Why?
Disclaimer ~ Joss is the evil genius who created Buffy and Angel; I just play with
them for my own amusement.
Rating ~ NC-17 – so if you’re underage (or you just don’t like that sort of thing)
please look away now.
Notes ~ This piece was heavily inspired by Trixie
Firecracker’s excellent work. If you are interested, visit her website at http://www.geocities.com/trixie_alwayshisgirl.
And in case you are wondering, the random quote is from Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo
and Juliet’.
I remember when I was thirteen. When my parents
were still pretending that they loved each other, when my life was ice-skating
and disco dancing and homework. I remember slumber parties and trips to the
mall and cute boys with dimples passing me notes in class.
I remember being a different
person.
Once we were having a ‘family
dinner’. The kind with fresh apple pie that Mom would spend all afternoon
cooking then she’d emerge from the kitchen with frizzy hair and frayed nerves.
But she’d smile tiredly and not even complain when Dad arrived home late and
the roast was burnt, because it was supposed to be a time for togetherness.
For the dinner I remember the
table was laid with a starched white cloth and there were candles burning. It
was a special occasion, Dad’s birthday I think. We had wine too, a deep velvety
red that I laughed at Dad struggling to open with the corkscrew. I begged to be
allowed to taste some. After all, I was grown up now. I was an adult and that
was one of the things adults did, they drank wine.
I’d never had wine before. I’d
had scotch at my friend Julie’s house. Her father drank it and when he was out
one time we stole some. It burnt my throat and made me choke and Julie had to
wash it down with a whole glass of water. We giggled and giggled about it
afterwards. And I laughed now as Mom looked on disapprovingly and Dad poured a
little wine into my glass.
“You won’t like it.” Mom said
patronisingly. I rolled by eyes at her and took a long sip of the dark liquid.
She was right; I didn’t like it. It tasted sour and vinegary and seemed to suck
all the moisture out of my mouth. But I was determined to prove her wrong,
determined that I was mature enough to appreciate the flavour. So, I smiled and
announced it was delicious then reached for the bottle to pour myself some
more.
Mom moved it out of my reach,
stopping me from having any more and I slipped into an adolescent temper
tantrum. I was no longer a child, how dare she treat me like one? I reached for
the bottle again, this time roughly, aggressively and I managed to knock over
Mom’s full glass in the process. The wine spread out slowly over the brilliant
white tablecloth, forming a dark red puddle. Like a bloodstain.
Mom started
shouting that the meal she had gone to so much trouble to prepare was ruined
and Dad started shouting back, I’m not sure what about. I didn’t hear their
angry voices; I just sat there watching the wine slowly seep through the material,
the mark it made dark, red and angry against the purity of the white linen. And
all I could see was blood. Blood flowing freely, unstaunched, covering
everything.
I saw my future.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It is hot in Sunnydale. The kind
of still, intense heat that causes your flesh to prickle and makes you want to
shed your skin as if it were an extra layer of clothing. It makes everyone
uncomfortable, irritable. But I can’t get enough of it. I lie on the beach and
revel in the feeling of the hot sand scorching my body and the fierce sun
burning my unprotected skin. I want to stay out there forever with the sun
never setting. I need it to blaze against my body always, because when it stops
I will be cold again. And I can’t face that.
My house is cold. The temperature
is over a hundred outside and I have the heating on full, but it is still
freezing cold. It will always be cold now because it’s empty. Like me. The love
and the family that used to warm its rooms are now gone. They don’t warm my
heart anymore either – that’s why I need the sun.
It’s July now. College is over
for the summer and my friends insist on taking me places to ‘have fun’. Even
Giles encourages them. But I don’t want to have fun, I just want to lie there
and let the emptiness burn right out of me. Please.
Yesterday it was cloudy and I
felt the chill in my bones. I lit a fire and sat in front of it, wrapped in a
blanket. I stared into the flames wondering what they’d feel like hot on my
skin. Trial by fire. If I threw myself into the fire and lived would
that mean I was good and worthy? Or am I just going crazy? God, I don’t want to
feel like this, but, but…
It was my fault.
Giles, Willow, they all say it
wasn’t – that it happened like this because it was meant to be. That I didn’t
kill Dawn because she never really existed in the first place. But I know
differently. Dawn was my sister, my flesh and blood, and it’s my fault she’s
gone. It’s my fault and now I’m totally alone. I can’t even remember her properly
now. I struggle to recall her face, but that’s already fading from my memory. I
know the rest of the world has forgotten her already. And there are no
pictures, of course, no traces that she ever lived, because she didn’t
But she did! And now she’s gone.
I did it. I caused her death or
her disappearance or whatever you want to call it. I brought this upon myself
when I killed Glory. Once the goddess was dead there was no need for Dawn to be
the physical form of the Key anymore, so ‘poof’ she suddenly ceased to exist. I
hadn’t known that was going to happen, but if I had would I have done anything
differently? I don’t know.
I had to kill Glory to save the
world. And that meant I had to destroy Dawn in the process. I had no choice in
the matter. But then that’s my life – I never have a choice. I didn’t get to
choose whether or not I was the Slayer, I didn’t get to choose when I sent
Angel to Hell. I didn’t ask for this burden, it was thrust upon me and now
people get upset when I can’t handle it.
Why does the world always have to
come first? Why to I constantly have to give up the people I love for it? I
don’t care anymore. I would condemn them all to death for just a minute longer
with Dawn, or to hear Mom tell me she loves me one more time or for a final,
sweet kiss from Angel. Don’t ask me to save the world again, because I don’t
think I could.
I never wanted to be a hero. I never needed the
glory. All I wanted from life was a warm home filled with family and the soft
touch of my lover’s embrace. But now my home echoes with emptiness and my
lover’s caress is forbidden. Instead of being loved I am to be put on a
pedestal and revered. Look, but don’t touch.
The sun is beginning to set. I feel its heat wane
as it dips towards the horizon and I smell the oncoming dusk as acutely as if I
were a vampire. Sometimes I think I am. Not that exact creature, of course, but
that type of being that belongs in the night. And I hate it. I hate night now.
I’m afraid of the dark. I almost laugh at this. Buffy, the great vampire
slayer, afraid of the dark. But I am. I’m afraid because it owns me and because
it’s all the future I have.
I don’t want to die in a dark alley from vampire
bites. I don’t want to lie cold and pale and naked on a mortuary slab, whilst the
pathologist prods me and wonders where all the blood has gone. I don’t want my
last memory to be one of fear. I want to fall asleep in a warm bed, surrounded
by memories of when I was loved.
The sun burns brilliant reds and oranges now as it
falls into the sea. The air has cooled perceptibly already. I shiver as a cool
wind blows in off the ocean.
“I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life.”
I pull on my too warm clothes. Everybody else wears t-shirts and shorts,
but I have jeans and a thick woollen sweater. And still they are not enough to
combat the chill that comes from within not without. I must patrol tonight.
People need me. Once again I have no choice.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I
return home from patrol alive. Tonight was not the night, then. Tonight I
staked five vampires and I saw that mortuary slab in each pair of their golden
eyes. So, I fought. I lashed out with my fists and my feet and my stake and I
killed them all. Am I a murderer or a hero?
I
just knew I had to keep control. I couldn’t lose myself in a vampire’s deadly
embrace again. The kiss of death. I’d let Angel do it to me. I’d first
given my body to him then my blood, but it hadn’t been enough for him. He’d
taken my heart as well then thrown it back in my face, battered, bruised and
unrecognisable.
I
wasn’t going to let it happen again. No vampire was going to destroy me like he
had. I still had one choice left – how I died. And I wasn't going to let any
vampire take that away from me.
So,
I pushed them away from me and threw them to the ground. Then I held them down
as Angel had held me down when he bit me and I pummelled them with my fists
until my knuckles ached and salty tears cascaded down my face. Then when I’d
vented all my anger and frustration I drew a stake and plunged it through their
hearts. And all the time I wasn’t sure whether I was so desperate to keep their
fangs from my neck because I was pretending they were Angel or because I knew
that they weren’t.
After
patrol I checked in with Giles and the rest of the gang. It had become one of
their rituals since the fight with Glory. Force Buffy to bond over her latest
victim tally. I recounted my kills dispassionately then declined an invitation
to go dancing at the Bronze. They didn’t notice anything was wrong. Why should
they? I was Buffy. I was their heroine, their strength. I’d come through worse
things than this and still bounced back with a smile. Why should this time be
any different?
I
think Tara may have realised that I wasn’t all there. That my smile stretched
falsely across my lips, but didn’t reach my eyes. She may even have sensed me
quietly dying inside, but she didn’t say anything. She is too timid to bring it
up in front of the whole group. She may mention it to Willow later, but by then
it won’t matter.
I
don’t know when I decided to do this. Maybe I always knew that it would end
like this. It’s strange really, now I come to this moment. I almost feel like
laughing, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how. I always assumed that being the
Slayer I would die suddenly in a blaze of glory, not slip away quietly in the
dead of night. But when I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Being the
Slayer destroyed me slowly. Every battle I faced killed a bit more of me and there’s
nothing left of the girl I once was. Now all I have to do is finish the job.
I
am ridiculously calm about it. In fact this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in
weeks. I can see the end now. I put on my new dress, something I bought on a
shopping spree with Will in an effort to make myself feel better. It didn’t
work and I’ve never worn the dress yet, but it just seemed appropriate. I brush
my hair and apply my make-up carefully. This should save them a job at the
funeral directors, I think irrelevantly.
When
I’m done I pour myself a glass of wine (white, I’ve never liked red since that
day it spread over the white tablecloth like blood) and sit down to write
letters to the people I will be leaving behind. They have been good to me - they
deserve a goodbye. I cry quietly as I write.
Willow,
Please
don’t blame yourself for this. There was nothing you could have done. You were
the best friend I could have ever asked for and I hate to be hurting you like
this. Don’t mourn me - just remember me happy and laughing with you. Remember
me bright and vibrant and full of life.
Tell
Tara you love her and hold on to her tightly. It is a terrible thing to be
alone.
Love
and Hugs,
Buffy
P.S. If you ever see Riley again, tell him
I’m sorry I could never be the Buffy he fell in love with.
Xander,
Promise
me one thing. Never, ever grow up. Nobody should ever be old before their time.
You always made me smile, even when I was at my lowest ebb and I thank you for
that. Tell a joke every day and make someone laugh like you did for me.
Please
look after Willow for me, I have a feeling she will take this hard.
Keep
smiling,
Love,
The Buffster
Giles,
Thank you for everything. Thank you for letting me be Buffy as well as
the slayer. Thank you for being the closest thing to a father I have ever
known. Thank you for never judging me or reprimanding me when I made stupid
mistakes. Thank you for just being there when I needed you.
Thank you for being the best watcher a girl could ever ask for (way
better than Wesley!).
All my love,
Buffy
I
lay down my pen. There is one letter I have still to write but I don’t know
what to say in it. Angel. If I had an eternity I couldn’t say everything I
wanted to say to him and yet I am supposed to fit my goodbye into a few short
lines.
No,
not goodbye. Never goodbye.
Angel,
I blame you. I mean, I don’t, not really. It’s just that everything in
my life seems to come back to you. You are always there. I feel you with me.
It’s like having a phantom limb. I know you’re not there, but I can still sense
your arms around me, your lips on my lips. Sometimes I wake up in the morning
and feel my body pressed up against yours. I lay my cheek against your broad,
smooth, cool chest and it feels perfect. Then I open my eyes and I’m alone
again. There’s nobody there.
Maybe I don’t blame you. I blame fate for making me fall in love with
you. We both know that our connection runs deeper than anything normal or
natural and that has nothing to do with us sharing our bodies or me giving you
my blood. Our souls walk hand in hand and my whole being aches because I cannot
physically be with you.
I should divide my life into before I became the Slayer
and after I was called, but I don’t. I divide it into before and after I met
you. The minute I looked into your deep, dark, brown eyes something inside me
changed. I ceased to be an individual functioning on my own. I became half of a
whole. Angel and Buffy. Buffy and Angel. I am yours and you are mine. Forever.
I want to tell you that when you left me it felt like
you were tearing my soul apart. That when you walked away you took a part of me
with you and left a part of you behind. I want to tell you that I didn’t once
cry, not after that first talk with Willow, because tears are healthy, healing,
and some heartbreaks just can’t be mended. But now is not the time to think of
such hurts and resentments. Now all I will say is that I love you, even though
those three words cannot begin to describe how I feel about you. The truth is I
don’t know any words that can, but I know you will understand because you feel
the same way about me.
I cannot live as half a person any longer. I feel
incomplete, empty and I haven’t even got a cheery, mundane home and family to
distract me from the hurt I feel inside, anymore. There is no way to break our
bond, but I hope my death will release you from it. You lived 240 years without
me and I believe you have the strength in you to do it again.
Remember me making love to you every night in our
dreams.
Always Yours,
Buffy
I
fold the letters into envelopes and think ruefully that I needn’t have bothered
making such a careful job of my make-up. My tears have ruined it all, anyway.
But that makes no difference now. It is time. I have already finished the
bottle of wine and I am beginning to feel drowsy. I carry the letters into my
Mom’s bedroom and I lie down on the bed. I have brought a dagger with me. It
used to be Faith’s – the same one I stabbed her with – I went back and found it
after graduation. It seems somewhat fitting that I should be using it upon
myself this time.
I
run the dagger swiftly across both of my wrists, mesmerised by the thick, red
blood that began to spill from them over my pale skin. Like wine on a
tablecloth. I lie back and feel the magical life force begin to drain from
me. Doctors used to believe that bloodletting had a curative effect, that you
could bleed the illness right out of a person. That is what I like to think is
happening to be now. I am being purged of all my hurt and pain and as my blood
flows away too goes my past.
A
drip falls onto the bed sheets. There goes my fight with the master. Another
drip. Goodbye to my first kiss with Angel. Drip: the first time I died. Drip:
my one night stand with Parker. Drip: the vampire that stabbed me with my own
stake. Drip, drip, drip: stabbing Angel, telling him I loved him, sending him
to Hell. Close your eyes…
The
weight of my worries falls away and I feel light-headed. I begin to drift into
sleep. I know the wounds on my wrists will begin to close themselves soon. The
blood will clot and its rich flow will be stemmed. But the blood was just a
statement, a way to be cleansed. It is the painkillers I dissolved in the wine
I drank that were meant to kill me.
As
I fade into unconsciousness I think of the happy times. Riding on my father’s
shoulders as a young child. Mom bringing me milk and cookies and tucking me
into bed. Laughing at one of Xander’s dumb jokes. Dancing at the Bronze. But as
always, the last face I see before I descend into oblivion is his.
Goodnight,
my love.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I
wake to a harsh light shining in my eyes. I feel like hell. My head is
splitting and my throat feels like I’ve been swallowing razor blades. There is
a hideous taste in my mouth of charcoal and bile and I am nauseous. The rough,
starched sheets scratch my skin and I realise I’m in hospital.
No.
This is not what I wanted. No!
I
begin to struggle, hot tears stinging my cheeks, but I have needles in my arm
and smooth, strong hands soon hold me still.
“She’s
coming round.” I hear an unfamiliar female voice. Then I feel a cool touch
against my cheek.
“Buffy?”
I
turn away from him, not wanting to look. Not wanting to believe he’s really
there. This is a dream, a nightmare. I’m still there in my mother’s bed, still
quietly dying. It will be over soon. Go back to sleep Buffy, this cannot be
real. Then he speaks again.
“Buffy.”
Insistent this time.
I
turn and look at him. He towers over me, warm brown eyes radiating love and
concern. My heart does its familiar leap to see him standing there and suddenly
I feel alive again. My heart still exists; I thought it had died a long time
ago. I thought it shattered into a million pieces and yet it still responds to
him. I can’t decide whether I love him or hate him at this moment. Maybe I do
both, or maybe each is the same thing.
I
open my mouth to speak, but I have no voice. Maybe that’s a good thing, because
I don’t know what I was going to say, anyway.
“Shush,”
he tells me. “They had to pump your stomach. That’s why you feel so ill. Your
throat will still be sore from the tube they put down it.”
I
nod my head and turn away from him again, unsure of what to do next. My whole
body aches and my brain can’t even begin to process the situation. I was
supposed to be dead. I had it all worked out. The best laid plans…
I
start to cry and I feel him take my hand in his. His large palm envelops my
tiny fingers and I feel our connection reassert itself. He leans over and
kisses me lightly on the forehead.
“We
can talk when you feel better.” He says. “Now, sleep.”
I
do as he tells me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I
wake again and this time I don’t feel so bad. The ache in my head and the
stinging in my throat have both lessened somewhat. Angel is still here and he
is still holding my hand. I keep my eyes closed for a moment, unsure as to what
I’m feeling, not wanting to awaken because that is an acknowledgement I’m still
alive and I still have to deal with this world. I don’t want to. I’m exhausted,
so terribly, terribly tired.
But
he senses my stirring. He squeezes my hand and my eyes flutter open, they have
tears in them already. I haven’t cried in months, so why is it that I suddenly
can’t stop now?
“What
are you doing here?” I ask. I mean the words to be harsh. What right has he to
be here now when he hasn’t been there for any of the past two years? But my
voice catches in my throat and grates over my sore vocal cords, coming out as a
hoarse whisper. So instead, to illustrate my venom, I snatch my hand away from
his. A slight look of hurt flashes across his features, but then is gone almost
as swiftly as it came and the only effect of my gesture is to leave my skin
tingling for renewed contact with his.
He
sighs tiredly and I notice he is paler than usual and has dark rings underneath
his eyes. I didn’t think vampires got eye bags. But then Angel isn’t exactly
your average vampire. “I found you.” He explains. “And I brought you to
hospital.”
My
emotions whirl and incomprehension vies with anger. What right had he to save
me? I never asked him to, I didn’t want him there. It was my choice to die and
now that choice has been taken away from me yet again. I want to hit him and
yell at him, but I am too weak for either. For now incomprehension will just
have to suffice.
“What?
How?” I choke out.
He
regards me sadly and seriously. “I knew.” He says simply.
It
makes perfect sense and yet it doesn’t. How could he know? He was in LA; we
haven’t seen each other in over a year (a whole year, my heart aches to even
think it). But then would I know if he died or was dying? Yes. The answer is
clear and startling. I have never been so sure of anything in my whole life. I
would know.
“I
always feel you with me, Buffy.” He tells me hesitantly. “And I could sense you
slipping away, and I just knew.” His voice cracks and I take his hand again,
soothing, calming. Why am I the one doing the comforting? I’m the one in pain
here; it was me that tried to kill myself.
Oh
God. It’s just starting to sink in. I tried to kill myself. I nearly
committed suicide. Some of the old Buffy flashes back - what was I even
thinking? I start to giggle and I think maybe I’m hysterical. Angel squeezes my
hand tightly and asks me what’s wrong. I only laugh harder. I laugh and laugh
until tears are pouring down my cheeks and I’m crying, great heaving sobs that
wrack my underweight frame.
Angel
takes me into his arms and I feel so small wrapped in his large, muscular body.
I think that I should have been eating more, but grief works much more
effectively than any diet. God, I wish I were fat. Fat from my mother’s cooking
and rich dinners with my boyfriend. Fat from a baby inside me. I wish I had
slumber parties and glutted on ice cream or ate whole tubs full of buttered
popcorn at the movies. I want more than anything at this instant to be fat and
happy.
But
my ribs stick out through my skin and my elbows and knees are bony, and I’ve
forgotten what it is to be happy. Was I ever happy? I feel the strong arms
around me and I think maybe I was, once.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The
nurse comes in and interrupts us. I have long since finished crying, but I am
still ensconced in Angel’s embrace. I don’t want to move. I feel safe there,
safer than I’ve felt in a long, long time. Let someone else do the protecting
for once. I’m still angry with him, but that can wait. Now I just want to be
held.
The
nurse clears her throat, like she’s trying to get our attention. Angel lowers
me back onto the bed. I think I whimper at our loss of contact, but I couldn’t
be sure. I don’t recognise my own voice anymore.
“You
have some visitors, Ms Summers.” The nurse informs me and I panic. Visitors!
I don’t want to see them, I don’t want to have to face their disapproving looks
and their judgement of me. ‘Why Buffy?’ they’ll ask. ‘Why didn’t you talk to
us?’ ‘Why did you have to do this?’ They’ll be ashamed of me. Ashamed of my
weakness. Their hero Buffy, giving up, giving in. Throwing away the life she’s
worked so hard all these years to preserve.
“Who?” I ask in a quiet, frightened voice, which
sounds unfamiliar to my own ears. Who is this person lying in a hospital bed
with needles poking out of her and bandaged wrists? Who is she? Because, she
isn’t me.
“Some of your friends – a girl and a boy - and your
father, I think.” The nurse answers distractedly. “Shall I show them in?”
“No!” I say desperately. Willow, Xander and
Giles. I don’t want to see them.
Angel brushes my cheek softly. “They don’t know.” He
tells me gently. “They don’t know what happened. They think you got injured in
a fight.”
“You didn’t tell them?” I look up at him with wide,
astonished eyes.
He shakes his head. “I just said you were hurt and
that I brought you to the hospital. Beyond that it’s up to you to talk to
them.”
I shrink away from him in horror. “Do I have to
tell them now?” I ask.
He looks at me critically, taking in my
malnourished, abused, shaking body and registering the fear in my eyes. Not
fear of predators or death. Fear of the people I call my friends; fear of being
judged. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He says quietly and
I breathe an involuntary sigh of relief. Angel will keep my secret - he will
protect me.
I wonder briefly when Angel became my saviour, my
champion, again. Then maybe I think he never stopped. It was always him I would
think of when I needed the strength to carry on. I would imagine him as my
rock, silently and efficiently dealing with the problem, and afterwards his
powerful arms drawing me into the safe haven of their embrace. Nothing could
touch me there; no problem was too great that it would just melt away when
Angel held me.
But then he left. He left and my memories of him
grew faded. I could no longer feel his touch and taste his kisses, even in my
mind. And there was no strength great enough to deal with the emptiness he left
in his wake. He took my blood, my fire, my passion, and it was replaced with
someone else’s blood. All this time that which ran in my veins wasn’t mine.
Maybe that was why I slit my wrists, I wanted to let this foreign presence they
transfused me with escape. I wanted to be Buffy again. I wanted to be who I was
before he left, even if that person lay dead from exsanguination.
My mind whirls with thoughts and I wonder where
they have all come from. I didn’t feel like this before. Before I just felt
empty and my mind was blank. Tabula rasa. See, now Latin phrases even
jump to the front of my brain without prompting. Giles would be proud of me. Giles,
I remember. He’s here. And Willow and Xander. I begin to panic as the
reality of my situation kicks in. I look down at my heavily bandaged wrists.
“They’ll know.” I murmur weakly.
Angel shakes his head. “They won’t see what they
don’t want to believe.”
I accept his words because I know the truth behind
them. I’ve spent the last two years in denial. Even the most obvious of facts
or the most powerful of evidence can be refuted by someone determined enough to
maintain the comforting web of lies they have built around their life. My
friends will never accept I tried to kill myself because it jibes with their
fundamental belief that I am the strong one, the fighter. I was once, but
somewhere along the line I stopped. I lost the will to fight.
“Let them in.” I nod to Angel and steel myself. I
plaster a fake smile on my face as Willow begins to edge nervously through the
door.
“Hi,” I say with a cheerfulness I haven’t felt in a
long time. Angel’s eyes narrow in disapproval of my charade, but the immediate
easing of the uncomfortable expressions on my friends’ faces is all the reason
I need to continue the act. Buffy is all right – their world remains stable.
Shame mine has fallen apart. But even in the midst of my despair I protect them
still. Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to stand alone and I don’t want
them to face the same fate.
Only Giles remains concerned and I sense that he is
more bothered by the presence of Angel than anything else. I do not miss the
irony that Giles should think the very man who saved me from myself to be my
greatest threat.
Willow and Xander are babbling on about something.
Plans for the upcoming weekend, I think. I only half listen to them, my
attention is distracted elsewhere, towards the quite conversation Giles is
having with Angel in the corner of the room. They stand away from me,
supposedly out of my hearing, but Giles at least has forgotten about my slayer
senses. Angel remembers, I am sure, I can tell by the anxious way his eyes keep
darting towards me that he realises I am taking in every word he says.
“Explain to me again how you came to be in
Sunnydale.” Giles asks Angel suspiciously.
“I was here on business.” Angel replies. Even if I
didn’t know the story was false already I would have been able to tell by the
tone of his voice. Angel is a terrible liar and from my experience even
soulless Angelus was never much better at the skill. But when you think about
it, why would he need to lie when the truth can hurt so much deeper.
“And you just happened to witness Buffy being
attacked?” Giles continues.
“I just found her and brought her to the hospital.”
Angel answers defensively. He fixes the former librarian with a flat gaze, indicating
the topic of conversation closed. Giles seems to accept this for know, though I
know he will pigeonhole the information for use later.
Angel hovers by my side protectively, while I smile
and joke with Willow and Xander. We skirt around the reason I am in hospital
the same way we avoid the all the other problems in my life right now. Nobody
ever mentions Dawn or my Mom, as if it’s easier for me not to hear about them.
I suppose they expect me to forget, to move on with my life – like I forgot
about Angel.
But I never forgot, not really. I just locked the
memories away in the corner of my heart. I just pretended none of it happened,
like I pretended I never died, or that Riley never left me, or that I never
found Kendra’s body. I pushed the thoughts and the feelings down. I filed them
all in little boxes and shut the lids on them. Instead I would occupy my mind
with the trivial. I would slay and I would laugh with my friends. I would go
dancing at the Bronze. The louder the music the better. I needed that thumping
bass beat to drown out my thoughts.
Always keep the lids on those boxes.
But in time the memories grew too numerous. I
filled the boxes right up to the top and had to keep shutting down more and
more of my mind and my heart. Soon there was no Buffy left, just some vacuous
girl whose smile never really quite reached her eyes anymore. But nobody
noticed – too busy with their own boxes, I suppose.
Willow and Xander finish with their inane chatter.
It seems I have laughed in all the right places, so they are satisfied. They
turn to leave and Willow squeezes my hand, promising they will be back soon.
Giles hesitates before following them and fixes me in his concerned gaze.
“Buffy, what exactly did happen?” He asks.
I cannot handle the question, my cheery resolve
begins to fall apart and I desperately fight back tears. “I messed up.” I tell
the man who is practically my father, in a quiet, little girl voice. “I made a
terrible mistake.”
He takes in my words and looks a little flustered. I
think maybe he has seen some of the emptiness in my eyes – it scares him. He
backs out of the room, muttering something about discussing it when I’m feeling
better. Later he will rationalise the despair he saw in me, put it down to
trauma or being in hospital, which he knows I hate. Then I will be able to fool
him again with my false levity. It is amazing what you can convince yourself
into believing when you try hard enough.
When they are gone I turn to Angel who stands there
a solid wall of silence, his eyes impenetrable.
“I want to leave.” I tell him and he nods briefly.
“You sure?” He asks and I respond by forcefully
pulling the IV line out of the crook of my elbow. It stings briefly then the
pain melts away into the dull ache that suffuses the rest of my body. A few
drops of blood trickle out of the open wound and I lick them quickly away,
acutely aware of Angel’s eyes boring into me as I do so.
I swing my legs round out of bed and try to stand,
but the blood rushes quickly to my head and I keel over. Angel catches me
quickly and holds me steady in his embrace until I have found my footing. He
then removes his trademark leather duster and wraps it around me, the heavy
material enveloping me acting as a temporary substitute for his arms. He finds the
shoes I was wearing when he brought me in, a pair of dressy high heels, and I
slip my feet into them, suddenly wishing that I had chosen to die in more
sensible footwear.
I lean against him as we walk out of the room and
past the busy nurses station. Nobody notices us leave and I am content to keep
things that way. The doctors would only try to make me stay and I didn’t want
to spend another minute in the hospital. I could feel the sickness it contained
infiltrating even the bricks and mortar of the building. However much the
nurses and the cleaners scrubbed and disinfected they would never remove the
marks left by death, because it permeates everything.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angel takes me home. By this I
don’t mean the house that I grew up in and now own, I mean he took me to LA, to
the place where he lives. It is some run down old hotel, with draughty
corridors and far too many empty rooms and I have ever even seen the place
before, but somehow it feels like home.
I have no possessions with me.
Angel had wanted to fetch me some clothes from my house, but I had refused to
go back there. I never wanted to see the place again and I certainly didn’t
want to be faced with any of the stuff I had left there. As far as I was
concerned the whole place should be burnt to the ground, along with everything
in it. I wanted to see it destroyed as a mirror to the destruction that had
occurred to the part of my life I associated with that house.
So, I arrive at Angel’s place
empty handed and empty hearted. He leads me upstairs to a room that is
unmistakeably his. His aura seems to fill it and his signature exists on every
piece of furniture the room contains. He sits me down on the bed and begins to
examine my wrists. I wince as he unwinds the bandages, not wanting to see what
lies beneath them even if it is my own handiwork. But the wounds are already
closed and healing fast. Thank goodness for super slayer strength, I think
bitterly. They probably won’t even scar.
He runs me a hot bubble bath and
turns his back as I shed the thin hospital gown I am wearing and slip
underneath the water. Satisfied that everything is all right, he decides to
leave me to bathe in private, but some primal instinct I didn’t know I
possessed causes me to grasp his arm in a vice-like grip.
“Don’t go.” I ask in a plaintive
voice. I am afraid to be left alone in this strange bathroom, with its cracked
tiles and noisy plumbing. I’m afraid to be left alone anywhere.
He takes in my pleading
expression and nods briefly. My wrists sting to be placed underneath the water,
so he rolls up his sleeves and begins to wash my body gently. His hands
brushing in firm strokes over my shoulders and back then more lightly and
hesitantly down my breasts and thighs. His strong fingers massage my scalp as he
shampoos my hair and I sit perfectly still as he carefully combs out the
tangles, never once being too rough or pulling my hair.
I think that maybe it is the most
intimate experience of my life, sitting there patiently as Angel respectfully
lavishes attention upon my body in a way that is completely non-sexual yet
implies boundless love and devotion. I have only been naked before him once
before and that was over three years earlier, but now I feel no embarrassment.
I do not shrink away from his touch; instead I am comfortable with it. It feels
right. Somehow I know that my body belongs to Angel. He has my heart, my soul
and my blood, so why should he not have the rest of me too?
The bath water turns cold and
Angel lifts me out of it gently. He wraps me in luxuriously fluffy, warm towels
and I slowly rub myself dry. We speak no words as he walks me back over to the
bed and re-bandages my wrists. There is so much I need to tell him, yet I have
nothing to say to him. Sentences seem to stick in my throat, so after I while I
just stop making the effort to speak. He appears to accept this and I am
grateful.
He hands me a shirt of his to
wear in bed and I slip it on over my naked flesh. The silk feels cool against
my skin, its caress smooth like water and light and feathery like the touch of
an angel. I climb into the soft bed and pull the sheets close around me. They
have been slept in already and they smell uniquely of Angel. That strong
masculine scent that is both earthy and fresh, reminding me of country air on a
moonlit evening. I remember other nights spent in his bed, and the comfort just
the feeling of being close to him would bring me then. As I snuggle beneath the
covers my eyes meet with Angel’s and he studies me appraisingly. I see both
muted concern and pained understanding in his expression and I think he shares
a little of what I am feeling right now.
“Do you want me to stay?” He asks
softly and I nod, my craving for his reassuring presence overriding the shame I
felt at being so weak as to need someone to hold me while I sleep. I seem to
have lost the part of my persona that is the Slayer, that fiercely independent
character has deserted me. Now I am functioning solely as a female – a woman, an
innocent little girl. But - I think, as Angel removes his shoes and sweater and
slides into bed next to me, his strong arms tentatively reaching out to
encircle me - that might not be such a bad thing.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I wake alone, rested and calmed
enough not to panic upon finding myself in a strange bed. Not that it feels
strange in any way, however. It feels soft and warm and comforting, like when I
was a child and I would sneak into my parents’ bed on the pretext of some
nightmare or other. I had a lot of nightmares when I was a child, I remember
now. Maybe they weren’t nightmares, but premonitions of what was to come.
Electric light streams into the
room as Angel enters carefully through the door to the corridor. He carries a
tray piled high with breakfast foods and I suddenly realise how hungry I am. I
have not eaten in days. Somehow, after my mother’s death, food stopped tasting
like food anymore. It would feel like ashes in mouth, dry, powdery and bitter.
But I persisted with it for Dawn’s sake. She needed her elder sister to cook
for her, and I needed my strength to be able to take care of her. Then Dawn was
gone and I just didn’t see the point of eating anymore, I would only do it when
other people were there expecting me to. I would put on the false smile I had
become so practised at, and force down food that stuck in my throat and made my
stomach churn.
I had become thin, I realised,
but I didn’t care. I liked the fact my ribs stood proud of my skin and my
elbows and knees formed sharp bony protrusions, because it showed I still had
control over something in my life. I had done that to my body - me, Buffy. Not
some vampire, or demon, or evil Goddess, or magical spell, or random medical
condition, or a thousand other external forces that threatened to take over my
life. I could look in the mirror and think that if I could win the battle with
my appetite then it showed I had the strength to fight anything. It was an
exercise in willpower and one I became increasingly talented at.
Now, though, I have given up
fighting. This was it, the end of the line, by will has been well and truly
broken and I want desperately to eat. I want things to become real and alive to
me again – the tastes, the smells and the feelings. I want to break through the
shell of numbness that I have encased myself in. I want to be taken care of and
brought breakfast in bed. I want to be protected and cherished as something
precious.
I want to be loved.
But I will have to make do with
breakfast for now. I prop myself up on the numerous pillows and Angel deposits
the heavy tray on my lap. I look down at the offerings contained upon it and
mouth begins to water. I feel hunger burn inside me for the first time in
months. There is a plateful of scrambled eggs, accompanied by rashers of
crispy, fried bacon. Another plate holds a pile of pancakes, drenched in thick,
maple syrup. There is also an entire rack of toast, half a grape fruit
(sprinkled liberally with brown sugar), a glass of freshly squeezed orange
juice and a pot of scalding hot, richly scented coffee. I am in heaven.
“I can’t eat all this.” I tell
Angel and the smile that plays at the corner of my mouth is actually genuine.
It touches me deeply that he would go to so much trouble just for me. The
sentiment is so overwhelming I almost forget the reason I am waking up in his
bed in the first place. I almost invent my own version of the situation, that
we are happy lovers sharing a romantic gesture. Almost, but not quite.
“Eat what you can.” He tells me,
pouring both of us a mug of coffee. “I wanted you to have a choice.”
I suddenly feel uncomfortable in
the face of his loving generosity. I wonder what it is I am doing here and
nearly push the tray off my lap and run out of the room. Part of the old,
independent me slips back. How did I come to be sitting, nearly naked in
Angel’s bed, while he fed me breakfast? I want to flee as my dream turns into a
nightmare; because where I want this situation to lead, it can never go. My
eyes lock with Angel’s and I feel like a frightened animal locked in the glare
of the headlights of an oncoming car. Finally, I drop my eyes. I will stay and
eat breakfast, not sure whether I have won or lost the fight with myself.
I take a tentative sip of the
coffee and it scalds my throat as I swallow it. It is hot and bitter and
delicious. Next I begin to nibble at the dry toast, as the first morsels of
food hit my stomach my appetite is heightened. I slather the toast with jam and
consume it in several huge bites. I cast my hungry eyes over the rest of the
tray and begin to scoop up huge forkfuls of scrambled eggs, washing them down
with more coffee and intermittent sips of orange juice. I had forgotten food
could taste this good. The saltiness of the bacon and the eggs contrasts
beautifully with the sugary sweetness of the pancakes and the jam, then I cut
through all this richness with the sour grapefruit and orange juice.
I eat and eat and eat, until
nearly all the food on the tray is gone. Then I look sheepishly up at Angel,
who smiles back at me, mildly amused. So much for not being able to eat
everything. I lay down my knife and fork and recline on the pillows, utterly
satiated. The whole situation has a bizarre sense of unreality about it, but
this is quickly shattered when Angel whisks the empty tray away and regards me
with a serious look.
I stare back at him coldly.
“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.” I tell him. “I’m not one of your souls
to be saved.”
“You think your soul needs
saving?” He asks me softly.
I laugh harshly. “I think my soul
is past the point of no return.”
His eyes cloud over with sadness.
“I had no idea you felt that way.”
“What, do you think I attempted
suicide for kicks?” I swing my legs round over the edge of the bed. This time I
really am getting out of here. I can stand it no longer in Angel’s ultra-calm
presence, subjected to his penetrating gaze. “Thanks for the hospitality, but I
really should be going.”
He grabs my upper arm and holds
it in a vice like grip. I shrink away from him, not really afraid of him
hurting me, but more fearful of the steely determination that exists in his
expression. He’s not going to let me do this to myself. I want to slip away
into the darkness that has been dragging me down for so long, but he won’t
allow me to. He is going to make me fight it and that petrifies me.
I stick out my chin in defiance.
“Am I your prisoner here?” I ask.
He realised my arm from his hold.
“No, you’re free to go whenever you like.” He answers. “I can call Giles to get
him to come and pick you up.”
I crumple suddenly. Giles.
Sunnydale. I don’t want to go back there, I can’t. And Angel would never let me
wonder off on my own in my present state, so it looks as though I’m stuck here
after all. Angel’s really got this one figured out well, even though it must be
a huge comedown for him to actually be the lesser of two evils for once.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask
him in a small voice.
“Because you did it for me,
remember?”
I do. I remember it as if it were
yesterday. I relive that moment every night in my dreams. I wake up in the
darkness in a cold sweat as I recall the horror that chilled me to my soul when
I realised Angel intended to kill himself. Then that horror only grew as I
argued with him and dawn grew progressively closer. Then I had thought suicide
such a cop out. It was a sign of weakness. Then I had so much strength and
fight left in me, I could never have imagined it running out. I had hated Angel
then for giving up and I wonder if he hates me now.
“It’s not the same.” I tell him.
“I know.” He replies. “I wanted
to kill myself, because I thought I didn’t deserve to live.” He looked away
from me. “Maybe the truth was I didn’t deserve to die.”
“What about me?” I ask angrily.
“Don’t I deserve some peace? Haven’t I been through enough?”
“Yes.” He tells me simply.
“You’ve suffered far more than anyone should have to endure. But suicide is not
the answer.”
“Then what is?” I ask him
helplessly. “I’ve tried everything else.”
He sighs, deeply and sadly. 250
years of experience and accumulated wisdom injected into one small gesture,
which tells me more than he could ever express in words. Life’s a bitch and
then you die. Well, you know what, I learnt that lesson already and it only
took me one lifetime, rather than the several Angel has lived.
“You’re a warrior, Buffy, you
have to keep fighting.”
I shake my head. “I can’t, I’ve
nothing left to fight for. I’m tired. I just want it all to go away.” I lean my
head against his shoulder and he wraps his arm around me.
“You don’t have a choice.” He
tells me forcefully and I wish he would sugarcoat it. I wish he would tell me
everything is going to be all right, that I’m strong and good and that he loves
me. I wish he would turn this into a fairytale where I’m the princess and he’s
the handsome prince and we kill the evil dragons then live happily ever after.
But he won’t. He won’t lie to me and I hate him for it. I don’t want to hear
the truth – I want to read about my life in a storybook.
“It’s not fair.” I start to cry.
“I know, I know.” He murmurs into
my ear as I sob and he rocks me gently.
When my tears have stopped he
eases me away from him and looks at me with closely guarded eyes. I know him
well enough to realise that this is the expression he uses when he has
something to tell me that I won’t like.
“What is it?” I whisper hoarsely.
“There’s something I want to talk
to you about.” He pauses and smiles wanly. “You’re not going to like it, but I
think you should know.”
I shoot him a questioning glance,
my own predicament suddenly forgotten. The power Angel has over my thoughts
still amazes me. I can be weeping over the state of my life one minute then the
next he will say a word or send me a look and suddenly nothing else exists in
the world but him.
“I slept with Darla.” He tells me
quietly.
“What?” I ask in a confused
voice, as my insides seem to freeze up. Suddenly I want to throw up the delicious
breakfast I had only just enjoyed. I knew Darla had been resurrected and that
things had been tough for Angel, but never in my wildest dreams would I have
thought he’d actually sleep with her. “W-why are you even telling me this?” I
demand shakily. “Is this some sort of an attempt to send a suicidal Buffy right
over the edge?”
“I thought it would help you
understand.”
“Understand what?” Hot tears burn
my cheeks as I feel the sting of betrayal. Angel with another woman I might
have been able to forgive, after all I haven’t exactly been faithful to him.
But Angel with Darla, taking a chance on breaking his curse with the woman who
made him into what he so despises being. That repulses me right to the core.
“Understand how you could risk your soul having a bit of fun with your evil,
insane ex-girlfriend? Yeah, ‘cause I really get that.”
“I wanted you to know that I was
in the same place then as you are now.” He tells me patiently, ignoring my
angry sarcasm. “I wanted it to be over. I wanted to lose my soul and have it
all be easy again. I wanted nothing to matter anymore. Suddenly the fight was
too great and I wasn’t strong enough for it. I lost hope and turned to the only
thing I ever knew – reckless oblivion.”
I listen to him now, as his words
begin to make sense to me. They sound familiar and they echo my thoughts. I am
sick and tired of fighting and fighting but never winning. I plough all my
efforts into a hopeless cause and see no reward for it. Maybe we both gave up
the fight, but chose a different method in which to do it.
“What happened?” I ask in a small
voice.
He flashes me his little ironic
half-smile. “Nothing. I woke up and nothing had changed. Looking back I’m not
sure if I even expected it to, I knew in my heart Darla could never make me
happy. She never managed it when I was soulless, so why should I expect her to
be able to do it now?” He pauses. “I just had to do something. I felt like I’d
lost all control of what was going on around me. I’d lost sight of what I was
fighting for. I’d even lost sight of own self. There was nothing left that I
cared about.”
“I know.” I whisper. This was how
I felt, like everything was fading away from me. Like the colour was slowly
bleaching out of my life and out of my soul, until I was simply a shadow of my
former self. I went though the motions of socialising and fighting, but I’d
forgotten why I even bothered anymore. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to
feel.
He takes my hand. “I slept with
Darla because I wanted to feel something, anything. I wanted an experience that
would mean something. I wanted to make an impact on the world.” He spoke with a
quiet intensity. “I wanted to change things for once, instead of fighting and
fighting and it having no effect whatsoever. But do you know what I felt?” I
shake my head. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Well, what changed?” I want to
know if there’s any hope for me. I want to know if this state of limbo I’m in
at the moment is reversible. I want him to tell me everything will be all
right.
“I began to remember.” He says
simply, squeezing my hand, which still remains clasped in his. “I remembered
when I did feel something. When I could see a light in the darkness. I
remembered what I was fighting for.”
“What?”
“You.”
I don’t know what to say to this.
I don’t even know what to think about it. How can Angel say I’m the only reason
he carries on when he left me two years ago? How can he say he still fights for
me when he gave up on us so easily? And am I even worth fighting for?
Look at me now, weak, battered and broken. How can I inspire strength when I
possess none of my own?
“Look at me, Angel.” I tell him.
“I’m not worth fighting for.”
“Yes. Yes, you are.” He says with
absolute certainty. “You showed me that love and hope and happiness do exist in
this world. You taught me that with the help of others we can overcome
anything. Don’t you remember?”
I shake my head, tears beginning
to brim in my eyes. “I’m not that Buffy anymore. She’s gone. She’s dead.”
“No, she’s not.” Angel remains insistent.
“You’ve just lost sight of her for a while. Tell me that you don’t still feel
love.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
He leans forward and brushes his
lips gently to mine. His touch is feather light at first, making my skin
tingle. Then he pushes harder, cupping my face in his hand as he melds our
mouths together. I emit an involuntary groan as we kiss for the first time in
years. He tastes bitter like black coffee yet sweet and fresh like the rain. My
lips part and he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth briefly, before withdrawing
and gazing deeply into my eyes.
“Tell me you didn’t feel that?”
He asks in a breathy voice.
I don’t answer in words, I’m not
sure I would even be able to form any. Instead I pull him towards me again and
begin to ravish his mouth with mine. It is like when I was faced with breakfast
earlier – one taste was all I needed to whet my appetite and awaken an
incredible hunger within me. Now it is every inch of Angel that I want to
taste. I thrust my tongue into his cool mouth, wrestling it with his before
pulling away teasingly to nibble at his lower lip. His hands tangle in my hair
then move slowly down my body over the silk shirt, then upwards again, this
time under the shirt. His touch is like ice on my bare skin and I hear my own
pulse thundering in my ears.
I move my lips down to his neck,
running my tongue up and down the thin skin covering his jugular vein. My
fingers begin to tear at his clothes, desperate for the feel of his naked
flesh. My head is spinning and I feel as though I am drunk – drunk on desire,
on sensations that have been denied to me for so long. His hands reach my bare
breasts and he takes one of my nipples between his index finger and thumb and
begins to tease it gently. This is too much for me and I wrench him away from
me in order to yank the sweater he is wearing straight off over his head in one
fluid movement. He responds by ripping the shirt that covers me clean off.
Buttons fly in all directions and it is like a scene from a cheap romance novel
as he pushes my naked form down onto the bed below him.
I run my hands all over his bare
chest and back, tracing circular patterns with my fingers. His body is so
smooth and cool and perfect, it is almost as if he is sculpted from pure
marble. He lowers his mouth to my breasts and begins to kiss them reverently,
laving at first one nipple then the next. I feel the heat building between my
legs and I want more. I want more than just this kissing. I want all of him,
inside me. Our bodies fused for eternity. Skin against skin. Souls touching.
My heart begins to close up
again. We can’t do this, it is forbidden to us. Angel may have kept his soul
when he slept with Darla (my stomach jolts even as I think her name), but I
have no illusions that the same thing could happen with me. I remember all too
vividly what occurred the last time Angel and I were together like this. Yet
still I am tempted to continue. To let Angel gain the oblivion he wanted and to
let Angelus do his worst. Maybe he will turn me then Angel and I can be
together for eternity. We would have no cares, no worries, only each other.
Then Angel ceases his
ministrations and looks up into my eyes. His expression is filled with such
love, such devotion and I remember with a cold chill what it is like to look
into Angelus’ eyes and to see only blank emptiness there. I don’t want that. I
could never want that, no matter how far I sink into the depths of despair.
“We can’t do this, Angel.” I tell
him sadly, my voice thick with longing and the tears that threatened to fall.
“What about your curse? You’ll lose your soul. I can’t face that again.”
I turn my head away, withdrawing
from him both emotionally and physically. He shifts his weight from on top of
me and moves to lie by my side.
“It’s OK,” he says, stroking my
hair gently. “You don’t have to worry.”
I twist back abruptly to stare at
him, angry hurt flashing in my eyes. “You’re saying I won’t make you happy.” I
accuse him.
He regards me seriously, letting
his hand drag down my side and resting it gently on the upward curve of my hip.
The touch isn’t sexual, but comforting, reassuring. “No.” He tells me. “A lot’s
happened to me recently and sleeping with Darla was only part of that. I’ve
done a lot of thinking about who I am and what the demon inside me means.”
I listen intently, unsure of
where he is headed. Only Angel could interrupt our coupling for a long, drawn
out discussion about his existential state.
“I’ve learnt to accept that part
of me,” he continues. “The demon and the soul, I’ve learnt to integrate them.
They’re not two halves of my personality any more, rather they’re one whole.
Angel and Angelus aren’t separate people any more – they’re both me. Therefore,
I don’t think I could lose my soul again, because it’s become joined to the
demon. The curse is still there, it just doesn’t apply any more. Do you
understand?”
I’m not sure that I do, exactly,
but I look into Angel’s eyes and I see an expression I have never seen there
before. Total self-acceptance. Before, he was almost ashamed to meet my gaze,
afraid of what I might see if I looked straight into his heart and soul. Now he
is totally open with me, like he has nothing left to hide. Maybe he has
reconciled his soul with his demon, I don’t know. And maybe, I think with a
heavy heart, it was the time spent apart from me that allowed him to do that.
What I can be sure of now, though, is that Angel looks at me with no fear in
his eyes. He is not worried that he will hurt me and I trust him enough to
believe that he won’t.
“OK,” I breathe. “If you say it’s
safe…”
He pulls me close to his chest
and I wrap my arms around him. God, it’s been so long, so very long since I lay
with him like this. Last night didn’t count, because that was him holding me.
He was protecting me, sheltering me, like you would cup tightly in your hands a
bird with a broken wing. Now I am holding on to him. I cling to him with
heart-felt desperation. He is mine. Mine.
I haven’t felt like this since I
was sixteen years old. Since before Angelus made his unscheduled appearance.
Then I would hold on to Angel like he was my most precious possession and, in a
sense, he was. He was something that I had all to myself. In our private
moments we belonged only to each other. He was my whole world and his being
consumed my entire heart.
After Angelus, I felt a rift open
up between us. We didn’t belong to each other anymore - we belonged to the
world. And there had been no greater demonstration of my new loyalty than me
sending him to Hell. We detached from one another, desperately fighting our
feelings. I simultaneously reached for him and pushed him away. I wanted to be
close, but I was afraid. Afraid to getting hurt again, afraid of Angelus,
afraid of the strength of love I could feel for the same demon I had seen
brutally terrorise and murder my friends. I would let him into my life, but not
again into my heart and soul. I refused to renew the connection that used to
exist between us; for fear that it would be severed once again.
Now, though, I feel completely at
one with Angel. I experience none of my past awkwardness that tinged our
relationship post-Angelus, neither do I show any of the shyness that would have
consumed the sixteen year old Buffy when faced with the prospect of pressing my
naked body against that of my love’s. Now, as salty tears cascade down my
cheeks, I feel him all around me. Consuming me, his presence enveloping me. He
fills all my senses with his fresh, musky scent, his cool, smooth feel, the sweet
taste of his skin beneath my lips and the sound of a million whispered ‘I
love you’s.
We struggle to find a rhythm; it
is both too slow, because I want him now, yet too fast, because I want
this moment to last forever. I want to be here, reclaiming him, for an
eternity. This is only the second time we have made love, yet it is the
thousandth, as he was with me every night in my dreams since the day that we
met. Some part of me was making love to him before I even knew what it meant to
do so.
He enters me and I wrap both my
legs and arms around him. Our bodies are joined in the most intimate way
possible, yet I am still not close enough to him. I want every inch of our skin
to be touching. I want to stay like this forever and never be parted from him
again. I feel like I am being treated to a sip of water after an exhausting
trek through interminable desert. The sense of relief that floods me is
immense. This is Angel; we are finally together like I have wanted so for so
long. But a sip is not enough. I want to take the whole bottle of water and
guzzle it down. I want to shower in it and let it wash over every inch of my
skin. I want to swim in a cool, deep pool and let the water surround me.
I have had other lovers - Parker,
Riley – but to me they are all Angel. Every touch that had ever landed on my
skin and every kiss that had ever teased my lips - they were all his. I
know every inch of his body intimately, because the memory of it is burned into
my soul and because he is merely an extension of myself. We fit together like
two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and I marvel at our synchronicity, yet I also
take it completely for granted. This, us, it is meant to be. We are destined.
It is how it has been with our souls from the beginning of time, and how it
will always be.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’m not sure what I expected to
find when I woke up. Maybe I thought all my problems would have disappeared,
that one night with Angel could wipe out the Hell that is my life. Or maybe I expected
to see Angelus staring back at me. His blank eyes taunting me, his lips turned
up into that smirk I still saw in my nightmares.
What I actually find is neither.
I awake to look straight into Angel’s concerned gaze. Our bodies have drifted
apart whilst we were sleeping and I snuggle closer towards him.
“I love you.” I whisper, as I
bury my head in his chest.
“I love you, too.” He returns,
kissing the top of my head gently.
We just lie there, locked
together in bed, unsure of what to do next. I know now that there was never any
danger of releasing Angelus. What we did wasn’t about perfect happiness at all.
I am glad we did it, but it hasn’t made me happy – not in the same way it
should have done on my seventeenth birthday. And I’m pretty sure that Angel
feels the same way.
I have fantasised about this
moment for so long. Angel and I make love once again, only without the hideous,
earth-shattering consequences. I had imagined fireworks, feeding each other ice
cream in bed. I had imagined my heart brimming over with happiness and my
cheeks aching with constant smiling. But it wasn’t like that at all. Instead
there were bittersweet tears and murmured apologies over all the hurt we have
caused one another. There was pain and there was raw need. Then there was a
final acceptance that however wildly we fought or however hard we tried, we
would never stop loving each other. There was no happy ending only a very
difficult beginning, which I now have to face.
I spark re-ignites itself in my
heart. A beginning. Something in my life is starting rather than ending,
and suddenly I want to see it though. I want to carry on and experience the
pain and the anger and hopefully, in time, the laughter. Now my life doesn’t
seem quite so devoid of hope. Now I can see something left worth holding on
for. And I think I’ve found what I thought lost to me forever – the impetus to
keep fighting. Angel. My love.
My Reason.