Little Bitty Puzzle Pieces

By PJzallday

Reciprocity

Through the small African town, the rumble of a jeep could be heard over the squeals of playing children and the enthusiastic bartering of the market goers. Curious villagers followed the dusty vehicle at a safe distance to where it stopped in front of a tiny hut. With concern, they looked on as a pair of tall lean men with dark glasses, dressed in military-style khaki cargo pants and short sleeved button-down shirts approached the dwelling's entrance.

"That your daughter?" one asked in Arabic of the woman inside, directing her attention to the young girl weaving a basket at the side of the shack.

"Yes, that is my daughter," she replied with some trepidation. "Why do you ask?"

"She is a special child," the other explained. "With our help, she will do great things."

***

"Angel?" called Buffy quietly as she knocked on his door. No one had seen him since Fred left his room earlier in the week after she'd cried in his arms over Cordelia's death. When he didn't respond, she tried the door: not locked. As she nudged the door open, it creaked but the room was otherwise silent. The Slayer, sensing no vampire presence, stepped inside. Maybe she could find some clues as to Angel's whereabouts.

The bed was neatly made; the room tidy except for a loose stack of papers and things scattered in one corner on the floor. With only a brief hesitation to scan the room, Buffy crossed to the pile. On the top was a sketchbook with drawing of Cordelia. Though the image was nothing more than graphite on heavy bond paper, the woman appeared to glow: sparkling eyes, bright wide smile, radiant skin and hair. Clearly the sketch had been created with great care. Slowly, Buffy lowered herself to kneel on the floor and began to sift through the images: bits and pieces of Angel's life, parts of which she still knew very little. There were photos, notes, and ticket stubs, but it was the sketchbook that most intrigued Buffy, for she knew Angel had drawn the pictures within it. Pictures of his friends… what she presumed were some of his foes… and-

"Oh God!"

A sketch of Spike. The image wasn't that of the fragile soul who loved her, who'd given her strength when she had no will to go on. No. This wasn't the Spike she wanted to remember but, she supposed, it was Spike as Angel thought of him after he'd been in Sunnydale that last night: the night Buffy sent Angel back to Los Angeles; the night before her last in Spike's arms — before she left him to die; before he left her to live. Buffy closed her eyes and sucked in one long deep breath willing herself not to cry.

"Buffy."

She started, clutching the book to her chest. "Angel, I-" Looking in the direction of the sound of his voice, she was going to make excuses but when she saw his face, all thoughts of explaining were gone.

The tall dark figure stood hunched in the doorway and though she'd seen him glum before, something was different now.

"What is it?" she asked with concern as she dropped the book and went to him. Putting an arm around his back, she coaxed him inside and closed the door. "Angel?"

"Buffy, there's a lot about my life you don't know," he grumbled, not fully prepared for company.

With a glance to his mementos, Buffy muttered under her breath, "Kinda got that." Turning back to Angel, she asked, "Where have you been?"

"Out."

Buffy sighed her annoyance. "Fred was looking for you earlier. She thought you might want… to have some say in Cordelia's… final arrangements."

"Would you please just leave me alone?!" the vampire barked.

"No. I won't! Why won't you talk to me?" Buffy pleaded. "You lost a friend. You're grieving."

"A friend?" scoffed Angel. "You think that's all I've lost?!"

"I don't know! I don't know anything about you! Tell me!"

"I've had a life, Buffy," Angel cried. "I haven't been sitting around brooding over you the past four years." Then he mumbled, "well, not the whole time at least."

"I understand that. I want to understand you," insisted Buffy. "If I got nothing more from Spike-"

Furious, Angel roared, "Don't bring him into this!"

But Buffy wasn't backing down. She needed to know more. "If nothing else, I learned that you shouldn't wait until it's too late to tell people how you feel. That you don't have to be afraid… Angel, please, I want to help you… if I can. I want to know you; to know about your life." She dropped to the edge of the bed in frustration. "How can we build a life together if we don't talk?"

After what seemed like a long moment of silence between them, Angel blurted, "I had a son."

"You mean a 'childe'," she clarified.

"No Buffy. No." Angel crossed the room, reached down and grabbed his sketchbook. "I had a son. Flesh and blood." Without even looking, he flipped open the book and handed it to Buffy. "This is him: Connor."

Buffy looked at the sketch of an angry young man. His face was one Buffy was sure she'd never before seen but still it seemed familiar. He was Angel's son and that fact was clear in the boy's resemblance to his father. "I don't understand," exclaimed the young woman still staring at the paper. "You had a son?" She paused and looked to Angel for answers. "What got you thinking about him? I mean, it must be a couple hundred-"

"I just came from seeing him."

"Whoa… now you've really lost me." Buffy was stunned. "Is he a vampire?"

Angel shook his head. "He grew up in a hell dimension. He was born… here… not even two years ago." He stared off into the darkness and marvelled, "God… that's hard to believe."

"You mean…" Buffy didn't want to believe what she was thinking in that instant. "You and Cord-"

"No," he replied quickly. "Our… ah… We were never… I think we both wanted…" He turned his gaze to the floor as his memories surfaced. "Connor… was Darla's."

"What? But you-"

Quickly, he cut her off. "I'm a vampire? I killed her?" Angel was clearly agitated. "Yeah. Well… She came back."

A look laden with hurt and disbelief swept over Buffy's face.

"I didn't… love her," Angel noted. "I never really loved her. I was… in a really dark place and I…"

"Wanted to feel something?" Buffy interjected as she stared into her own past. Then facing him with an empathetic look in her eyes, she corrected, "Needed to."

"Yeah…" He smiled sadly as he sat down beside her.

They returned their focus to the floor and sat in silence, lost in reflection and regret.

"Connor was such a miracle."

"What happened to him?" she asked sympathetically, before her tone shifted to something closer to irritation, "And… why am I just hearing about him now?"

"This probably isn't the first you've heard of him. You just…" He sighed. "…don't remember."

"Oh I'm sure that if I'd heard you have a son with Darla I'd remember."

"No, you wouldn't. Nobody does. No one but me," he said bitterly with the full awareness that Connor wasn't the only secret he bore alone. Then he turned to Buffy with sorrow drowning his otherwise handsome face. "That's part of the problem: I'm the only one who remembers. I have no one to talk to about this because I'm the only one who remembers that part of my life." He looked deeply into Buffy's eyes, pleading with her to remember the joyful and tragic day they'd spent together years earlier: the one day in 250 years he'd been human. The day he kissed her in bright sunshine just off the pier; the day they'd made love and eaten ice-cream like they hadn't a care in the world. But Angel was met with no acknowledgement, so for the moment, he'd concentrate on Connor. "That poor kid had it so tough. I couldn't… let him go on like he was. He deserved the chance at a real life… with a family. With a future."

"So you gave him up." Buffy's expression was tender and soothing. "You made a huge sacrifice so he could have a life." As she put her arms around Angel and pulled him closer, she thought of Spike, and of what he'd done for her. Holding him, tears came to her eyes and she whispered softly, "You're not alone anymore."

At her words, Angel squeezed her, forcing out her hot breath against his shoulder. Overwhelmed by emotion of his memories, of her words, of the closeness they shared, the tall strong vampire buried his face in her hair and wept.

Buffy sensed the release of his pain. She knew he was crying. Having him there… in her arms… in tears, made her ache to comfort him; ache remembering holding Spike. She pulled back from his embrace, moving to stand before him. Taking his head in her hands, with the innocence of a child, Buffy held his chin up so their eyes would meet. Then slowly, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Though to him his hands seemed heavy, he reached to take her hips.

As she brushed her lips down the side of his face, peppering his flesh with delicate kisses, she could taste the salt of his cool tears.

As her kisses pleasurably scorched his face, his grip tightened on her hips. With his widely splayed fingers wrapping around her tiny form, he pulled her closer. Straining not to move his face too far from her mouth lest he lose the feel of her, he pressed his own lips to the soft sweet skin of her throat.

"Angel…" Buffy cooed against his ear with a whimper before pulling back to take his mouth with hers.

As she clutched at his collar, he slipped his hands up under her tank drawing it up over her head. After fumbling desperately with his buttons, Buffy peeled the dark silk shirt from his pale skin. In the glow of the corner lamp, their newly bared skin shone. The slightest film of perspiration upon Buffy's skin and the hum of hot blood coursing beneath it heightened Angel's yearning. The feel of his cool hands and mouth against her breasts had Buffy burning for want of more.

Before long, they were tangled together in a flurry of bedding and bodies. In an instant, it was as if everything went silent then he was inside her. Eyes shut tightly. Hopelessly lost in the moment.

Continue