Disclaimer: Mine, mine, mine. What, you didn’t notice my name’s Joss?
Rating: PG.
Spoilers: None.
Timeline: Somewhere in season 3 of BtVS.
Summary: An angst/fluffy moment after patrol. Buffy’s POV.
Author’s note: this was written when I was practically falling asleep on top of my keyboards so forgive the mushiness. This is completely unbeta so pardon any typos. By the way, does anyone want to beta this for me?
Feedback: I wrote this for you so I would appreciate if you could take five minutes to say what you think of it.
Dedication: To my friend B., that still doesn’t know I write something resembling fiction but always touches what I write, like everything else I do.

The night was short but exhausting. Too many fledglings rising and not enough time to rest left me sore and aching for my sweet, comfortable bed. Angel seems to understand my mood, and even though he’s killed as many as I did he probably slept trough the day which explains his rested look. I let out an annoyed sigh that finally gets his attention.

“You okay?” He asks, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me close to him. My eyes close for a second longer than a blink at his touch. I don’t think he realizes what his closeness does to me.

“Yeah.” I answer, letting my head fall against his chest, as much as I can while walking beside him. “Just a little tired. It’s just one of those days I wish I hadn’t left my comfy bed. Hey, where are we going?” Once I start paying attention to something besides Angel’s broad chest I notice we’re not going on the right way to the cemetery Giles told me to check before calling it a night.

“You said you’re tired. I’m taking you home.” I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off. “No buts. I’ll finish up, don’t worry.”

I stop and turn to face him, his other arm coming to rest at my waist while he holds me close. I observe, languidly the way his eyes focus on my in the most intense way like I truly was the only person in the world, with a curious look. Though it, now feels stupid to speak out loud I force myself to say the words: “Thank you.” He doesn’t seem to think they’re inappropriate so I relax into this comfortable silence that seems to have taken over us. He never breaks eye-contact and a soft smile begins tugging his lips, which makes me realize he’s answering to my own smile, one I hadn’t even notice. “You’re welcome.” He brings his hand to my face and caresses my cheek with his knuckles following they’re path with his eyes making me feel wanted and loved. As my eyelids flutter at his touch my ears pick up at a sound.

“Do you hear something?” I ask.

He half snaps from his trance and spares a quick glance behind me and nods in that direction to get my attention. I turn my neck to see what he’s pointing at and become entranced by the sight. A couple, well in their sixties, has a stereo on, inside the house and, more than dancing, sway as one to the music in their porch. Even though we’re standing across the street I can see the man whispering words of endearment at her ear to which she replies with a smile, never opening her eyes or lifting her head from his shoulder. They seem to know each others steps as if they’re their own, probably having spend their whole lives mesmerising them.

I feel like a voyeur, intruding something achingly intimate but still unable to tear my eyes from them. Something sharp claws my heart, something resembling envy but I try to ignore it. But as I see the woman light her head from his shoulder and resting her forehead against his I realize why this is bittersweet. I will never have that. Even if by some miracle I manage to reach the point of wrinkles and white hairs I could never dance with my equally wrinkled and white haired husband because the man I love will never age and as much as he likes to deny it we will both, probably die saving this world, to ensure someone can have what we are seeing now. He seems to gauge my blue thoughts because he traces my jaw line catching my attention.

But as we as soon as it came that nagging feeling disappears because I realize the man I love is staring at me, with an expression of wonder of pure tenderness. One of his hands rests at my neck kind of supporting my head as he leans down to kiss me, a gesture that I always loved because it always seemed so Angel-like. Always trying to support me. His lips always seem softer every time they touch mine and I unconsciously let out a half sigh, half breath at the Angel taste. He kisses me softly and lets his lips rest against mine, feeling my hot breath and slowly nuzzling my nose with his. Esquimo kiss, I think with a lazy smile. I’m vaguely aware of the on going music and the fact that we’re now, both swaying to it.

At moments like this I when can look at his eyes and see my life plastered there and it doesn’t matter if I will die before going to college or we both die without ever making love again because of the simple fact that my life is entwined with his. I can take everything fate troughs at me as long as he’s there by my side. I pull myself impossibly closer to him, resting a palm against his chest, on top of his heart and with an intensity that only he can create just by existing, by loving me so beautifully could arouse in me I whisper something that comes to my mind every time he smiles a certain way, holds me cradling my head as if trying to protect me from everything, looks at me proudly after a fight, frowns when reading a book, looks my way when I enter a room, feels me when I’m near...Every second we exist my thoughts are:

“I love you.”

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