Here comes the next part. Thanks to all of you who sent such wonderful, encouraging feedback. And you, who left these great reviews. I am so glad I didn't screw up Wesley's part completely. I hope you know what your kind words mean to me! You are the best. We return to Angel now, while he's lying in Buffy's arms. There's more thinking and talking, and the facing of the painful truth. Hope you'll enjoy.
Disclaimer: oh please, as if I even want to own them these days
Category: Angst/Drama
Pairing: B/A, mention of C/A, D/A, B/R, B/S
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: my site (http://www.never-ending-love.de), ffnet, several lists including BA_Fluff, if you have any of my stuff, just take it, anybody else please tell me where it goes Spoilers: the whole Buffy-Angel-Saga, I have, however, not seen the latest episodes (I didn't want to be spoiled for another story I was writing), but it doesn't really matter for the story (I've heard rumours though), and you should read the first stories in the series called "Empty", "Frozen", "Dawn", "Cold", "Breath", and "Friends".
Summary: After crying in Buffy's arms, Angel and her talk. Angel's POV
Timeline: a month after Connor disappeared
Feedback: oh yes, please!!!
Dedication: This goes to Serena and Rose who are doing such a great job with the BA-Fluff archive. Thanks for all your efforts.
Author's Note: I am a B/A-shipper, and in my book there's only one person who could help Angel in a situation like this. So if you are C/A or B/S, then just turn away now. You've been warned. And if you still want to send flames - send them on - I will forward them directly to Marti Noxon, David Greenwalt, and Joss Wheadon for what they're taking us through with this season.
Author's Note 2: I won't go into detail, but you still might get spoiled for season 6/3
Author's Note 3: For this story, Connor has disappeared and although the fang-gang has tried finding a way to get him back, all has been in vain.
And once more with the author's notes: Don't worry, I will continue all the other stories I'm currently writing. I promise. But I have the sudden urge to write this. I can't help it. It just pours out of me and so all I can do is go with the flow. < g >
Author's Note 5: I have neither seen the episodes, nor read the transcript of the last Angel-episodes. I know Connor has been abducted, but I haven't read the details. And I only heard rumors about Cordy's vacation with Groo. Any faults because of it are mine, but as this story is mine, too, well … you get the point. I hope you'll enjoy nevertheless

It seems whenever my life goes rough I'm ending up in Buffy's arms. Of course that's not entirely true. There were several women holding me in my life, and there were rough times when I was on my own, but right now it feels that way. She was there in some of my lowest moments, and she's here now, when nothing makes sense anymore. When everything seems dark and painful. When I can't see the light anymore.

I'm aware that this sounds crazy coming from a guy who hasn't seen the light for two hundred odd years. Sure there's been that short interlude with the Ring of Amarra, and the day that was turned back, but both times I didn't - couldn't - take the time to enjoy the sun, the light. It seemed wrong somehow the first time. As if I didn't really deserve it. And the second time … well, frankly I had other things in mind than something so insignificant as the sun. All I could see that day was the blond girl standing on the pier, her eyes confused and disbelieving when she saw me coming from the shadows. And all I could think was how much I wanted to kiss her. Doyle asked me what I really wanted, and there was only one answer to give. And in all honesty, I have to say, touching Buffy was like touching light. It wasn't the sun, but being close to her, lights me up inside. It was one of the reasons I left Sunnydale, afraid too much light could be too much happiness.

We're still sitting on the floor, or rather Buffy is sitting, I'm half lying on top of her, my head buried in her lap, my arms tightly wrapped around her small frame. I feel her hand stroking over my back, slow, soothing motions, while her mouth whispers words that have no meaning. I have no idea how long we've been sitting here, but it doesn't really matter. The only thing that matters is that for the first time in what seems like an eternity I don't want to scream, for the first time the pain is at least bearable.

I feel her lips touch my crown, feel her soft breath tickle the sensitive skin there, and a sigh rises from deep inside of me, making its way through my body, to my mouth where I hold it, not quite sure what to do with it. It's not a weary sigh, I'm well acquainted to those, but one of relief, as if unburdening from some heavy load. And I don't know if I can let it go. This pain inside of me, it's all I've left of Connor. Does it mean letting go of the sigh, is letting go of him as well? I'm not ready for it. Am not sure if I'll ever be. So I hold the air inside of me, hoping to hold on to Connor at the same time.

I can still see him, see his eyes looking at me, earnestly, so full of wisdom, as if he knows me thoroughly. And I see the trust, which, I know, is something natural between children and parents, but it still humbles me. Nobody ever trusted me that way. Completely, without doubt, and it hurts all the more to know I let him down. How am I supposed to go on knowing that I couldn't keep him safe? That in a way I'm responsible for what has happened to him? I know my demon killed Holtz' family, and that I didn't have a chance to intervene, but I still can remember the cries that night, still remember the look in his eyes when he found his daughter, when he had to kill her.

I try to imagine Connor without a soul shining in his eyes, try to think of him as a soulless monster and it's all I can do not to retch my gut out. Holtz did take Connor to let me feel what he felt. To take revenge. It would please him to know he was successful. I've had some rough spots in my live. Especially after I regained my soul. The guilt was almost killing me. But it's nothing compared to the weeping of my soul, the bleeding of my heart, unbeating, lifeless, but a father's heart nevertheless.

There is nothing worse than losing your child. And I mean that literally. When someone dies, it's agony, pain, grief. But it's also something you let behind you, some sooner, some later. But the person is dead. It's finished. At one point you're going to accept it, move on. I killed my own family, and I will live with the guilt forever, but even that is somehow finished. They are dead. They don't suffer anymore. It's been a long time ago.

Where Connor is concerned that can never be. I don't know if my son is alive or dead. I don't know what's happening to him. I don't know if someone's hurting him. I don't even know where he is.

Will I ever know if he's dead? Will I ever be able to see his smile again? I feel like swimming in an ocean without shores. Maybe he is dead already, but maybe he is alive. Smiling, growing, walking, running - and all is going to happen without me. He'll say his first word, and I'm not going to be there to hear it.

Will he call another man 'Dad'?

I can feel my heart clench at the thought, can feel my soul cry in agony. I don't care that there might be some justice in the fact that Holtz, whose family I killed, now has my son. I'm a father. A father who loves his son. And I want him back. I don't care about past sins, don't care about amends, don't care about justice. There is no such thing in this world. I should know, I've done more injustice than most.

Or maybe there is justice? Maybe in taking away Connor justice was done. In a sick, twisted way. When they wanted to punish me, why did they punish an innocent baby, too? What was his sin? To be born from my blood? From my seed? From Darla's womb?

I grew up in Ireland when the English forbade us to speak Gaelic, when Catholicism was something you did hidden, but as it happens with all forbidden things, Gaelic and Catholicism bloomed in the dark, more forceful, more profound than usual. I was brought up in those traditions, where a stillborn baby was buried outside the cemetery because it hadn't received the holy christening. I learned that even something as innocent as a newborn child was already carrying a mortal sin. It was only later that I understood the injustice of it.

Nevertheless my early childhood years have formed me. Even though I outgrew a lot of things I learned then, some more basic ones stay with you. You can't shake them off, not where it really counts. I'm only now beginning to realise it. Lying in Buffy's arms, I suddenly understand that there's nobody else I would allow myself to cry in front of. I fell in love with her when she was barely sixteen, and the night we made love, the night she gave me the greatest gift possible - her love and acceptance, I committed myself to her. In a way I only now begin to understand.

Again I feel her hand stroke over my back, her fingers smooth, I can feel the warmth through the thin material of my shirt, can feel it flowing into my body, right into my soul, wrapping itself around the pain, the grief, soothing it, and I can't believe that I made myself believe I'd ever be able to live without it. Maybe it was just human, the way I managed to pull myself back into life after she died. I was sure that the moment she died, I'd die, too. But of course I hadn't counted on the human instinct to survive. It's a primal instinct, something that's planted inside everyone.

So I lived, and managed to go on. I joked, I smiled, I worked, and slept, and never realised that a part of me already died with her. A part that didn't want to come back to life when she returned. A part that didn't want to get hurt again. A part that only found its way back when Connor arrived. When he left, the part was shattered again, and only now, with her holding me in her arms I can see a way to glue the pieces together.

In the end all comes back to Buffy and Connor. When I closed my soul for Buffy, Connor opened it again. And obviously it's going to be the other way around now.

That thought shocks me. Did I really just contemplate a future with Buffy? How can I even think of it? We have been apart for a long time, and though I'm sure my love for her hasn't changed, how can I know she feels the same? She was only eighteen when I left. There have been other men in her life, other lovers. I know of two, but there have probably been more. She is a beautiful woman, in and out. I never could believe that a man could go past her and not notice it, and that hasn't changed.

Maybe that means there's a man in her life right now. That she came to help doesn't mean she's still got feelings for me, does it?

"Do you feel any better?"

I hear her sweet voice, hear the concern, but also the hope that she might have been able to help. Oh, Buffy. She will probably never know how much she means to me. How could she when I'm still trying to understand.

I lift my head from her lap, not caring that my face is wet from tears. Tears I didn't think I had in me, tears only Buffy could bring out. Healing tears. There is still a part of me that doesn't want to heal, but with Buffy close by it isn't as strong anymore as it once was.

"Yeah," I reply, pulling away from her, finally looking up, meeting her eyes. They are hazel as I remember them, they are clear, but there is a sadness in them, wisdom, I never wanted to find there. "I'm sorry I cried all over you," I say, but it's a lie. I'm not sorry, I'm glad she held me, glad she gave me her strength, her understanding.

I'm glad she is here. Still holding my hand.

"Thank you," I add.

A slight smile tugs at her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. They stay sad. "You're welcome."

I wish I could wipe that expression away, but know I can't. "How are you?," I ask, only now noticing that not only her eyes have changed. She's grown up, and it hurts to see what I've missed. To see the proof that I haven't been part of her life sitting right in front of me.

"Me?" her brows rise, as if she's surprised at the question. When has been the last time someone has asked her if she is okay, I wonder. She shrugs, but it's not the kind of shrug I knew. It's small, as if neither the question nor the answer have any importance for her. "Okay - I guess."

I feel the hair in my neck stand up straight, "You guess?" What does that mean? Doesn't she know if she's alright? Or worse, has she stopped caring?

Another of those insignificant shrugs, "It's hard coming back to life." I see the shadow of pain flicker through her eyes, but she tries to cover it up quickly, forces herself to smile, "But I suppose you know all about that."

"Buffy, don't," I say, before I can stop myself, grab her other hand. "It's me. Angel. I've just cried all over you. Don't you think you can trust me, too?"

I see her eyes moisten, see her swallow, and only understand when she croaks, "Y-you trust me?"

"With my life," I reply without hesitation, then grimace, "which doesn't really mean anything, seeing that I'm dead and all, but … you know." I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile, but she doesn't return it.

Instead she nods, swallows again, "Yes, I do. And I trust you. You're maybe the only one …" She trails off, a tear steals its way from her lid over her cheek, and I find myself watching it, envying it, as it falls down, flows to her lips, touches them. "I trusted Mom, or … well, I trusted her, after … after she knew about the whole Slayer-thing."

I feel her hand squeezing mine, see her biting her lower lip. "You miss her. That's only natural."

"Yes, I miss her. And I trusted Giles."

I start to nod, then freeze, remembering that Giles has left her. "I'm still trying to understand why he left you. He loved you, Buffy. I'm sure of it."

"Yeah," she says, but it sounds sarcastic, disillusioned, "He told me he had to leave me for my own good. God, I'm so sick of people doing things for my own good."

I wince, knowing that I'm included in that bitter sentence, and look away. What can I say, anyway? Sorry? I'm not sorry for what I did. I can't be sorry. Without leaving Sunnydale there wouldn't have been Connor. And I wouldn't be the man I am today. To say sorry would be a lie. But maybe the truth would help. "I didn't leave you for you own good," I tell her and have to smile when her head comes up with a snap. I shake my head, "No. I might have tried to make myself believe it. But the truth is, I left because I had to. We would've ended up hating each other, Buffy," I add when I see her shaking her head emphatically. "Yes, we would. Because of me. I was the problem in this relationship, not you."

That finally brings a hesitant grin on her face, "Oh, really?"

"Yeah." I give her another smile, then turn serious. "I was screwed up. After coming back from hell, after … well, after all the things that happened … I wasn't whole. I hated what I was. Tried to deny it, yet was unable to. I wrapped myself up in guilt and grief. That's wrong, I know that now, but I had to learn it. I've learned a lot these past years."

The expression in her eyes is even sadder than before. "And you had to do that without me?"

I thought my heart was broken when Holtz took Connor, but now I realise it can break all over again. For this young woman with the sad eyes, and the shattered dreams. I want to lie to help her, but know that only the truth will help now, "Yes." I feel her withdraw her hands and hold them in mine. "No," I say firmly. "We have to talk about it, Buffy. I didn't leave you because I didn't love you. I always loved you."

"I know," she whispers, new tears gathering in her eyes, "I love you, too."

She says it as if it's the most natural, logical thing in the world, andI feel something crack inside of me, then expand, it feels as if my heart swells in my breast, squeezing my lungs. It's a good thing I don't have to breathe. She loves me. She still loves me.

I thought I died when Connor disappeared, but I've never been more alive. Maybe tears can heal a soul. Or maybe love can. Or maybe both. "But I depended on you, Buffy. And that's not a good thing. I was too weak, too hurt, too full of grief. I wouldn't have been a partner you could respect." I hold up a hand when I see her start to protest. "I know you respected me - then. But for how long? I was broken."

She looks at me for a long moment, then sighs, "Maybe," she says, and I have to smile. Buffy is the most stubborn person I've met in my life. Well, she and Cordy, but that's not the point right now. To say maybe is a big step for her. I'm about to say something, when she suddenly continues, "But it's not really important anymore. The question is, can you still respect me?"

I feel my gut tighten at the words, while my heart refuses to take them seriously. Nothing could ever change my love for her, or my respect. I'm sure of it. Yet, I hear myself asking, "What are you talking about?"

"I wonder," she says slowly, her voice controlled, flat, "if you're still going to look at me that way when …," she stops, takes a deep breath, and the dread in my gut intensifies.

"When, what?"

"When you know that I slept with Spike," she blurts out.

I look at her, not quite able to understand. Did she just say she slept with Spike? With Spike? Buffy and Spike? My mind spins, my heart hurts, and instantly tries to find an explanation, "Things like these happen. I mean, I slept with Darla. You can be at a low point and-"

"No."

Her sharp denial shatters my own. "No?" I want to run and cover my ears, but I can't.

"No." Her own voice is even calmer than before. "It didn't just happen." She stops, thinks about it, then amends, "Well, actually it did. The first time."

The first time? I feel my blood roar through my veins. Feel it pounding in my head.

"But it wasn't just one time. I've been fucking him for the last couple of months. And he didn't force me."

The crude words destroy the rest of hope I tried to hold on to, and this time the blood drains from my face. You can't see it, but I can feel it. As much as I want to shout, as much as I want to scream at her, I can't. My eyes are on hers, and I see the raw pain in them, the kind of pain I'm so familiar with, the pain she doesn't want to show but can't cover anymore. And I suddenly understand where the sadness comes from.

"Oh, Buffy,"

Without asking for permission, I pull her in my arms. She's stiff at first, but after only a moment she sinks into them, and starts to tremble. Her voice is muffled as she presses her face into my neck, but I hear her repeat my name again and again, feel the sobs coming, feel her arms contracting around my body, hear all the agony pour out of her. This time her tears stream on my shirt. Hot, painful tears, deep, wounded sobs, they tell of all the hurt she had to face, tell of pain and grief. Of lost dreams, of another weeping soul.

A part of me wants to go out and kill Spike. Another part wants to know what happened, what brought her to this? What happened to the golden girl that once stood on the steps of Hemery with a Lollipop in her mouth? What made her so desperate that fucking a soulless demon seemed like the right thing to do? Of course I know the answers. She touched ugliness, and death. She lost, she suffered. And although she has friends and family, in the end there's only her. She's alone and scared. And I realise it's of no consequence if she slept with Spike, or with the whole universe. She is still Buffy. And she's crying her soul out in my arms. That's all that counts. That I'm holding her right now.

She came to help me. But now I'm holding her, and realise that's all I ever wanted.

Thanks for bearing with me again. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Please tell me, send feedback to Connemara.Scarlets@t-online.de I really want to know if you're still interested in the story. Otherwise I won't bother continuing it, because RL is so busy, and my time is limited. Thanks for reading!

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