RATING: PG
CONTENT WARNING: Buffy/Angel angst.
SUMMARY: This happens exactly 3 years after Becoming II. Please be
warned that we are experimenting with an alternating story-telling
style. Lil-Wolf will be writing the odd numbered sections, ie. "the
past", Willow rescuing Angel from Hell. I am writing the even
numbered sections, ie. "the present", from Buffy's perspective. There
may be some logical flow sacrificed for the sake of emotional symmetry
and artistic endeavor, but I believe that the overall affect will make
it worthwhile. :)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Buffy & Co. Joss Whedon and the WB do. No
copyright infringement intended..
And I would be the one
to hold you down
kiss you so hard
I'll take your breath away
and after, I'd wipe away the tears
just close your eyes dear
"Possession" by Sarah McLachlan
Shaking with reaction, Angel slumped heavily against the door. He'd done it; he'd really done it… He'd told her how he felt. Now it was up to Buffy. He closed his eyes, trying to sort through the confusing jumble of emotions that were overwhelming him. Love and loneliness, shame and hope. He'd done his best to tell Buffy that he still loved her without imposing on or obligating her.
"I'd close my eyes again…" Would she understand what his pledge meant? He'd go through everything again for her, including Hell. Only for her. Buffy was worth suffering anything for, but Angel didn't know how to tell her how he felt. He wasn't one for words, for flowery terms of endearment. The words always stuck in his throat or became lost to tongue-tied awkwardness.
Angel wasn't hiding anymore. He'd just risked everything to show Buffy his deepest feelings. He was scared to death that she would reject him. If he lost her, the hope of her, he would have nothing left to live for and an eternity to do it in. If Buffy hadn't understood, then he didn't know what he'd do. There was so much more that he needed to tell her, so much that hadn't been said.
Buffy didn't even know about Xander's death yet. Angel wasn't sure how, or even if, he should tell her. Willow had warned Angel to keep his mouth shut and not to even mention Xander at all. "Get her home first. Lie if you have to, but bring her home, Angel. I'll tell her about Xander in my own way. It should come from me. Xander was my closest friend."
Angel nodded, inwardly agreeing with the hacker. He wouldn't lie, but he'd respect Willow's request and wait. Bringing Buffy home safely took top priority. She'd be angry and upset when the subject did arise. She might even feel betrayed by Xander's lie on the night Acathla awoke. They could deal with those things later, though. Personally, Angel bore the boy no grudge. He'd done the right thing. If Buffy had held back during their fight, it might have cost the Slayer her life. If she'd died and he'd won, the world would have been destroyed. Angel wasn't worth risking either Buffy or the world.
Exhausted, Angel stumbled over to the hotel bed. He kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his shirt before lying down. Their conversation, the entire afternoon had drained him immeasurably. Although mostly healed, he still tired quickly. Whistler estimated that he wouldn't be back to his full health for at least another three months. Angel only meant to rest for a moment, but his eyelids dropped like lead weights. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep almost immediately.
*****
Scrubbing at the tears streaming down her cheeks, Buffy gathered up her letters. They were more precious to her than treasure. They were the voices of her mother, her father, Giles, and Willow calling her home. Carefully, she put the cherished letters away. She'd read them again later. For now, she felt drained. Angel had been right; she could go home. She had nothing to be afraid of. Her family and friends did love her, miss her, and want her to come home.
Buffy sat on the bed, staring off into nothingness. She could have her old life back. She could live again. Briefly, she wondered why Xander hadn't written her a letter. His silence hurt. It felt like a rejection and a condemnation of her flight. Then possibilities and hope distracted her. She wanted to dwell on the positive, not the negative. She wanted to be happy, and she wanted Angel.
Her beautiful Angel… She loved every part of him, good and bad. He was her wisecracking "Cryptic Guy" hiding behind a know-it-all grin. He was her suffering angel, hurting for sins that weren't his own. She'd loved him even as the demon. He'd been vicious and sadistic, reveling in his evil, but he'd been beautiful nonetheless. He'd blown through her life with the force of a torrential storm, showing her aspects of Angel that she'd never imagined. Once restored, he'd become beautiful in his suffering once again.
In the beginning, he'd deliberately created a mystery for her, knowing that the ugly, fucked-up truth was better avoided. Better to let her have her fantasies. Better that she retain her innocence than for her to see him for the monster that he thought he was. "Some lies are necessary. Sometimes the truth is worse," he'd told her so long ago. Then, she hadn't understood. Now, she did.
The good guys weren't always stalwart and true. The bad guys never had pointy horns or black hats. And the good guys didn't always win. People, like Jenny Calendar, died, and nobody ever lived happily ever after. The most you could ever hope for were stolen, precious moments of happiness. And for Buffy, happiness meant Angel.
Buffy had seen Angel at his very best and at his worst. She'd seen him offer up his life for her and she'd seen his demon up close and personal. Despite everything--perhaps because of it--she loved him all that much more. He suffered so. He endured such foolish, unnecessary guilt for sins that weren't his. In her mind, Angel was perfect. She knew that he possessed flaws, but her love washed him clean of all imperfections. Nothing could change that. She could go blind, all colors fading to black, and he'd always be clear, bright, and beloved in her mind's eye.
Buffy scooted across the bed and reached for her bag. Distastefully, she removed the sword and dumped it aside. Then she dug through her clothes until she finally found what she was seeking. Her hand closed on a small box eagerly, and she yanked it out. For a second, she was too scared to open it. She hadn't done so in over a year now.
Tentatively, she opened the lid. An intricate silver ring lay in the old worn jewelry box, looking just as she remembered it. It was the symbol of their love, loyalty and friendship. Buffy smiled despite her watery eyes, remembering clearly the night that Angel had given it to her.
He'd been so hesitant and uncertain. His words came back to her, delivered from a memory that she'd cherished for three long years. "My people--before I was changed--they exchanged this as a sign of devotion. It's a claddagh ring. The hands represent friendship, the crown represents loyalty... and the heart... Well, you know... Wear it with the heart pointing towards you. It means you belong to somebody."
Angel had offered to close his eyes again because it was the only way he could possibly express how deeply he felt for her. He'd never been good with words. Coming from him, the offer said far more than "I love you". It said, "I trust you, I believe in you, and I exist for you. You decide if I continue to dwell on this earth, and your desires dictate my being. Yours is the life that I love more than my own."
Buffy sucked in a ragged breath and sighed as she leaned back. She needed time to think. Was Angel right? Did they each blame themselves more than they blamed the other? If he was right… With the demon gone and Angel's soul restored, they stood a chance together. If... Could Angel forgive her for what she'd done to him? More importantly, could Angel forgive himself? Could she ever forgive herself? So many ifs…
*****
Buffy padded barefoot across the dim living area adjoining the two rooms. It was almost seven PM and Angel hadn't come back out of his room. She'd brooded and waited for over five hours. She'd thought about, analyzed, and scrutinized every aspect of their relationship.
Over time, her heart kept bringing Buffy back to one terrible question. Could he ever trust her again? Could he trust in her blindly and wholeheartedly, the way she believed in him? The answer held the key to whether she had any hope of salvaging her relationship with Angel.
Buffy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn't hold Angel responsible for what had happened. She didn't blame him in any way. Could he really feel the same about her? Had he been telling the truth? Did he trust her so much that he'd close his eyes for her again? She had to know. As twisted as it seemed, there was only one way that she could learn the truth.
Twenty minutes ago, she'd made her decision. Then she'd waited some more. Twenty minutes is an eternity to a determined Slayer who knows no patience. Anxiety, tension, and the compulsion to action finally drove her to her feet. She came up as quickly as if she'd been knocked down during a fight. Time to act, no more thinking.
Buffy stopped outside of Angel's room, hesitating before entering. Tentatively, she cracked the door slightly and stopped to listen. Her ultra-sensitive hearing detected no movement from within. She could barely make out the sound of his ragged, uneven breathing. As she'd suspected, Angel had fallen asleep. Her lips tugged into a faint smile. Nocturnal habits were hard to break.
The door swung open easily and she quietly entered his room. Every physical motion came smoothly and easily; it was her heart that dragged along, whimpering with fear. It was her courage that failed. Buffy was the Slayer. She'd faced death time and again. She didn't fear death; she didn't fear any monster. Now, though, she was scared to death. It was her turn to take a chance. Angel had taken a chance; he'd left himself wide open to rejection. Fairness demanded that Buffy take the next chance.
The lamp beside the bed was on, turned to a dim setting. Angel lay on his back, sound asleep; he didn't stir. He still wore pants, but his shoes and rumpled silk shirt lay strewn across the floor. Buffy deliberately stepped on the slick pool of silk, loving the feel of the soft, cool material against her skin. Silk always reminded her of Angel.
As she drew closer, her eyes widened with horror. Angel's bare chest was covered with an ugly spider web of scars. Angry red gashes left by a demon's talons marred his beautiful ribcage. Buffy sucked in a harsh, guilt-laden breath. Yet more damning evidence of her handiwork, his souvenirs from Hell. He must have suffered terribly. Those wounds still looked horrendously painful, even now. She shuddered, sick with self-revulsion.
Buffy came to a halt beside the bed. She stood over him and listened to his breathing and his heartbeat. Both were erratic. His hair was mussed up and his sleep didn't look peaceful. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face. She could clearly see his eyelids shifting with the intense movement of REM sleep. He whimpered in pain and shied away on the bed, trying to escape from something. Buffy sucked in another harsh breath and took the plunge.
"Angel! Wake up!" she commanded. Her tone was sharp and harsh, cracking like a whip. Angel woke up with a start. His eyes opened, wide with fear and pain. He wasn't wholly awake yet and he wasn't really seeing her. Something within his mind held his undivided attention. Buffy waited.
Angel clawed his way up out of the nightmare, dragging his mind and body out from under Acathla's demonic talons. He opened his eyes, disoriented. Where was he? He looked up and saw Buffy standing over him, holding a sword. Abruptly, he understood. This was the second half of his nightmare…
Angel frowned and sat up. The setting wasn't right; they were in a strange room. He shouldn't even be aware that he was dreaming. Her stern expression and the sword in her hand convinced him that this must be another--new--aspect of his nightmares.
Still, things were inconsistent with his other dreams. Buffy wasn't even wearing the right clothes. He stared at her; the Slayer stared back at him from under hooded eyes. A chill crept up his spine. She must truly hate him to look at him so. Angel cringed inwardly and tried to prepare for what would inevitably come next.
"Buffy?" he pleaded, not understanding. Why couldn't he be granted even one night of freedom from this nightmare? Willow could free him from Hell, but not from his own dreams. Would they go on forever, for as long as he lived?
"Close your eyes," she demanded, not giving him a chance to orient himself. Her voice lacked the gentleness of the other nightmares. To Angel she was cold, distant, hard. The Slayer. She'd come to send him back to Hell, to where he belonged. Again. He shuddered, fighting back remembered pain and fear.
Buffy was choking on her own emotions. She could barely hold the sword level with Angel's chest. Silently, she turned the steel blade so that it was pointed directly at his heart. Buffy fought the impulse to offer Angel reassurance that she wouldn't ever hurt him again. All she wanted to do was to take him in her arms. She wanted to comfort and soothe him, to wipe the fear and uncertainty from his eyes. But she had to know. His reaction had to be spontaneous and sincere. If this was contrived, she'd never know. Could he ever trust in her blindly again?
Angel stared at her for a moment. Buffy knew that he would refuse and her heart broke again. He didn't trust her after all. Inwardly, Angel shrugged. Dream, reality. It didn't matter. Angel trusted her judgement more than he'd ever trust his own. He existed for her; he was hers to do with as she pleased. This always ended the same way; he always complied with her request.
He closed his eyes.
He closed his eyes. Buffy felt her world stop and tears begin to fall. Dear God, he'd done it. For her. She couldn't believe it. How could he still love her so much, after what she'd done to him? Driven by an overpowering love, she let go of the sword and grabbed him.
Buffy pulled Angel down into a kiss, yearning to feel his lips and body against hers. Angel, in turn, pulled her in closer as if trying to pull her into himself. The memory of this kiss was the only piece of comfort Hell ever offered him. He suspected that Hell permitted him to remember so he would suffer more from the longing and the lacking which came afterwards.
Such a kiss… Their lips met in a kiss that contained the passion of desperation and the pain of their loneliness. Through wordless agreement they were drawn into the natural rhythms of loving, but not lovemaking. Such things were as instinctive and appropriate to their togetherness as mated raptors in flight, diving and soaring like one entity. Forgotten, the sword--the symbol of their betrayal--became trapped between them. Even forged steel couldn't keep them apart.
Angel's confusion grew. This wasn't how the nightmare went; he never felt the sword until it pierced his flesh. The kiss went on like heaven and, gradually, he realized that this wasn't a dream. Buffy was really kissing him. She'd come to him while he slept. She'd told him to close his eyes. Again. She'd accepted his offer. Angel's heart tightened with reborn hope and fear.
"Buffy?" he mumbled against her mouth. He could taste her tears. Buffy's knees landed on either side of Angel's hips as she climbed into his lap. Their lips never parted. "Can I open my eyes?"
She giggled, pulling away slightly. "Yeah."
He did so. She looked happy and young, possessed of a strange joy that mirrored the euphoria Angel felt taking possession of his own soul. He was waking up; his nightmare was finally ending. The sword dropped to the floor unnoticed.
"Did I pass?"
Buffy swallowed nervously, staring fixedly at his chest. She couldn't see more than a blur of pale flesh through her tears. Tentatively, she extended her hand, offering it to him palm down. He accepted reflexively, catching her small hand in his own. Automatically, their fingers entwined. Buffy squeezed his hand, deliberately lifting them. Her action drew his gaze down. "Do you know what this means?" she asked, indicating her hand.
He looked down and stared. A single silver ring, a heart, a crown, and clasped hands. She wore the claddagh ring with the heart pointing towards her. Angel closed his eyes in disbelief. "Yes," he replied roughly, barely speaking above a whisper. His grip on her fingers tightened desperately. Buffy looked up to see tears trickling down his cheeks. Her heart caught on her own love for him.
Fighting back her own tears, Buffy reached up to cradle his cheeks in her hands. "Look at me," she demanded. His dark eyes opened, still swimming with tears. This hurt too much for him to believe. What she seemed to be offering couldn't possibly be real.
Buffy said it aloud for him. "There has never been anyone else for me. There never could be. There never will be. I love you, Angel. I belong to you."
"I love you too," he managed to croak. His heartbroken whisper was torn from his soul. "But the things I said... The things I did..." He shook his head. Gratitude welled up through his soul. His eyes closed again in prayer as he thanked God for this gift. She loved him. He'd never felt so lucky, or so grateful, for anything before. How could someone so good love someone so undeserving?
"Hush." Buffy leaned forward, taking possession of his lips again. She tasted salt from his tears, not realizing as many tears were hers as were his. "Nothing matters any more but you and me." Gently, she pushed him back down onto the bed. He offered no resistance.
"Hold me," she pleaded.
Angel eased back to recline on the mattress, bringing his beloved Slayer with him. They didn't make love; neither was yet ready. Lovemaking would come with time. It would occur naturally if their love was strong enough, survived for long enough, and was true. As it was, their love, which had endured, compelled and sustained, could not be denied. Truer love is never known than that which sacrifices all for the sake of its beloved.
Buffy and Angel held one another with silent awe and wonder. Their holding began their healing. Their trust was reborn within the other's arms. Broken hearts finally began to love, broken souls to heal, broken wings to mend. Given time, two great creatures of the air would finally take flight once again.
Finis