Disclaimer: /Pout/ No. Don’t look at me. Not mine. The poem belongs to
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and it was taken from “Sonnets from the
Portuguese”. /sigh/ Beautiful.
Rating: PG, I don’t really know. It’s pure fluff (sorry, it’s the only thing
I can write).
Spoilers: None.
Timeline: Set in BtVS season 3.
Couplings: B/A, always.
Summary: Angel watches Buffy sleep.
AN: Thank you to Whatfun84 for her sympathy, advices in this fic and the
title.
Feedback: Please send it to BAalways@msn.com
As the moonlight bathes the bedroom and the clock shows 00:15 a dark figure gracefully climbs the window, mentally wondering why it was never closed and pleased all the same.
He takes a moment to breathe in the unique smell of Buffy, youthfulness and innocence and bask in her presence. When his will of power is weakened and the need to take comfort from his own thoughts is overwhelming he allows himself to disrupt her peace and break in her sanctuary. He mused it was his sanctuary as well. It was a true alleviation to his soul.
He takes his usual place of watch, leaning against the wall, already feeling a weight being lifted from his shoulders and a cleansing effect he had come to think of as Buffy’s.
Time goes by as he watches her chest rise and fall with every breath she takes. And every time he hears the beat of her heart a feeling of rightness tightens his chest. For the first time since he was born, more than two hundred years ago, he felt like he was where he was supposed to be. Home. Buffy.
He never gets tired of watching her sleep, of being allowed to see her when all her defences are down, when she’s just a girl without the weight of the billions of lives on her shoulders. Sometimes she moves a lot, trying to find her favourite position, other nights she barely moves, occasionally moaning something incomprehensible from her dreams. That’s a subject he wonders about for hours on end when he’s in her bedroom. What does she dream about? Dreams manifest our fears and wants. What are her fears? Getting hurt? Seeing the people she loves getting hurt? Flunking Math? Rats? He almost laughs out loud at that. They were patrolling the other night when she let this purely girl-y squeak that oddly reminded him of Xander. A rat had crossed their path and she very indiscreetly grabbed his arm in a none too gently grip. It was funny seeing a girl who faces death every night still afraid of an undamaging little creature. Or maybe he just enjoyed the manly pride that invaded him when she held on to him. Ok, it probably was the latter.
And her wants? Graduate? College? Keeping a life besides Slaying? Be seen as Buffy rather than Buffy, the Vampire Slayer? What is she dreaming when a smile tugs her lips? Not having the fight to get home alive every night? Never picking up a book to study again? A picnic on the beach? What he really wants to know is: does she dream about him? Does she wake up every morning wishing he was lying down by her side, like he does? Does every morning leave a never ending, unfulfilled longing?
He gives her a kiss on her forehead, whispers I love you and starts to leave when she lets this strangled moan less than a second before waking up, gasping. He’s by her bed in a heartbeat.
“Hey.”
“Angel?” That’s another thing he loves about her. The way she says his name. Her breath seems to caress every syllable and there’s always a question to it, almost as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear before her eyes.
She sighs when he holds her and almost immediately the tension in her body starts to disappear.
“Nightmare?”
She nods on his shoulder, tightening her hold on him and lazily rubbing her cheek against his neck. He lies down next to her and she puts her head on his chest, an arm across his abdomen in a possessive manner.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.” Her voice is hoarse from sleep and he delights in the shivers of want she gives him just by being herself.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
“Can’t.” She mumbles.
“Want me to tell you a story?” He asks in a playful tone that he seems to get when he’s with her. Sometimes his life is damn perfect.
She looks up at him, through under her eyelashes with a pout in her look. “Would ya?”
He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance and she gives him a sunshine smile. It’s the smile of someone that knows she’s got him eating out of the palm of her hand.
The face of all the world is changed The cup of dole He smiles as her breath becomes even and she relaxes completely beside him,
the heat of her body surrounding him. His heart swells with love and his
soul knows comfort that only this woman could ever bring. And this…this lute and song…loved yesterday. Giving one more kiss on the crown of her head he allows sleep to envelop him
knowing that in the morning he would wake and see the sun in her smile. Yes, sometimes his life was truly perfect.
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Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, so still beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm.
Sometimes it still hits her as a ton of bricks. God... how she loves this
man.
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of the country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art and shalt be, there or here;
(The singing angels know) are only dear,
Because your name moves right in what they say.