despite the security she feels in his arms, the desperate intensity of his embrace, she is still insecure at heart.
"To stay," he says with gentle laughter in his voice, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. To him, it is. "To stay for always."
"Okay," she agrees happily as tears spill down her cheeks.
He turns her to face him and kisses her tears away. Places his lips to the pulse in her neck, over scar tissue he is responsible for, and relaxes with the vibration of her life echoing that of his own.
"What if Katie doesn't like me?" she asks the top of his head.
"Oh, we'll sell her to the circus and run away together to the South of France," he replies deadpan.
"Angel!" she chastises, laughing and smacking him on the back at the same time.
"No, really, she's very smart. We'd probably get a mint for her."
He's kissing her again. "Stop," she insists.
"She's going to love you," he says seriously. "How could she not?"
"We have to take this slow," she says firmly.
"You're not sure?" Now his insecurities are doing battle with her insecurities for the Insecure Heart of the Year award.
"I'm not sure for Katie. Angel, if it were just you and me, you couldn't pry me off you with the Jaws of Life."
"Nice mental image," he mutters.
"I won't force myself into her life," she declares quietly. A smile quirks her lips. "This is the normal stuff we get to deal with now. You get to introduce your new girlfriend to your daughter. Sure it's worth all the trouble?"
He pulls her fully into his arms and kisses her for what seems like days. When they come up for air ((we both have to come up for air!)) he takes her cheeks between his palms and looks intensely into her eyes.
"Come home with me," he says again, quietly. "To stay. For always. And let the details work themselves out."
There are arguments to be made, things they should discuss and analyze and pick apart until she is sure she won't be hurt again. But the truth is, she probably will be hurt somewhere along the way. Unlike all the times before, though, she isn't going to be hurting alone. They aren't leaving each other until the Powers decide to take one of them out. She can see that promise in his eyes, and she feels it in her heart.
And so, she gives him the answer that is her first instinct every time he asks her a question.
"Okay," she chirps, giggling softly as the full ramifications of it all settles inside her for the first time. Angel's taking her home. To stay. For freakin' always.
Thank God for that hot dog on a stick.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters
until they found me
The End