Rating: PG-15 for language and sexual situations
Disclaimer: Buffy and Angel belong to Joss. (Unfortunately.)
Spoilers: Everything.
Summary: Angel finds Buffy; she is not the same girl that she was.
Authors Notes: *cough* Yeah, this is another story that isn't the one I've been so diligently working on. I was studying for a test, innocently listening to Amanda Marshall when the song, "Beautiful Goodbye" came on and this story begged to be written. Does anyone think I can turn this in instead of my test? Also, I should mention, in case it's not obvious, this is told from Buffy's point of view.
Authors Notes (Take two): Thanks, as always, to Heather. You tell me my stories are good even when I know they aren't. You listen to me needlessly bitch for days on end. You rock. To Sara-Lee, you, too, rock. (And, it's coming, I swear.) To Heather, Pinky Heather, :) Ah, yeah, you rock too.
One final note, important, thing, the subject matter itself is very serious and very dark. The story isn't fluffy. It isn't especially angsty but it isn't fluffy.

Buffy stumbled out of yet another nameless, faceless bar. What day was it? She didn't know, hadn't known for a long time. The last day she remembered clearly was the one she would much rather forget, it was the day that haunted her, in her dreams, every time she closed her eyes, even when she didn't.

She hoped the alcohol would kill the pain, or at least lessen it. She hoped with every drink she took, she could wash all the pain and tears way. But, no matter how hard she tried the pain never went away. She had stopped crying a long time ago. It was the pain that still haunted her. It never went away. Even on the days when she would drink herself unconscious, the dull, throbbing ache was still there going strong. When she wasn't going strong, the pain was.

How did she get to this place? How did she go from being Buffy, the vampire slayer the biggest, most powerful slayer there was to this, this shell of nothing? Oh, yes, she remembered. She didn't remember much these days, but she did know exactly how she had gotten to that place.

It just became too much. Why was she the one girl in all the world? Why couldn't it have been someone else? She never asked to be the one in every generation, she would have been quite content to live in a world where vampires didn't exist and people didn't die, actually. She didn't want to know about vampires; she didn't want to have to be the one to protect the world, only to lose the only thing she ever cared about. He destiny was killing her, slowly.

She thought she would help it along. She was tired of the pain of living. She just didn't have the courage to kill herself. Though, a person couldn't accuse of her of not trying. She put herself out in the middle of a graveyard, on top of a vampire's grave, waiting for him to rise. But he never did and she had to move on. She tried other ways, but she always chickened out. So, she found alternate ways. She never realized how quickly alcohol could kill a person. Waiting, she was just waiting now, for the pain to leave her body.

She left Sunnydale sometime ago, didn't know how long ago. She went out to patrol one night and never came back. Her friends didn't cross her mind often, mostly because she didn't let them.

There was no place she called home. She had become quite the traveler; so far every state with the exception of Hawaii could say the greatest slayer alive had been there. Several providences in Canada as well as Mexico could make the same claim. She never stayed anywhere long enough to be remembered or to care. She only stayed long enough to make a little money before catching the bus to the next destination. How did she decide where to go? The most up-to-date, sophisticated method there was, she closed her eyes and pointed.

On that night, she was in Michigan; it was to be her last night there. The money for the bus fare had been made already, as well as a little extra. She was too wrapped up in her drinks to notice the figure following her.

She danced with more than a few men, all groping her but paying for her drinks to do it. She never went home with any of the many men that propositioned her, some even offered much needed money, but she wouldn't give up the only part of her that still belonged to him and him alone. But she had long ago figured out that if she let a few perverted men grope her ass and leer at her breasts, then she would save that much money.

It was nearly dawn when the owners of the bar kicked the last remaining patrons out, including Buffy and her shadow. A group of four girls bonded together by their desperation and loneliness stumbled down the street, laughing loudly at nothing in particular. They were everywhere, no matter where she went, there was always the group of girls, no more than thirty, no less than twenty years old, drowning their sorrows in whatever they could find. They didn't know the other's stories and didn't really care. It was a mutual understanding. They were there to forget, not to talk about whatever they were running from.

Her last night in town was always the worst. Those were the nights she usually woke up on the street or the bench in front of the bus station. She never knew how she got there, but she always ended up near the station.

This night, she would not wake up in front of the bus station.

Maybe she had gone way to far this time. Maybe this was it. Had her time had finally come? She hit the pavement hard, darkness quickly over taking her senses. Her last thought was I don't want to die.

The headache. She knew she wasn't dead because the headache was very, very painful. She had been dead before, there was no pain. Very carefully, she pried one eye open, expecting to see a bus in front of her. To her surprise, there was no bus. Where was she? Windows, there were windows. Ok, that meant she was inside. Inside where? She pried the other eye open and took stock of her surroundings. A bed. She was in a bed. Whose bed? Had she gone home with someone? Panic filled her senses. She had never, ever gone home with anyone, why would she have this time? With a sigh, she realized that she was clothed, they weren't her clothes but they were clothes. Whose were they?

Suddenly the room began to swim. She leapt out of bed and went through the door she hoped was the bathroom, for nearly five minutes, her body wretched, expelling all the contents from the night before and perhaps a lung.

She lay back against the wall, wiping her nose and mouth on the sleeve of the shirt that wasn't hers. The smell. Oh, god, the smell was familiar, comforting. Where in the hell was she?

Figuring she wasn't going to find out sitting on the floor in the bathroom, she got up to go wash her face before she went in search of the owner of the house. She bent down over the running faucet, splashing cold water over her face. She washed her mouth out to rid it of the lingering taste of liquor-induced vomit. When she lifted her head, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. No, that wasn't her. That girl wasn't even alive. She turned around to see if someone was standing behind her, but there wasn't anyone there. Facing the looking glass again, she brought her hand up to touch her face. The girl in the mirror mimicked the action. Was that her? She leaned in for a closer look. The eyes, once full of life, were now dull and listless. The skin, once vibrant and beautiful, was now ashen. The hair, once full and long, was now a tangled mess. She briefly tried to recall the last time she brushed it. She still dyed it, but didn't do much more to it.

The girl in the mirror was literally a stick figure. Skin actually hung on her bones. It wasn't like she hadn't looked in the mirror before this, why was she just now seeing this image? The girl that was barely twenty-three looked well over thirty.

With not a glance back, she fled the room. Stopping at the end of the bed, she noticed she wasn't in a house; she was in a hotel room. She did a one eighty to take in her surroundings, oh god, another mirror. She moved very quickly to the other side of the small room.

Her clothes, she needed her clothes and then she could leave. Where were her clothes? She searched every part of the area but didn't find the black leather pants and tank top from the night before. Great, she couldn't go anywhere without clothes.

"What the fuck is going on?" she yelled, hoping the walls would answer, but they didn't. The only sound being made was by the people next door.

The smell. There was that smell again, that comforting, wonderful small. A slow dawning washed over her. She knew where she remembered that smell.

Him.

With more fervor than before, she searched for her clothes or at least her shoes so she could run. He couldn't see her like this. He would surely turn and run. She wasn't what she used to be, what he would remember. He wouldn't want to see her, not like that. Why did she smell him? Lifting the shirt over her nose, she figured it out-it was his shirt. She felt so stupid. Of course it was his shirt.

The tears she had held back for years began to flow. And flow. She collapsed on the bed and allowed the sobs to rack through her small frame as she sobbed. She didn't hear the door open, but she felt his arms pick her up and gently rock her while she cried. How long did they sit in that position? Maybe and hour, maybe more, she didn't know.

Eventually the tears did subside. She turned her tear stained face to stare at the image she had been trying so hard to forget. She didn't know what to say. What did you saw when your only love found in you at the worst time in your life?

She scrambled out of his lap and sat on the end of the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, gently rocking back and forth.

He was the first to speak, "Hello, Buffy."

She nearly laughed out loud. She was sure he would yell at her for being so stupid or at least ask why, but he didn't. He said Hello. She let out a laugh at the absurdity. Once her composure had been regained, she responded, "Hello, Angel."

And the conversation was frozen again. Was she supposed to ask why he was there? Was she to wait until he spoke again? She glanced at the distance between her and the door. Could she just run out and never look back? That wasn't an option. With a shock, she realized she didn't want to run anymore. She wanted to hide in his arms, but not run.

"I guess you're wondering about this," she began, gesturing to herself.

He didn't smile, didn't speak, didn't even nod. Great, he was pissed. Or worse, disappointed in her, she let a bitter laugh escape her mouth, "Guess not. Well, if you will tell me where my clothes are, I'll be on my way."

Please say no, she begged silently. Please tell me it's ok if I stay. But he didn't. He pointed to the garbage can situated at the corner of the room.

"Why the hell did you put my clothes in the garbage can? Do you know how much those pants cost," she yelled, jumping off the bed to retrieve the items. How dare he throw away her clothing.

His voice stopped her before she reached them, "I don't think you'll be wanting them anymore. Now that they are covered in your own vomit," he told her, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Shit. She sat back down on the bed, as far away from him as possible. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. It was a double bed and he was stretched out on one side of it, resting against the headboard. Damn him for being so smug. What gave him the right to interfere with her life? He gave up that right the day they didn't get to have their beautiful goodbye.

"What are you doing here," she blurted out, tired of playing games. It was tiring and all she wanted to do was sleep the headache and the pain away. Maybe if she slept, when she awoke, maybe he wouldn't be there anymore and she wouldn't have to look into that face, so void of any thing.

He never changed his position, nor did he show any emotion, only turned his head to look at her, "It's taken me almost three years to find you. I was always one step behind, but you stayed here longer than anywhere else."

She cursed at herself; she knew that job was a bad idea. It was the one that forced her to stay in town longer than she liked. She wouldn't have even taken it, but the pay was good.

Before she could ask why, he spoke again, "Ok, my turn. What are you doing here?"

She laughed a sad, laugh, "I thought that was obvious," she paused. No time to be shy now, "I was trying to forget." No point in trying to lie to him, she'd already been found.

"Forget what?"

"Oh, no you don't. It's my turn. Why were you trying to find me?" Maybe he would say what she wanted to hear. Just maybe. The words had long haunted her, I don't. Did he want to be with her now? Or was he just being noble, the proverbial white knight?

"Because Buffy, I, you, I couldn't," he stopped, finally a crack in his stoic exterior. He hadn't lost his feelings after all. She was really starting to wonder if he had. Even his eyes were void of any emotion.

She laughed, "Yeah, that's a good answer," she responded sarcastically. For once, she didn't mean to be that way, it just sort of popped out. When a person spends as much time as she had being cynical, using the sarcasm as a defense mechanism, it is hard to just turn that off.

"Damn it Buffy, I was looking for you because I didn't know where you were. You just disappeared."

Disappointment washed over her body, "Is that the only reason?"

He sighed, loudly, "You know as well as I do that isn't." Why wouldn't he say it? That's all she wanted was to hear the words come out of his mouth. She wanted to know that he had missed her, that he still loved her, and that he wanted her back. Why wouldn't he say it?

But, that would have to do for now. She didn't figure she would get more of an admission right then. He never was one for sharing his feelings, even when he told her to ask, he didn't like to tell her.

His turn, "What are you trying to forget?"

She looked at him earnestly. It was the first time she noticed how tired he looked. She wondered if the look was mirrored in her. She didn't know vampires could get bags under their eyes, but that one did. That one looked like he could sleep for days, given the opportunity. She knew the look was mirrored in her.

"You."

He blinked in surprise, "Me? Why are you trying to forget me," there was a sadness, a regret in his voice. He really did seem hurt that she was trying to make his memory go away. Good.

Damn, she was out of questions. She couldn't keep asking him a question he obviously didn't know the right answer to. Either that or what she thought was the correct answer wasn't at all, and that was just too much to think about. So, she answered, "I don't know, Angel. You figure it out. You left me. Clearly I was doing something wrong for you not to want me anymore. I thought that maybe I would change things up a little. See if maybe that would get you back and what do you know? It worked," she finished dryly. She wasn't surprised when he didn't respond in any way.

Technically, that wasn't her plan. She had just wanted to go for a walk, to clear her head, maybe make a little of the pain lessen. But she didn't stop walking at the city limits or the state line, she didn't stop until her legs literally gave out from exhaustion. She went into that first bar to use the phone and to clean up a little. She accepted the drink bought for her, not because she wanted it, but because she didn't know what else to do. She took the next, and the next, until the pain didn't burn her soul anymore. That was her departure into this life she so despised. The sad thing was, that life was better than anything she had as the slayer.

"Do you have any coffee or aspirin or something?" she asked after a silence. Her headache was getting worse and he wasn't helping. Normally, she slept right through the hangover. She had learned it was easier that way. On the nights she would drink until she couldn't see straight were the nights she would dream about him. The dreams were infused with everything they couldn't have. It was those times that she drank every single night.

"Over on the table, along with some food. You need to eat or you are just going to throw it up."

She laughed, all her laughs were sad now. When had they gotten that way? She wasn't sure she remembered a time when they weren't like that anymore, "I know how this works. I'm not an amateur," then as an afterthought, "Unfortunately."

At the small table, she tossed the aspirin back first. Then, the coffee and finally she forced down the food. She hated this life. She didn't even have a life anymore. It was a psuedo-life, not a real one. The tears started to fall again, she didn't try to stop them, didn't want to. She allowed the salty tears to cascade over her now hollow cheeks and fall onto his shirt.

A cold washcloth appeared in front of her face, she gratefully accepted it and pressed the material to her flushed skin. After a few more minutes, she pulled it away from her eyes to stare into his. He had moved to sit at the on the edge of the bed where he could look at her. What if she didn't want him to look at her? She was sure she wasn't what anyone in their right mind would call attractive at that point.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. What for? Everything. All of it. She was sorry that she made him lose his soul, that she had to kill him, that she was afraid when he came back. She was sorry that she made him leave, that she wasn't strong enough to move on with her life. It wasn't him. She wasn't so depended on him that she couldn't live her life without him. But he was the 'straw that broke the camel's back' as the saying goes. Her great destiny was killing her; it had already begun. She had grown tired of fighting only to be denied just a sliver of happiness.

"Why?"

She sighed, "Because I let you down. Not just now, with this. But however many years ago it was. I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you to stay." New tears began streaming down her face.

He reached forward and wiped them away, "Don't cry, baby." She hiccupped in response. Why was he being so sweet to her? Why hadn't he run away the minute he saw her? Why did he look for her in the first place? The tears lessened, but continued to fall with every question she asked herself.

"I guess I should be the one apologizing. I let you down when I left with virtually no explanation. It wasn't your fault. I would have done anything to stay with you and if I had known that you felt this way, I most certainly wouldn't have let you," the honesty and sadness he held in his words was enough to make the flow of tears increase.

"What a pair we are, huh? Angel, do you miss me or did you just want to take me back because I'm not going?" Her tears had begun to dry up and she asked the one question that she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to, but the not knowing was too painful. She wouldn't go back to Sunnydale, at least not with out him, what little emotional strength she had dissipated when he left.

He knelt off the end of the bed. It and the table were so close together that he was now sitting directly in front of her. He picked her hands up from her lap, placing the washcloth on the table, "I miss you everyday, every hour, every minute. Not a second went by that my body, my soul didn't ache for you. You don't have to go back if you don't want to but I couldn't just let you destroy your life. I love you too much to do that."

Her heart leapt. The conformation made it real made it almost tangible. He did miss her. Still? Even now? The moment her soul was joyous, her self-doubt came crashing down on her like a ton of bricks.

"Angel, look at me. I'm a mess. I can't tell you the last time I had an actual meal. Or brushed my hair. You can't still want me." It wasn't a statement. It was a question. She needed reassurance, the child in her had to be told that it was okay that she would be ok. She tried to move away, to get out of his grasp, but little room and the fact that he was so much stronger than her now, denied her the ability to move.

"Buffy, nothing. nothing could make me not want you. The minute I saw you in that bar, my first instinct was to run to you, to hold you. I wanted to kill those guys that had their hands all over you. You are not a horrible person. Everyone makes mistakes and I, of all people, have no room to admonish someone on making a mistake. Please tell me that you realize that. But what about you, do you still want me? I did leave you. I allowed you to do this to yourself."

"You didn't allow me to do anything, I did this all myself," she whispered. She couldn't hold anyone responsible for what she had become. She couldn't blame it on him, especially. She didn't really blame anyone but herself, she had lost of her inner strength, and everything that made her Buffy.

He smiled, "Are you still my girl?"

She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, "Always."

He reached up, meeting her lips with his own. The lovers fell back onto the bed, tongues dueling, hands roaming and clothes shedding. They explored the other's body as though it were the first time all over again. Just before the last piece of clothing was shed, a moment of clarity struck her, "Angel, stop, the curse," she said. Disappointment didn't even begin to describe how she felt when she remembered that. Ah, what the hell? Angelus would kill her and she wouldn't have to worry about it, right?

He dropped a kiss to the tip of her nose, "Isn't an issue."

Her eyes lit up and the last restricting article of clothing was removed as their bodies moved together as one, reaching the highest level of bliss again and again. So many times, she lost count. She stopped counting. She didn't care. All she cared about was the feeling of being in his arms, the feeling of him moving inside her with so much love and tenderness that she started crying again.

It was later. How much later? She didn't know. Could have been hours or days. Now, though, she couldn't remember for very different reasons. She and Angel stayed in that hotel room, never stepping outside, not wanting to. They let the world carry on without them, it would survive without its warriors. It would have to. For the warriors weren't fighting for anything but each other anymore. Their love.

He held on to her small body as it shook from withdrawals. He let her pummel him, physically and verbally when all she wanted was a drink. The pain was new, it wasn't the emotional pain that she had grown so accustomed to. No, it was physical pain and it made her very angry. All she wanted was a drink, right? That would solve her problems and make the pain go away. He wouldn't let her, she even tried sneaking out, but he caught her. She thought at times she hated him, she didn't though, and she could never, no matter how hard she thought she wanted to. He had developed a sure way to make her stop craving the drink; she thought maybe she was a nymphomaniac now.

It had been three weeks since she had a drink, that much she knew. She was happy. She didn't even want one, not when she got so much more pleasure by not having one.

Over their time holed up in that room, they talked about everything and nothing at all. No stone was left unturned and examined. They made beautiful, blissful love until she thought she may never move again. She always did, each touch of his hand ignited her drive again. No only her desire for him, but her desire to live. She was starting to wonder if life could get any better than being held up in a hotel room with the man she loved more than she thought she had the capacity to.

They were leaving, going back to Sunnydale. Home. She hadn't had a home in so long; she didn't even know what it was anymore. She wanted to go back. It was her decision. He had actually tried to talk her out of it. She didn't think they would stay but she needed to set everything right, to apologize. What would her friends, her mom say? Would they want to see her?

Angel promised her that he would stay with her. He promised they did want to see her and that he wouldn't let anyone hurt her. It was her show, when she wanted to leave, they would. If half way there she decided they wouldn't go back, then he would turn the car around and drive until they wanted to stop. She trusted him, more than she trusted herself. She knew he would take care of her and protect her because she didn't want to protect herself anymore.

She wasn't helpless; they both knew she wasn't. And one day she would have to stop leaning on him so hard, it was an equal lean, though. He leaned on her just as much. They could stand on their own two feet, but it was more comforting to stand on their combined four.

She looked up at his profile; they had been driving for nearly three days now. They were only in Kansas. Having to stop not only because of the sun, but also because he had become quite the nymphomaniac himself. She was rested against his chest and he had his arm thrown over her protectively.

"Do you want me to drive?" she asked, knowing the answer. It was a game they had been playing since they left. She at least felt like she was trying to help, even if she couldn't because she didn't have a driver's license.

He smiled, "No."

She laughed lightly. She finally remembered how to laugh without sadness, to live without sadness. Too long, it had taken too long to learn that lesson of life. She thought, though, that it was worth it. Even with the pain, she was right where she wanted to be, in his arms on the road to nowhere.

She reached up to place a kiss on his cheek, "I love you."

"I love you too, baby."

"..Inspired by a vision they can't command.."

"..in my imagination, anything goes.."

"..It's four in the morning I'm lyin' in bed a tape of my failures playin' inside my head ..."

"..If he could learn how to fly, he'd never touch down.."

Send feedback to Lisa

Back to the Fanfiction Archive