*****

His eyes are glassy and so soft. I know he's dying, but does it have to be like this? Does he have to be so out of it? Sometimes he calls me Jenny or Olivia. I wouldn't mind so much if I looked anything like the two of them, but I don't even have breasts.

I think it's just that he knows he loves me like he loved them, so when my names doesn't come to his lips, he calls me their names. The feeling is the same.

Out of everybody in the whole world, Rupert is my favorite. I've known a lot of people in my unnaturally long life and he's the only one I'd want to spend centuries with. I could be with Buffy for the rest of her life, but not centuries; it hurts too much. Cordelia? Maybe a few decades. I love her to no end, but her ability to tactlessly tell the truth wears on my patience.

But Rupert, my dear Rupert, he has every quality that I look for in a life long companion. But the fact that he has an inoperable tumor in his brain and he won't let me change him into what I am destroys my vision of a future with him in it.

We have a lot of history, he and I. He was a Watcher and I was in love with his Slayer. I lost my soul and ruthlessly tortured him. I enjoyed doing it. He forgave me though, as much as a victim could, but it wasn't until I left Sunnydale that he truly acknowledged that I was sorry for my sins against him and others. I visited once, only once, but while I was back, amends were made.

I was there to protect Buffy but I found myself transfixed on him. I was in his home, his mouth, his body, kissing him, holding him, adoring every inch of him. The pain that my alter ego inflicted on him had lessened by that time, but the hours we spent that November wiped the slate clean all together. The torture disappeared.

I left again but our time apart only strengthened my growing love for him. Endless phone calls spanning countless hours made it possible for the two of us to survive. And poetry. Our letters, each hand written with love in every stroke of ink, became epic poems, the likes of which even the greatest of English Romantic writers couldn't dream of. I have each one he ever sent me bound in leather, creating what is my favorite book. My letters to him are kept in a wooden trunk next to the bed so that he might reach them.

But he doesn't reach for them anymore. He's too weak; the cancer too strong. He hates that I feed him. He hates that I have to carry him around. I try and try to convince him to let me bring him across but he shakes his head each time. Apparently he's not so far gone to forget that he spent his whole life fighting against vampires. Stubborn man.

He's asleep at the moment and his brow creases as he dreams. I have to wonder what the dying dream about. Heaven? Or the past? I can't get used to his shallow breathing. He used to have such a heavy breath at night. I used to stay up listening to it.

It's only been ten years since we moved to England together. Only ten years and already he's a part of me. He was a part of me before I first kissed him. He's a part of me and now he's dying. I curse him for not letting me change him. I curse him for being sick. I curse him for dragging it out. He's been sick for so long and fatigued for longer. Each day is a new agony.

He stirs and like usual, I jump to attention. He doesn't wake though. My Rupert stays asleep. I still have the need to go to him and since, with Rupert, I'm a creature of impulse, I do.

Standing up quickly, I leave my darkened corner and nearly fly to the bed. Gliding between the sheets, I wrap myself around him. He's way too cold. Nowadays, he's either too cold or too hot. I'm not sure which I prefer.

His head presses back against my shoulder and his breathing changes. "Angel?"

Thank God he knows me tonight. "Yes, Rupert?"

"I think my Mum is calling me. Time for Tea."

I shake my head and hold him closer. "No, Rupert. It's not your mum. Stay here with me. It's not time for tea. Not yet." I'm scared. I'm scared for him and I'm scared for me. What is it like to die and then, what is it like to live in a world where my Rupert is not?

"'Tis tea time, Angel. Can't you hear her?"

"I can't."

"She has the loveliest voice." His breathing changes against and then he's fast asleep. I'm going to stay up and listen to his shallow breathing.

My Rupert's shallow and slowing breathing.

~end~