Title: Scattered Thoughts: Promise You Forever
Author: JR
Email: JRR42@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 If you shouldn’t be here, be somewhere else.
Episode spoilers: Doppelgangland, Prom, G1 & 2, set between G2 and Buffy season 4/Angel season1
Archive: My site only! If you want to link to it, please contact me to let me know where.
Series/Sequel: Follows ‘Scattered Thoughts: The Road Has Come to an End’, but you *don’t* have to read that before this -- this one can stand alone.
Previous parts: www.angelfire.com/de/theparlor/buffy.html.
Disclaimer: Angel, Willow, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.
Thanks: As always, to Carrie and to Marius especially for coming through at the 11th hour. You two are the best :-) Thanks so much for all the work you do!

...Angel? I must be really out of it, because somewhere off in the distance, I think I can almost hear his voice. I didn’t think it was possible, but the intensity of my sobs actually increases another fraction. The sound of my blood pounding through my veins echoes in my ears, distorting any and all outside noises. Instinctively I know that someone is here talking to me, but it’s so muddled, it’s like being underwater trying to understand somebody speaking above the surface.

Without any warning, I feel the touch of a hand on my shoulder, and I involuntarily jerk away from it. My eyes, which had been closed for awhile now, shoot open in startlement -- only to find the exact person I was sobbing over sitting right in front of me.

And darn it if seeing him doesn’t make me start crying even harder.

He’s here! He’s actually still here! Deep inside I want to jump for joy, but even something as simple as that is beyond my ability right now. I’m still crying, but with a difference. Now my tears are out of relief.

Angel’s mouth is moving, and I know that he is speaking to me -- kinda urgently, too, if I’m reading the concerned expression on his face right. I’m in no condition to answer him, though, as my throat is still so tight that it’s actually painful now.

A dozen emotions run through me in the span of a single heartbeat -- happiness, confusion, disappointment, embarrassment, euphoria, surprise and finally, anger. I have no idea why I’m still annoyed with him at this point. God, I feel like I’m having PMS -- times a factor of a hundred -- the way my emotions are wigging all out of control lately.

A thousand questions roll through my head, but I can’t focus long enough to choose one, let alone say it out loud. Right now, I’m not capable of doing anything that requires rational thought. So, instead of thinking, I go with instinct. Before I realize what I’m about to do, I launch myself at Angel...

...oof! Willow tackles me like a football player, knocking me backwards with the impact. My arms flail for a moment, desperately searching for some purchase to steady us both. Finally, I find it in the cold, smooth surface of the floor behind me. I move around a little, shifting to find a balance that doesn’t require me to rest our combined weight on my hands. Once they’re free, I’m not really sure what to do with them. The uncertainty only lasts a second, though. I end up wrapping my arms around her. As impossible as it may seem, I pull her even closer to me.

For one short moment, I’m simply overwhelmed by how wonderful this feels. All too quickly, though, reality comes crashing back. I still don’t know what has her so riled, but judging by how tightly she’s holding on to me, it’s got to be pretty bad. It’s a good thing I don’t need to breath. As it is, I’ll be lucky if Willow doesn’t break a couple of my ribs.

I’m a bit confused, because if anything, holding on to her only seems to make her cry even harder. That certainly wasn’t my intention. I only want to offer her comfort, to find out what the cause of all these tears are. So I ask her.

“Willow? Talk to me, Willow,” I whisper softly into her hair. Even as I do so, I notice just how perfectly we fit together, how the top of her head comes to rest right below my chin. Her hair is so soft, that it almost distracts me -- almost. “At least tell me if something has happened to the others. Oz? Buffy? Giles? Xander? Cordelia?”

Great, Willow is upset and I’m doing a roll call. Then again, I’m not even sure that she heard me since she’s given no indication of it. Rather than press the issue, I settle for using a single hand to repetitively smooth out her shoulder length hair while muttering those useless ‘shushing’ noises a person is supposed to make when soothing somebody who is upset. Whatever it is, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.

Unfortunately, my patience runs thin long before that point. Once again I ask her if anybody has been hurt. This time, I get an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Now I’m perplexed.

“Then what is it, Willow? What’s wrong?” I persist.

“...y...you...,” she mumbles against the tear-soaked shoulder of my shirt. Her voice is so soft, if my hearing wasn’t so sharp on account of the whole vampire thing, I probably never would have known she was actually speaking.

“Me?” I question, half-wishing that she would look at me. At least that way I would be able to read her facial expression. “Is something going to happen to me, or did I do something wrong?”

“...you...left...”

“Willow, I’m right here.” As if to prove the veracity of my words, I tighten my already-impossible grip on her. I don’t mean to, but her statement is so incredulous, I can’t prevent the corners of my mouth from turning up in a small smile. “I’m right here,” I repeat over and over, enjoying the feeling of holding her in my arms.

Not for the first time, I’m stuck by the dichotomy that is Willow Rosenberg. She’s so tiny, a barely discernable weight in my arms. And yet, I can feel the demon that resides within me growing restless at her nearness. Doesn’t make much sense, does it, that such a petite girl should unsettle a demon so much?

Without meaning to, I think back to my first impression of her -- or maybe ‘lack of impression’ is a better choice of words. I remember seeing her with Buffy on the night of the Master’s Harvest. I dismissed her then, as I did ever subsequent time I saw her, until the first time I held her in my arms. Man, was that a crazy night -- an invisible girl, an open gas valve, and a half-conscious little slip of a redhead calling me ‘mom’.

‘Little slip’ what a joke. Under that petite exterior of hers lies a fount of mostly untapped power. As crazy as it may sound, it’s absolutely true. In fact, it wasn’t until I carried her out of that room that I became aware of it. But in those few moments when I held her, the demon inside me went even more berserk than usual. I never have been able to figure out what it is about her that drives my demon so crazy. It’s almost like it desires her but is afraid of her at the same time.

Perhaps the demon and I have more in common than I care to admit.

Willow is still crying but not as badly as before. Her tears are finally winding down, and somewhere deep inside, I half-wish they wouldn’t. For as soon as she calms herself, I’m going to have to let her go.

Just as I predicted, I feel more than see Willow move one of her hands to her pocket. She’s hidden a tissue there, and soon she’s doing her best to surreptitiously wipe her eyes and her nose. Of course, the fact that her face is still half-buried in my shoulder isn’t making her task any easier.

Finally, she gives up on her half-hearted attempts, and lifts her head away from my body. There’s something mildly symbolic about the way a rush of cold air hits the damp spot on my shirt left behind by her hot tears. While it may be fitting in a literary kind of way, emotionally it’s nothing more than a painful reminder of just how alone I’m going to be after today.

The second that thought crosses my mind, I’m more grateful than ever that Willow is here.

I look down at the top of her red-crowned head and realize that although she’s pulled slightly away from me, she still hasn’t looked up at me yet. In fact, now that I think about it, it’s almost like she’s...

...so embarrassed! How could I cry in front of Angel like that? He’s gonna think I’m the biggest, most immature dork on the planet! Don’t look, don’t look at him! I don’t want him to see me like this -- all weepy and stuff. God above, I must look a wreck. My eyes are sore, probably all red, too. My face even feels...tight...along the salty trail left behind by my tears. I feel this giant urge to go wash my face, but I have no idea where the bathroom in the mansion is...or if Angel even *has* a bathroom for that matter. Do vampires ever even need a bathroom?

Oh *so* don’t go there, Will. That is *so* none of your business. Besides if you even think along those lines, you know you’re gonna...

...damn, too late. I can feel the heat in my face as a blush rises up my cheeks. Maybe if I just keep my head down, Angel won’t see how red my cheeks are, or how swollen my eyes must be.

Nice. This is so nice. His chest is hard...not like Lestat hard, just firm and muscular. And he smells so good, too. I wonder what kind of aftershave he uses. Geez, Will, maybe if you work at it harder, you could actually achieve a lower state of patheticness -- if that’s even a word.

It should be, though. How else can I describe just how low a loser I am for sitting here wondering what kind of cologne Angel uses right after I’ve cried my eyes out. So, so sad, Rosenberg.

Something presses gently against the top of my head. It’s Angel’s nose and he’s...he’s...smelling my hair maybe? Okay, that’s weird, but kind of nice at the same time. I can hear him murmuring softly, and judging by the familiarity of the sound, he’s been doing it for a while, I just didn’t realize it before now. The muffled sounds are comforting but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. It sounds beautiful -- poetic and foreign...wait. Is he speaking Gaelic?

I want to be able to hear him more clearly, so I lift my head slightly. Oh...

...my. When I leaned down to press a kiss on her forehead, I had no inkling that Willow planned to move. Instead of the innocent, brotherly gesture I intended to make, my lips wound up brushing against the side of her mouth!

We quickly pull away from each other like two misbehaving children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Not a bad analogy, considering I feel like a naughty child.

Oh hell, why did I just do that? And why have I never considered how soft her lips would be before now? *Don’t* even think about it, you stupid vampire. It was just an accident. Surely I didn’t mean to...stupid, Angel. A special kind of stupid. Oh, to have the floor swallow me up at this moment.

I’m so pathetic. Two-and-a-half centuries of existence, and I’m still nervous over something only a grade-school boy would mistake for an actual kiss. I want to laugh at my own foolishness. Instead I...

...open my mouth to apologize, forcing myself to look him in the eye...when I completely freeze in place. Angel is looking right at me. God, I hate it when he looks at me like this -- like he can see straight through me. Like usual, *that* look practically hypnotizes me, makes me forget who I am and what I was about to say.

“I...,” I try to begin, but something in those deep, rich pools of brown makes me stop. I swear I can *feel* him telling me to be quiet -- only without that ‘shushing’ sound that people normally use. Angel is staring at me so intently, I feel like one of the frogs we dissected in bio lab this year -- open and on display for his eyes only. In fact, his expression is all-encompassing, kind of like the way Xander looked at me right before we had our little clothes fluke thingie...

...oh my God. OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod!

It *can’t* be. It just *can’t*! Maybe if I deny it hard enough, even *I’ll* start to believe it.

But I can’t fool myself this time. I’ve seen that same look on Angel’s face before, only it was aimed at Buffy then. But Buffy isn’t anywhere near here, just little ole’ me.

But then that would mean...no...no way...no way on...

...or could it? Can *that* look really be for me? I’ve always wondered, okay, maybe not always. I mean, right, like Angel, who could be on the cover of magazines he’s so gorgeous would ever look at me...like he’s looking at me right now.

I swallow nervously, which is kind of surprising because my mouth is like desert-kind of dry right about now. Of course, once I think about my mouth being dry, I involuntary run my tongue over my lips to wet them down. Ohh, bad move Willow. If anything, my little no-brainer move only makes Angel’s eyes go darker.

What are you thinking right now, Angel? More importantly, what are you waiting for? Oh please, Angel, I’m begging you. As much as I want to, I just can’t...bring myself to make the first move. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m reading this whole situation wrong? C’mon, Angel. You’ve got like ten times as many years of experience as I do with this kind of thing. Pleasepleaseplease...I want this...




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