Rating: PG
Pairing: Buffy/Angel
Improv #41: steel, false, letter, shiver
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Spoilers: General season 6 BtVS, season 3 AtS.
Timeline: Mid-season 6 BtVS, around “Double or Nothing” AtS.
Author's Notes: I wanted to do something that didn’t end in a really depressing manner. So this is it. I know I should be doing other things . . . I really should be doing other things . . . but I did this instead, so I hope you enjoy!
Quote that vaguely goes with the story, because I like quotes: “To love someone deeply gives you strength. Being loved by someone deeply gives you courage.”—Lao Tzu

I found them while I was going through my mother’s papers. Most of Mom’s stuff was long gone, but this one filing cabinet I had put off and put off. They’d moved it down to the basement when Tara and Willow moved in and out of sight it had been out of mind too. But I needed to do this, to get closure. Most of it was boring stuff, payment records, old tax returns, letters to and from family, Dawn’s and my old grades. But then there it was, a big file marked: IMPORTANT, Letters for Buffy. My brow creased and I pulled the folder out, the contents spilling across my lap. Letters for me? From Mom or . . . no. They were actual letters, addressed, stamped. Some of them were random, junk mail. The majority were slender white envelopes, no return address, my name and address scrawled in familiar handwriting across the front. My heart contracted. They were from Angel.

The postmarks dated from September of 1999. The summer after he left, when I was starting college. They were fairly regular until April, 2000 — when Faith and then I went to LA and we fought. After that there was only one, in June, after he visited me.

Why had she never given these to me? Why mark the file important if she planned to hide them from me? But it wasn’t like she’d deliberately hid Angel’s letters. She hadn’t given me any mail that year, that I could remember.

I’d never asked. Not one of the times I came home, few as they were that year. I’d never asked if there was mail. Was it possible she’d just forgotten, and annoyed at the pile up eventually put them away, with the warning to herself to remember to give them to me? Only she never did remember, and I never asked and . . . and here they were. Angel had been writing me all those months while I was desperately looking for something to replace the whole he’d left inside me.

When I visited him, he never said a thing about them. Did he assume I hadn’t read them? Or that I had but . . . but what? He wasn’t going to mention them until I did because . . . because . . . ? What could they possibly say?

I had to read them. I owed him that much anyway and . . . myself. Anyway, they were from years before. I’d just read them and . . . and put them away. It would be over. I’d go on with my life, like I always had, like I always did. It would be fine.

It was a false sense of security, and part of me knew that but . . . I needed it.

I steeled myself and opened the first letter.

Ma Coeur,

This is breaking the rules. I should not be sitting here writing this. And if you are reading it, that’s even worse, because I certainly should not have sent it. Should not send it. I don’t think I will. No, that’s a lie. I have no idea.

I called you today. I didn’t think you’d be home. You started college today, I checked the dates. You were home though, you picked up the phone and I was stunned into silence by the beauty of your voice. I knew it was unfair, what I was doing, that to say anything, even hello, even good luck or how was your first day, would be . . . unfair. I wanted to pull you back into the world I still lived in, but you’d started a new one. So I just sat there and listened to you breathe. It’s funny how, so far away, I could still hear you breathe. I could almost feel it, down into my bones.

I remembered that. I’d come home because college was big and lonely, only home was just as lonely. I’d picked up the phone, praying that it was him, but there was only silence. A wrong number, I thought, a prank call that the kids were suddenly afraid to go through with. Impossible that it should be for me, that someone should just want to hear my voice. I shivered, picturing him at the other end of the line, in the dark probably, listening to me breathe.

I miss you. The absence of you is like a fire in my bones. I crave you the way I used to crave blood. I want to see your smile, hear your voice, your laugh, the way your lips close around my name. I want to feel the smooth skin on the inside of your wrist, the calluses on your hands, the pulse beating in the hollow of your throat. I fight wishing that you were at my side, guarding my back. I sleep longing for the warmth of your form curled against me. I dream of you.

I don’t think I’ll ever send this so I may as well say it all: how I would touch you if I could, your face first, your lips and then down, your arms and breasts, your perfect breasts and then your stomach, the hollow of your belly button, the curve of your hips, every precious, beautiful inch of you. How I would worship you like the goddess you are, if I could.

The truth is, you’re not a goddess, and that’s the best part. You’re a girl — no, forgive me that, a woman. Strong and fragile, loving, good, my love, my angel, ma coeur. Do you remember your French? It means heart. My heart. You told me once that my heart didn’t even beat, and you were right. My heart is nothing without you.

This letter is unfair, maudlin, beneath us both. I shouldn’t even be thinking these things. I left you to move on with your life and that’s exactly what you should do. I suppose I just want you to know . . . how much I love you. That even though I left, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still love you. I will always love you, nothing in the world could change that. Nothing ever will.

He didn’t even sign it. Not like he needed to.

I was crying by the time I finished. I couldn’t really explain why, except that the letter made me feel beautiful and special and I hadn’t felt like that in a long time. Even when I should have, even when I wanted to, even when I screwed everything up for the chance to have Spike look me in the eyes and tell me he loved me . . . even then, I never really believed it. Everything I did to get to the point where I could feel like something good was a reason why I didn’t deserve to feel that way. Using someone to make myself feel better was still using and in the end, it only made me feel worse.

But this letter, this Angel that I had lost because of nobility or some idea of sacrifice, or the way things should work . . . he had really loved me. No strings attached. And it was too late. It had always been too late. From the moment I laid eyes on him it was too late, we were doomed and it didn’t matter that he was the one person that made me feel beautiful.

I opened the next letter.

Buffy,

I never meant to send the last one. I put it in an envelope to keep it away, so that I wouldn’t write more or keep thinking about it. I wrote your name and address for kicks or something and then Cordelia found it, stamped it and mailed it. I know because she took the time to lecture me on writing to you.

I should probably explain that last sentence. I met Cordelia in LA. I saved her, in fact, from a vampire named Russell Winters, posing as a businessman. She hired herself. I’m running a business now, somehow: Angel Investigations. That’s right, we’re charging money. Well, Cordelia’s charging money. She’s not that bad actually . . . most of the time. I have another employee too, Doyle. He has visions of people that need help, my help. So that’s what I’m doing now, helping people. It’s . . . nice.

Back on subject . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have written it, I shouldn’t have addressed it and I shouldn’t have let it be sent to you. The fact that there was no reply . . . well, perhaps I should just leave it, pretend it never happened. Only, I wanted to write again. Because the truth is, I’m not sorry.

I’m living now. I wasn’t sure if I ever would again, but I am. I still think about you, but less now. Maybe every fifteen minutes. Every hour. I went two once, I think. Two hours without a single thought of you. Pretty good.

You don’t think of me that much. I know you, you’re smarter than that. And if any part of you feels guilty for moving on while I’m so obviously stuck — don’t. I’m immortal, things take longer for me. I have an eternity to get over you, you don’t have the same luxury. So please, don’t think of me. Don’t think of me ever.

By writing you this, I’m contradicting myself. How can I ask you not to think of me and yet write you, making you think of me whether you want to or not? I have no excuse. It’s a terrible thing to do, and you have every right to be angry. I’m not doing the adult thing, but I can’t anymore. If you can . . . please do. Burn this letter. Burn all the rest, if there are any more. Or tell me to stop, and I will. All it takes is one word, and I swear I will lock the rest of my words inside.

My words? you ask. What words? You’re not exactly Joe-Here’s-What-I’m-Thinking. It’s true. Face to face, I have a hard time saying what I feel. I prefer to watch, to hold it inside, to know it, rather than say it. A letter is different. There is something sensual about a letter, the way the ink flows off the pen, the scratch of tip on paper. Something almost holy. So I can write things I would never say aloud to you, not now.

I love you. It’s so easy to write. I love you. I adore you. I owe you everything . . . my life.

I never thanked you for what you gave me. Not only that night, but every night. Every moment since the day I first saw you. Hope. Purpose. Faith. Life.

Every life I save is your doing, an extension of the good you put into the world just by existing. I love you.

There were more, ten, twenty of these beautiful letters, each written on parchment, scratched out in his elegant handwriting, an extension of him. I could hear him speaking the words sometimes, if I listened hard enough.

He loved me but . . . he loved the me that used to be. What did he know of the me that was? The me that floundered through everyday life, the me without purpose or faith or hope for anyone, not even myself. He would look at me and weep for the loss. Or maybe he wouldn’t even do that anymore. Maybe he would just look away.

I opened the letters one by one and wept for the Angel that used to be and the woman he loved, who had died.

In late November there was a break and I recalled that I’d seen him then, in LA. He hadn’t said anything about the letters, even when we agreed to keep our distance. The next letter was from a little over a week after I’d visited. I opened it with a little worry.

You didn’t mention the letters. I don’t know what that means, if you’ve burned all of them and you didn’t want me to know, if you haven’t received any at all or if you want them, you want me to keep sending them. Right now, I’m not sure I care. But on the chance that you do want them or . . . just on chance, just because I have to write.

Doyle died yesterday. It was my death, he took my death. Are you shocked to hear that? Angry? Horrified that I would think of wasting the life you gave me? Don’t be. It wouldn’t be a waste — it wouldn’t have been. I would have been saving people. Left here, in this sham of a life, I have nothing to do, no purpose anymore now that my link to the Powers is gone, no hope because it turns out there are some things I can’t say, even here.

It was my death. Can you understand that? You’re so full of life, vitality . . . how could you possibly comprehend the feeling that it’s time. The knowledge that you have a purpose and this is it, the one thing you can do for the world. An end, a peace . . . No, you wouldn’t look at it like that, would you? For you it would be a defeat. A loss. Not peace but the lack of life . . . I hope you never feel what I felt last night. Keep your love of life. Keep that fighting spirit Buffy. And if one day you do find it, you look death in the face and welcome it . . . then go. Because the one thing worse than knowing it’s your time to die is surviving that experience.

I hope you burn this letter to ashes and then burn the ashes. It’s too dark for you.

Do you know, while you were here, and we agreed to keep our distance, to forget . . . you never looked so beautiful to me before. I would have done anything to throw your forgettings out the window, to touch you . . . almost anything.

This is stupid of me, to write this. You are moving on, like you should. You t I could tell. But I have to think about you, because that’s the only thing I have and I don’t even have that. Just the knowledge that you’re alive, somewhere.

You lied to me once. You told me you don’t look good in direct light.

I love you.

Movement seemed impossible, very far away from where I was. Oh god, it was too ironic. This letter, waiting for me all this time, written back when I was all those things he thought of me — happy, vivacious, completely alive. Waiting for me and now, now I read it when I was none of those things. When I was everything he had been and worse, because he didn’t know. There was one thing worse than anything Angel had felt: knowing it’s your time to die, dying and then coming back to life.

I was too dark for him now. I was too dark for myself.

What did he mean about sunlight? The letter was strange, incoherent in places. There were places he simply stopped, in the middle of a word, without explanation except some cryptic bulshit about not being able to say everything.

What must he have thought when I stood in his office and told him to keep his distance and didn’t say one word, not a syllable about all these gorgeous, intense, soulful letters he’d been sending me?

I kept reading, unable to help myself. His next letter was better:

It seems my life is not worthless after all. There are still battles for me to fight. I suppose you could have told me that, if I’d bothered to ask.

It’s almost Christmas. A year ago, I would have died. I thought it was my time then, that it was the best thing I could do for the world, for you. But I was proven wrong, by the very best source. I was given another chance. And then last week, I was given a third — a fourth, I suppose, if the curse is the first, or a fifth, since I’ve been cursed twice. Do I deserve that many chances? I can’t imagine I do, really. But I’ve been given them anyway, and even though there are moments when my dearest wish is an end to it all, someone gave their life or prayed or sweated or . . . or something, so I could live and fight and I have to honor that.

You died once. It didn’t seem to stop you, even for a moment. I love that about you. I love everything about you.

Why, of all the men I had met, of all the people, all the chances, was this the one that I couldn’t . . . Oh it was too late now, obviously, but once . . . back then, what would have happened if I’d told him no, he couldn’t leave me? What if I hadn’t found Riley, hadn’t found someone else to fill the void Angel opened in me when he left? Would I have gone after him? Would I have made it work? Reading those letters I could believe anything. If I had only gotten them in time, if I had known how he felt, what he was thinking, dreaming . . . would it have made a difference? Would I be where I was now? Probably. Destiny has a way of working itself out no matter what you do. But maybe things would have been different, could have been different if I’d known that he was empty too, the way I was.

I kept reading.

He wrote me long letters, pages and pages. He wrote me notes, a sentence, three words. He discussed movies and the nature of evil and why he loved my hair (that man has an eye for detail).

I know it shouldn’t have mattered to me what he thought of me. I was different now and furthermore it shouldn’t have mattered at all. I should have been strong enough that I didn’t need anyone to tell me I was beautiful or good or . . . or anything. I should have just known. But I didn’t know, for a thousand and one reasons. And no matter what Riley told me, he had still left me and married someone else. And no matter how much Spike loved me, he still wasn’t a man, he was only Spike. And no matter how much Angel had loved me once, I couldn’t trust him to do so anymore. I couldn’t ask that of him.

When we met, after I came back to life, it was . . . strange, and painful. Everything was painful then. I was in such an awful place, so hurt and screwed up, I couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t open up to anyone, not even him. He didn’t assume I’d been in Hell the way the rest of them did, but he didn’t know any differently either. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I don’t know why I could tell Spike but not him; maybe because Angel might find a way to help, do or say something that would make it better and I couldn’t handle that.

I know it hurt him to see me like that, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Everyone hurt, I thought. He had no idea what it was like. He was . . . happy. I could remember what that felt like all too well.

So we talked and said nothing and we gazed at each other in pain and then we said goodbye and promised to keep in touch and went home. We didn’t keep in touch. I couldn’t imagine calling him up while I was sleeping with Spike. No matter how much it hurt Riley to know that I was . . . well, it would have been worse for Angel. Assuming he cared at all anymore.

He was so sweet, the night after Mom’s funeral. He was there when I needed him. I had no idea, I realized, what was going on with him anymore. I’d never had any idea. I never called and asked how he was doing. The only time I visited him trying to help was because Faith was there and I can admit now that it was as much to get revenge on Faith as it was to protect Angel. All these months he had written to me and what had I done? Nothing. I hadn’t even thought to ask my mother if there was any mail.

I know I’m not a very good person now, but I’m beginning to realize I never really was. Oh, I thought so. I tried, or . . . I thought I tried. But no matter how many times I saved the world, the truth is that I’m selfish. I’ve always been selfish. And it’s only now you can tell because now it’s blown up, I used Spike for sex, for emotion, I use everyone now and . . . I used to be more subtle about it.

His last letter before I went to LA was long. He’d become Angelus for a night, with this drug. I didn’t know that was possible. For the first time he told me what it was like when he was Angelus, snatches of it anyway. How he could see everything that happened, everything his body, his demon was doing, and yet he couldn’t change any of it. All he could do was watch, powerless, as he hurt me, hurt everyone. We’d never discussed it. He told me for the first time, the only time, how incredible that night had been, that begun it all. How much of a lie was everything that passed his lips for those four months. How even when I stabbed him through the stomach, he knew there must be a reason, because I had done it.

I thought I was over all of that. It was a long time ago and there was enough pain in between that and the present day but . . . but I wasn’t. It turned out the memory still hurt.

Even though I hate what it did, even though those months are the worst of my entire life, despite all of that, I treasure the memory of that night. I have never experienced anything like it in all my years. Nothing that came before can even compare, because it was so much more than physical pleasure. It was the union, the joining, the knowledge that I was accepted, loved completely, despite what I was, despite what I am. That’s what made it perfect happiness and that’s why I wouldn’t give it up. I wouldn’t take it back, even if it’s the right thing to do. How do you give up perfection?

Perhaps I would, if I were really given the chance. After all, I walked away from you. Forgive me for that. I love you.

There was only one letter left; it was a slender envelope, not a long letter. Something. I was afraid to open it, afraid to see what he’d said. It was after his visit here, so he couldn’t be too angry, not anymore. Or maybe he could. I thought back to the things I’d said to him. Terrible things. I wanted to hurt him, because he’d hurt me. I was angry and terrified and I struck out at him because he’s always been the safest thing in my world; I always knew that no matter how much I hurt him, he would still love me. So I did, and he told me to go. I hated myself for that, later, and hated him for not taking it the way I thought he would, but then there was Riley to soothe and Adam to fight and I never apologized. He did, but I never did.

What gets me is that it wasn’t even about Angel. I mean, it was. I was angry at him for choosing her over me. But really it was about Faith, what she said to me. The fact that she was right. She said I was all about control. She said I had no idea what it was like when everything was pain and hate and nothing you did meant anything. And she was right. I had no idea. I do now.

I was hurt. It was no excuse. I told myself I didn’t need to apologize, because in terms of the bigger picture, I was right. The rest was details.

Details, I’ve found, are all that really matter between people.

Buffy,

I won’t write you again. If you’ve been reading these out of a sense of duty, you won’t have to any longer. I’m sorry for the bother and . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry for fighting with your boyfriend, I’m sorry for yelling at you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for coming when I should have called. I just had to see you again, to tell you . . . well, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. If you’re reading this, if you’ve read any of these, you know how untrue it was. How . . . incomplete.

I do live alone. I can’t move on. But that’s okay. I don’t expect the same from you. That doesn’t keep me from wishing things were different, or from getting great pleasure out of beating Riley’s ass but . . . I’m glad you’ve found him. You deserve someone like that, someone human and normal. He’ll be good for you.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to write those words? They’re true. They’re not . . . I don’t like them. They feel wrong, because ultimately I’m a selfish being and I want you for myself. It’s not meant to be.

Thank you for giving me a chance to make it better. I’m sorry if I only made it worse.

I won’t write to you again because I think it’s obvious that you’ve moved on and it’s time I try to do the same. This is best, in the long run. I’m doing good things here. You may not think so, from what you saw but . . . I am. And you’re doing good things there. This is best.

I have this tending to repeat myself when I don’t want to stop, but I can’t think of what to say that would make it better.

I know you don’t think Faith deserved another chance, but everyone deserves another chance Buffy. Everyone deserves a thousand chances, if that’s what they need. We’ll all fallible. Even you, which is almost as hard to write as what I said about Riley. I love you so much it’s hard to see that you’re human too. But it doesn’t make you weaker, it makes you stronger. Sometimes you’re wrong. Sometimes we’re all wrong. You have to learn from your mistakes.

Do I sound preachy enough yet? You won’t have to listen to me again. This letter was to say that I am sorry and it’s over and one more thing. I wouldn’t tell you, except it seems like cheating not to. Unfair. You deserve . . . warning, I guess.

My work brought me into contact with a prophecy. Not your favorite thing, I know. I’m not too fond of them either. But this is . . . well, I’ll just say it. The prophecy speaks specifically about the vampire with a soul. It says that he (I) will face certain tasks, fight certain evils, and if I defeat them, if I survive, I will become human. A normal man. As you know, prophecies lie. I may not triumph. If I do, I may not be rewarded. There are twists and turns to everything. If it does happen, it probably won’t be for years. You may be married by then. You may be an entirely different person. I may be an entirely different person. I just thought you should know. I’m not asking you to wait for me. I’m not asking anything of you. I just thought . . . I had to tell you.

If you need me, I’m here, always. I love you.

Angel

My first thought was: how could he have not told me? My second thought was: he did. Human. Alive. It was possible, it was . . . promised.

I put the letter down on top of the others, and then I kissed my fingertips, where they had touched his name.

How long was always?

I stood up, unsteadily. I must have been down there for hours, I was stiff, sore. I wandered dizzily upstairs, startling Dawn, who was in the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were still down there,” she gasped. “You scared me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said softly, nodding. My mouth opened and I heard myself say, “Do you want to go to LA?”

“Why?” Dawn asked.

“I have to talk to Angel. I thought we could visit Dad too.”

Dawn was looking at me strangely. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said and realized that it was . . . pretty much true. She eyed me for a moment longer and then shrugged, agreeing. We were on the road fifteen minutes later, in LA less than two hours after I emerged from the basement.

The hotel was bigger than I thought it would be. Dawn and I walked in and found two unfamiliar people at the front desk.

“Can we help you?” the black man asked. His smile was friendly but something sad lurked behind his eyes.

“Is Angel here?” I asked, impatient to . . . do whatever it was I had come here to do. I didn’t exactly have a plan.

They exchanged looks, this pretty brunette and the guy. They were together, I could see it in the air between them, the way their hands hovered right beside one another. “He’s not in right now. Why don’t you tell us what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I clarified. “I’m an old friend, I just want to see him.” They watched me expectantly. “I’m Buffy.”

Knowledge dawned in their eyes. The girl gasped and was around the counter in a moment, shaking my hand. “Gosh, I’m so glad to meet you!” she exclaimed. “I’m Fred and this is Charles Gunn and we’ve heard so much about you!”

“Is it true you took down a god?” Gunn asked. I smiled despite myself; it wasn’t my most pleasant memory, but none of the good fights are.

“With help. Is Angel really out?”

“No, he’s upstairs, he’ll be so glad to see y—“ Fred cut off abruptly, her eyes going wide and looked over at Gunn. His face was somber. I’d seen that look too many times in the eyes of my friends.

“What happened?” I asked.

They told me. They told me all of it. It was a shock, just the baby part was a shock and then . . . everything on top of it. I listened and thanked them and then followed their directions upstairs.

He was sitting in a chair in the broken, charred room.

“You used to have better decorating sense,” I told him, standing in the doorway. His head turned, startled, though his body was still.

“Buffy. Are you—“

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “This may not mean a lot to you, but I got your letters. I just came to say thank you.” I stepped into the room, hesitating. “And to see if . . . if there’s anything I can do for you.”

His eyes closed, pain clear across his face for someone that knew how to look. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“Well maybe I’ll just sit here then,” I said softly, crossing the room and finding a seat on his lap. His arms closed around me and his head bowed. I kissed his temple, his hair. He smelled the same.

“God Buffy, I can’t . . .”

“Shh, I’m here now,” I whispered, cradling his head, molding our bodies together. Comfort in touch, in human contact. He’d want to withdraw, that’s what he always did when he was hurt. No matter how long it had been, that much wouldn’t change.

I think I finally figured it out. I’m no good at my own life. It makes no sense, since my life is what I’m constantly worrying about. But it’s true. I’m terrible at dealing with my own problems. But the world’s? Those I can handle. Angel’s? Let me at them. All I need is someone to love me, and a chance, and I can do the rest.

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