who. buffy and angel what. while out on a patrol in an attempt to find the infamous "voodoo doll" murderer, buffy and angel run into each other. if i told you they have a happy conversation, it would be a straight up lie. when. after the cordelia/angel thread. where. playground status. complete ( done over aim ) rating. pg-13 for language
Buffy: The weather had finally won the uphill climb, and had been sitting in the high sixties. It wasn't the sweltering heat that California offered, but it was better than the freezing rain and sleet that they had been trekking through for the last couple of months. Buffy could remember complaining when the heat waves would roll through Sunnydale, making it so that the heat rose from the asphalt. Lately, she'd missed even that. So, the seventies would do just fine. For the first time in a long time, the Slayer had decided to do what she'd come to Cleveland to do in the first place; slay. While it might have taken a good half hour to dig through her winter clothes to find a tank top, she eventually emerged from her closet grasping the blue tank top like it was a trophy. By the time she was moving through the derelict playground, she felt better, like she had somehow fallen back into place. Slaying would always be some sort of release for her, that much she was sure of. There'd been talk on the news about a variety of murders taking place in the playground that she now walked through, stopping occasionally to kick at a stray rock. All of the said murders had taken place at night. Beyond that, all of the victims had been found with their mouths and eyes sewn shut. The Voodoo Doll murderer had come out of hibernation, and it seemed like he ( or she ) had his eyes on this place. Buffy could see why. The playground had been forgotten long ago. Weeds and vines were overgrown, the playground equipment rusted and falling apart. At one point in time, this place had been a vision of innocence. Now? It was as dirty and rundown as everyone else seemed to be now-a-days. An hour passed without any kind of sign of life other than her own. Exasperated, Buffy brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped the confines of her ponytail, and moved over to a set of swings that looked stable enough to hold her weight. The chains groaned, but held firm. Funny, how psychopaths only showed up when you didn't want them to. Absently, Buffy tapped the hilt of the dagger she held against her palm, attention eventually shifting to the moonlight that bounced off the wicked steel in white glints.
Angel: Angel learned quickly, with wisdom from age and will that many things were not gained or given but simply gone, like time or shadows or the recession of youth, there one moment and disappeared the next. Drifted out like smoke or smog, clouds and mist from rain. Prophecies never dealt with the aftermath, the mundane. It was not written anywhere what happened next. To those who were passed over, those who survived when the Hand of God came down. Even the apostles didn't speak about the toll of sleeplessness and cynicism, the gathering force of nameless enemies, and the price that came from just knowing too damned much. Even with his new conviction, he couldn't help but feel the lack of certainty - was he doing the right thing, here? There was no way to know. Just the thought of it created what felt like electric current running under his skin - unavoidable and comprehensive, jittering through him like an incessant alarm. He felt - too much. Much too much. And though he'd regained most of his strength since being regurgitated by Hell (again), he still hadn't quite recovered his psyche. The only individual he really spoke to was Cordelia, and even those words were few and far between these days. Not since Buffy had tramped off and slammed his door. Time and space is what he got, sure enough, and it wasn't a huge stretch of his faculties to assign blame for the vast overabundance of time and space he found himself burdened with shortly thereafter. Because what was he going to say, really? "Oh, by the way, you know what, after five years I somehow just noticed that I'm still in love with you." Or, better yet, "Hey, Buffy, you've been showing signs of an independent life lately, but a declaration of eternal love should drag you right back into my shadow where you belong." Oh yeah, that would be fair. Instead he focused himself elsewhere - under the impression that the more evil he vanquished, the less his transgressions while soulless would weigh on him. The sewers were becoming increasingly empty, at least in the segments closest to his apartment. They seemed cleaner, too. As if the beings that frequented the tunnels for transportation or housing didn't want Angel offended, they kept the place more tidied. Graffiti was usually gone by the next day, purged along with the remains from any impromptu massacres. Once on the graveyard grounds, he wandered through the headstones, carelessly scanning for freshly broken earth and footprints. The air had a wet smell, earth and grass opened up by the rain that had fallen earlier, and the moon was full and high, its light covering everything it touched like snow. Crickets chirped, and the place felt peaceful the way cemeteries should and so often didn't. It was already Spring, Angel realized, pages flickering and flying off a mental calendar and he caught up with the passage of time. Coming up empty handed, he pushed through the wrought iron gates, stepping into the barren recesses of what once resembled a children's playground. Only on a hellmouth would you find a cemetery right next to a playground - however derelict it seemed to be. Something floated through the air, like perfume too faint to identify, but still familiar, or a strain of music you knew but still couldn't identify, lingering and teasing until it could drive you mad from constant searching. It would tickle him no matter where he was, a something out of the corner of his eye. When he finally found her she was toying with a dagger, and he managed to place a hand on her shoulder from behind before she saw him. "Expecting some one?"
Buffy: When Buffy was six, she'd been deathly afraid of the ocean. Wanting her to get over that fear, her dad had taken her to their uncle's house on the very outskirts of Los Angeles. "Let's go swimming, Buffy." He'd urged her on until eventually, the both of them stood on the pier of the beach house. Hank Summers made it a rule not to lie to his daughter, but he lied to Buffy that day. "I'll hold your hand when we jump, I promise." He hadn't. When she jumped, it was only just before her body was submerged in the salty water that she realized he was still standing on the pier. A wave caught her in its swell, turning her upside down. Desperately, Buffy clawed at the water, not even realizing she was swimming the wrong direction. She felt like that now, like she was upside down in a raging water and no matter which way she swam, it was wrong. Eventually, she figured, she'd find the surface. Maybe then she could breathe. Courage wasn't being a hero, after all. It was making it from one moment to the next. Without even realizing it, Buffy had started a rhythmic beat against her palm, the hilt rising only to hit the center of her hand over and over again. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, Buffy had the swing twisted in a split second so that she was facing the source, her dagger poised and ready to be thrust in the chest of whatever had touched her. It was only years of reflex training that kept her from impaling Angel. "Expecting some one?" And there it was. Buffy could almost feel the salty burn of the water invading her lungs. So, which direction did she swim for? Up or down? Left or right? Finally, she willed herself to speak, almost easing the sensation of drowning. Almost. "Yeah, actually. Real charming guy -- likes to stitch his dates up." A beat, as Buffy sheathed the dagger, and slid it into her back pocket. "Apparently, the Voodoo Doll murderer has made this his new favorite haunt." The trick was to keep breathing. Lately, she found that even that necessity was forgotten. Buffy almost asked him what he was doing here, but figured that he was doing the same thing she was. They were bound to run into each other eventually. After their last talk, Buffy figured it would take more than a month. Oh, she'd wanted to go to him. She wanted to apologize. That's what her head told her to do, but her heart wouldn't let her. She wasn't sorry. Not for the trade, anyway. Not even for a second. It wouldn't matter if Angel decided not to talk to her right up until she was dragged down to hell. She wouldn't be sorry. Silence settled over the two of them, and Buffy let her eyes fall away from his own.
Angel: It was happening more these days: a slow leeching of optimism replaced by the marrow-deep sense of loneliness: guilt was not a thing you could toss away in a moment of torture; it had to be dragged on. If anyone knew what that was like, he suspected it was . . no, probably just him. He was selfish that way. I wish, he thought wearily, that repressed things would have the decency to fucking stay repressed. Recognition leapt through him when the slayer spun around, and with it a shiny silvery feeling of possibility. Loss had never been a subtle creature, and it announced its presence with typical cruelty, ripping away the means by which he'd assured himself of Buffy these long, dark, months - some residual wrath buffeting around in there that hadn't yet found egress. Had distance really made that much of a difference? Probably not. But in his own mind, he was no longer on neutral ground, and no longer running. He didn't have a bountiful supply of answers, but he knew that being back near her, being this close, invoked certain things. He'd lost a psychological distance, and an emotional one, but then, he'd expected to. Time had brought understanding, but that wasn't going to be enough to push him the rest of the way. He was so still, so disciplined in his motionlessness, and he made no move to react. After a moment of silence, he lowered his eyes. "I know." His eagerness dwindled and Angel very nearly turned to go - did, in fact, step away, his back to Buffy before he stopped in his tracks - when it finally dawned on him that the reason he needed to apologize wasn't because of the things he'd said, but the way he had spoken those truths. Angel waited, expecting the heart-wrenching pain that always accompanied his thoughts of an existence without Buffy to crumble his resolve, to leave him crushed beneath unyielding sentiment. It was always like this, when one of them was hurt, the same reaction, the same repressed pain until it got too much and had to come out. Angel hated it - or had, anyway. Buffy's refusal to do more than care and help had unnerved him more than any of the declarations they still sometimes had trouble telling each other. Declarations could always be brushed off or changed. This could never be dismissed, would never change, not for Angel. And Buffy had already made it pretty concrete how she felt about sacrificing the one thing he loved the most about her. The hem of his leather jacket flapped gently, as if to prompt Angel that direction, but he remained immobile. "How've you been?" Only his lids closed and reopened; perhaps in response to the gust that had also taken control of his eyelashes.
Buffy: Angel's pain was her pain, hers was Angel's. It's how the worked, how they had always worked. It would have been so much easier if she'd never met Angel, but Buffy knew there would always be something missing. They were soul mates, after all. That alone nearly made her laugh. Didn't make it funny, though. Angel's soul was always on the edge of being lost. All it had taken was a spell to send it straight to hell. Hers? Well, hers would only belong to her for another year and a half. Souls were fickle things. Hard to maintain, and even harder to hold on to. "I know." Of course he knew. Angel knew everything. Bitterness hadn't been intentionally injected into the thought. Then again, it never really was. Go, Buffy thought as she watched Angel turn his back. This was how it worked now, apparently. Oh, Angel probably thought he was doing her a favor. He always did. Leaving Sunnydale, keeping their distance ... he made those decisions. It almost made her feel like a fucking child. Buffy let herself get angry, urged it on inwardly so that she could actually turn away without breaking apart. And she did. When he turned his back, she did the same, letting the swing straighten itself out. The anger was working, too. Until he spoke. "How've you been?" It was like deflating. Whatever anger she had let build inside her left in a violent whoosh, but only coming out with a soft sigh. Eyelids fell shut for a moment, before she turned once again to face him, his back still turned to her. "I've been okay." And she wasn't lying. Every day was still a struggle. Getting out of bed took more willpower than she thought she possessed. But it was getting better. She had started to smile again, and sometimes, it didn't even feel like it was just a split in her face. "I'm not having the time of my life, but I'm better." I miss you. It was only after they'd sat there for a long, terrible moment that she spoke again. "Angel," His name came out on a breath that revealed so much more than she ever intended it to. "If you're going to talk to me, look at me." Buffy was tired of this. She was tired of walking on egg shells with him. When she was almost sure this would end like all of their other attempts at a conversation, she felt her resolve give. Shoulders slumped forward slightly, and she wondered if she was actually feeling better, or if it was just something she told herself every day to make it easier. "What do you want me to do, Angel?"
Angel: It occurred to him as he finally swiveled back around on booted feet that probably, knowing Buffy, he'd have an uphill battle all the way. A struggle he didn't want to have, and a hoped-for result that he couldn't count on. He'd have to push, and probably push hard, and still he didn't have the faintest clue whether it would work or not. But, as much as he didn't want to admit it, it felt wrong. It felt wrong in his bones, regardless of how it felt in his mind. His mouth was dry as dust, and his figurative heart pounded in his throat, and he had to keep swallowing, but messages were coming in from lower centers in his body, the places of instinct; telling him that he needed Buffy with him, with him and freed from whatever hold that thing had gotten on her soul. Even if there wasn't a damn thing he could really do about that. The only thing he had left to give was the one thing that kept him from turning Cleveland into bloodbath city again. One corner of his mouth tugged reluctantly into a half-frown whose gentle frustration was tempered by the wryness of his opaque gaze. "I wanted you to live. I wanted you to have a normal life," he said, and there was something condescending, perhaps even a little vicious in the way he said it, the way his eyes assessed and dismissed her. The anger flared up again, filling that empty place, that hollow that Buffy carved out. It felt so similar to that old feeling, that . . that feeling, because it was the same, because it wasn't actually unfamiliar, he knew, it was several hundred years old - it was how Angel counted his years with a tally of loss. If he had acknowledged it? Maybe he could have done something, fixed it - fixed this - done something instead of just covering it over, like a pit trap, waiting all sharp for him to step wrong. His face changed when approached her, acquiring a quality that was somehow sharp and vague simultaneously. Ice became his shield of choice, impenetrable and thick, comforting in its clarity while keeping him orphaned and disconnected. "What do I want you to do?" A small voice in the back of his mind cautioned restraint, and Angel walked the thread between violence and control artfully. His head angled down a fraction so that he was looking at her slightly askance, denial in the line of his neck. Fear and weariness made his body feel too heavy for something so conjectural. "I want you to think about your future next time, and not mine."
Buffy: "I wanted you to live. I wanted you to have a normal life," A normal life was signed away when a destiny she hadn't wanted was shoved onto her plate. It was impossible for her to have anything resembling a normal life. She'd tried. God, she tried. Over and over again. It had only left her with a feeling of loss, and sent her even further from a life of normality. "Yeah, and what about what I wanted? You never did stop and think about that. You always thought you were doing me a favor, but you know what I wanted. I wanted my life to be with you. And I wouldn't have cared how hard it was, or how hard we had to fight for it, because I love you." There was a short beat after she finished so that she could just breathe. They didn't say that anymore. Love was something they kept to themselves, because it was never enough. She'd learned that the hard way. "You left me so that I could have a normal life." Bitterly, Buffy added, "Look at all the good that did." Once upon a time, she'd been sure that Angel was the only thing she needed to be happy. The world could fall away, but as long as she had Angel, she would be fine. At first, living without Angel felt like walking blind and deaf through a world that constantly shifted and changed around her. She could live without Angel, now. Buffy just knew she didn't want to. Not without them working out whatever needed to be. As he moved forward, Buffy just upturned her chin so that she could continue to follow his eyes, no matter how much pain swam in their dark depths. "I want you to think about your future next time, and not mine." Funny, Buffy felt the same way when she watched him walk away after Graduation through billows of smoke. "And what if I told you that I wanted my future," All eighteen months of it, "to be with you?" It would never work. She knew that now. But that didn't keep her from pressing on. "Wait no -- let me guess -- you'd tell me that it was better for me that we keep our distances. I know the drill."
Angel: There was no way, he knew, that he could walk away from it. When Buffy tried to touch him or tried to talk to him about it he ran, yes; but he always came back, and as they went on Angel tried less and less. Some of the worst regret, the worst guilt came from his knowledge that he was probably using Buffy, absorbing her without giving anything in return, but no amount of pain was strong enough to keep him from taking what he needed. If he went too long without, his head hurt. Maybe that was why he'd kept his distance. Sometimes, he tried to remember what their relationship felt like before the curse. He remembered the circumstances well enough, but not the experience - all of that had happened to someone else, someone who had only the most limited understanding of what it was like to have something to lose. For a moment, there was nothing but smooth silence, an absence of words backed by the hot rush of one heartbeat. Then something nameless flared in brown eyes, and Angel's resolve curled and singed at the edges, praying that he could survive, could transcend this pity. "You think this is something I want to do?" The last of him said this, whispered while his forehead dropped down into a smooth and blameless stretch of mourning. As if Buffy's voice had broken a spell of immobilization, something dark spilled over in his chest and then he was moving as if he'd been galvanized, clutching the rusted braid of chains on either side of her that elevated the weather worn swing. When he knelt, it was only to put them face to face. "You have no idea how hard it is for me to stay away. How hard it was to leave. It took everything I had the first time, Buffy - I don't know if I have the strength to do it again." And wouldn't you know it - something Angel should have expected - as if the difficulty between them was a pendulum that rebuffed all efforts at balance, Angel roused to the sight of Buffy staring raptly down at him, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get up and go away. The images were too vivid and far too close. They were within a hair's breadth of being real, of Angel just stepping over the brink and destroying what was left of his sanity. He and Buffy had been stalled out here for months, at this impasse of inaction. Maybe even years. And Angel was worthless to both of them - he had nothing to offer but inappropriate fantasies that amounted to betraying her loneliness and trust. "But I don't think I can stay here . . I keep--I keep dreaming about you. Last night, I killed you. The night before that--" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. "And there've been other dreams." Harmless dreams, stupid, innocuous, pointless dreams. Which was perhaps why he hadn't slept much lately. "Sometimes it seems I just close my eyes and you're waiting there." As if to test the veracity of his own words Angel allowed his gaze to wander, however briefly. The little line reappeared between his brows. His eyes lost their focus. "You're going to wish me dead. It might not be a month from now - it might not even be a year. But you're going to hate me."
Buffy: They were like buoys. anchored securely to the muddy ground beneath the ocean. Every wave would spur them onward, and for a beautiful, shining second, they were almost touching. They were close. But then it would always happen the same way -- the ropes that anchored them would reach their limits, and pull them back. "You think this is something I want to do?" Of course not. This wasn't anything that either of them wanted. It was hard to believe that seven years ago, they had been happy. It was his curse that had ultimately torn them apart. Well, that's what she figured Angel had told himself. It's what made him leave, right? Buffy wouldn't have minded living the rest of her life in abstinence if it had meant him staying. The rational part of Buffy knew he was right in the end. He always was. "Angel, I --" When he moved closer, either of his hands coming to grasp the chains at her side. Every muscle in her body went rigid, her breath catching in her chest as he knelt down. He looked broken. Buffy would have given a limb just to see him smile again. He'd never smiled often, but when he did, it was always enough to make everything just stop. The way one corner of his mouth would raise higher than the other, his eyes would crinkle at the edges ... how long had it been since he smiled? Now they were face to face, and Buffy couldn't even remember the last time he'd smiled. "Last night, I killed you." If he wanted her to run for the hills, he'd be thoroughly disappointed. She'd heard this all once before, just before she had to try to talk him out of letting himself turn to ash. Had it not been for the snow -- "It doesn't matter what you dream about, Angel. You're the one that old me that, remember? You wouldn't hurt me." That seemed a naive thing to say, considering the last couple of months. Even before Angelus, they had no qualms with resorting to literal blows. "You're going to wish me dead." Didn't he understand that she couldn't? She had tried. Nothing worked. "But you're going to hate me." Finally, she could not hold back the exasperation that had been urging her forward the entire time. Both of her hands reached out, grasping each side of his well-loved face. At least that way he couldn't turn away. "Angel, listen to me. For once, just listen. I can't hate you. I never could." Eyes narrowed, then. It wasn't an angry expression, but a desperate one. "The only way I can hate you is if you leave." Before he could argue, she spoke again, determined to get her words out before he could turn and leave again. "I'm not asking that we be together. We both know that doesn't work, no matter how much we want it. But I want you here. I want to be able to talk to you, to see you. And if you leave, then it was all for nothing." He was the entire reason she'd bartered her soul in the first place. She'd done it to get him back, and now that he was here, he just felt further away.
Angel: Angel still despised the way she'd made him feel. Ensouled, he'd loved her - how could he not? She was the warrior of light who'd stooped to lift him out of darkness, the living face of his salvation. She'd made him yearn after lost humanity, and there was no forgiving that. But it had been years since she'd dominated his every thought, and enough water had passed under that bridge that he no longer felt the need to burn it behind him immediately. Centuries had collapsed in his lap, leaving him to catalog complex, taking on nuance with age. It was not enough, not nearly, this business of watching but not touching. And it was as if, in all the umbra, the stark horror of nearly dying, nearly dissolving in his own contempt for life, he was capable of sharpening his resolve and drawing it into the simplest and basest forms of luxury his moral bankruptcy could provide - if only to keep figuratively breathing. And connections were everything - a million sensory clues glittered before his memory as soon as his thoughts put light upon them. Angel didn't seem to mind that he'd lost most of them in the last year or two. He should've expected Buffy's answer, but it still stung. Angel knew there was no after for them, but he thought it so bleakly, so hopelessly. Like he'd already given up. With a life like this - lived for other people, always heading for the next apocalypse, the next danger - there had to be some point where you finally choose yourself. Angel couldn't say when that should happen, with the world always needing them, but he'd once believed that time would come. His fingers traced the truth of her hands along every contour, remembering and cherishing all the forbidden moments that brought solace - right before he shoved them away and stood up. If he needed to leave for her to hate him, maybe that's exactly what he needed to do. Sweeping in the darkness like an aura, he gave a glance heavenward and turned back toward the cemetery. "I don't think he's going to show tonight." It was easier to pay
Buffy: For a brief, perfect moment, she thought she might be getting to him, that he just might be listening to her. The way his fingers brushed against the skin of her hands right down to the momentary easing of the crease between his brows made her rejoice for all of a few seconds, before he shoved her hands away and stood. Once again, she was facing his back. Frankly, she was getting tired of seeing it. "I don't think he's going to show tonight." Exasperation turned to near anger now, and Buffy followed Angel's suit, standing from the swing in a brief movement. "I'm sick of this, Angel. I'm so fucking sick of it!" The slight tremble in her voice made her more careful. She refused to break down again. "All you ever do now is turn away. You make excuses, you avoid me ... I don't know what I'm doing wrong here." All this time, Buffy hadn't been bitter about what she'd traded for Angel, and the last thing she wanted was to throw it in his face. But her lips were moving before she could stop them. "Is it wrong of me to expect some kind of gratitude? You were in hell! I've given you everything, and you can't even look at me." Doing her best to gather whatever composure she had left, Buffy took a deep breath and moved around him so that they were once again facing each other. "I don't know what I did that was so wrong that you feel like you have to keep running from me. I just want you to stop." Her voice had taken on the qualities of a plea, all of the previous anger gone within a mere moment's time. "Are you scared that I'll try to be with you? Because I won't. I know we can't be like we were, but that doesn't mean we have to avoid each other. I don't want to spend the next year and a half missing you when you're right here. I don't want to miss you at all." Would it be too cliche to ask that they be friends? Spike had said it best all those years ago: Buffy and Angel would never be friends. But Buffy would be willing to try. "A-are you worried that I'm going to sit around and pine after you? Because I'm not." Moving on was a joke, Buffy thought bitterly. She and Sam had been seeing each other for two weeks, and she knew she'd never love him like Angel. Riley, Spike -- both of them had been hurt by her inability to love anyone as completely as Angel. But she had loved them in her own way, and she could see Sam eventually claiming his own section of her heart, no matter how cold or uneven it appeared to be to some.
Angel: Somewhere hidden among the emotions that he usually felt were new ones rearing up and raging and trampling. Formidable and demented and it made his skin feel like a heavy layer of rubber over his lethargic muscles as the air strummed against the vampire's face, stroking flames into his diamond hard gaze. Angel saw the change knifing into her, the edge that forced its way between them and kept him from her. The edge receded, slightly, but didn't go away entirely. Like a shield, it protected him from her. Or maybe it protected her from him and what he wanted to do to her. Everything stopped. Well, not everything - he continued to watch Buffy's outburst (something he was probably expecting anyway); he continued to hear Buffy's question echo through him again and again, caroming off things inside like a pinball racking up points. Tilt. Definite tilt. Cold with distilled anger and yet hot with a strange feeling of exposure, Angel kept very still. It would go away. He would get over this. It might take a while, years even. But, inevitably the day would come when he ceased to yearn for the light and warmth and love that was Buffy Summers. All his fine strategy, his grasp of tactics, seemed to have deserted him. If he had not been so tired, emotionally numb, he supposed that the slayer's concern might have touched him, warmed him. But as it was he felt that nothing could break the frozen ice that was all he was inside. "So what? Love conquers all. Is that it, Buffy? What did you expect, protestations of eternal devotion, promises never to leave you?" His voice was still pleasant - saccharine sweetness ministering to his every whim - but he made no attempt to disguise the underlying anger. In times past the strong had trembled and the weak had wept at hearing that tone in his voice. Dark, alluring, so perfectly in accord with the actions that were undoing him one slow agonizing knot at a time by pulling the whole cynicism personified routine. Flipping the switch on some inner arbiter - for safety's sake - Angel might've laughed. If there was anything remotely amusing about this, anyway. "Buffy, relationship counselor. That's a new one for you isn't it? Well, no doubt you're the right person for the job. All those deep and meaningful loves that you've had. But of course, you've never left some one. No, commitment is your middle name. Ever dependable, that’s you." That should do it, Buffy would be too angry to question him further. Now he could escape. He had not thought that it would be so hard. The feeling of suffocation increased, leaving him light-headed, the possibility of blood thrumming in his ears, his nonexistent heartbeat racing, breathing ragged. He wanted to stay, so much, so terribly much. The temptation pulled at him, seductive as a siren’s song. But if he did he would never leave. "What’s happiness anyway? In all my life I can almost count on the fingers of one hand the times when I've been really, truly happy. If I can get over it, you can." Remorse began slow, slow and easy and so small that it crept upon him imperceptibly; rocked sensation past his senses and down deep into someplace he hadn't wanted it to go. "Goodnight, Buffy."
Buffy: They ran in a vicious circle, Buffy realized. Ever since coming to Cleveland, all they did was hurt each other. They'd fight, they'd apologize, and then it would start all over again. Did they not get tired of it all? They had enough fighting going on around them that the last thing they needed was to fight with one another. Yet they did it anyway. How long had it been since they'd had a civil conversation? Asked each other about the other one's night without knowing it would lead to a definite throw down? No wonder they were so fucking exhausted. "So what? Love conquers all. Is that it, Buffy?" Everything about Angel was out of place when he spoke. His voice was too sweet, like straight honey so sugary it made you want to gag. How he could sound angry at the same time was a mystery to the Slayer. She was about to argue, but his next words cut her off short. "Buffy, relationship counselor. That's a new one for you, isn't it?" Lips parted like she might speak, but no sound came out. She felt like she was choking on her own breath. He knew it would hurt her, and that's why he said it. Even after all these years, he knew exactly how to get under her skin. Maybe she did hate him. "But of course, you've never left some one. No, commitment is your middle name." Then why did it always feel like she was the one being left? Angel, Riley, her mother, Spike .. everyone left in the end. Then again, who could blame them? What, with the way Buffy could push and push some more, it was a wonder they stayed as long as they did. "If I can get over it, you can." Buffy would be damned ( oh, irony ) before she'd let him see the tremble in her bottom lip. "Not all of us can be uncaring ass holes like you. I almost envy you. Then I just realize how fucking sorry I feel for you. It must be terrible to be such a coward." She wanted him to swing at her, wanted him to start a fight that neither of them would finish. Buffy was sitting back in the swing before he could tell her goodnight. She would stay there all night if it meant catching the guy that had been stitching girls up like macabre dolls. "Enjoy yourself, Angel. I'm going to wait up and see if I can't catch myself a killer. After all, you can't be the only monster out here tonight." She'd wished she could take the words back as soon as they made the trip from her mouth, but she didn't dare apologize. Instead, she turned her attention back down her dagger.
Angel: Angel had known those words would do it, would cut through any initial resistance and get Buffy's full attention in a way that no others would. And he was right. His eyes darkened, and a stillness shadowed his expression, as though he were listening to some inner voice, one he couldn't quite hear. There was this thing between them now, this big, dense, heavy weight of words and thoughts unspoken, and Angel didn't think it would ever get better. Buffy's eyes were huge, grave and earnest; a picture that he used to find himself again when he was loose and wandering in the depths of a zone-out. Reassuring, usually, but not now; not with this - thing between them. He looked away quickly. His stomach dropped as things seemed to shift and slip around him. No longer an observer, Angel felt himself fill up his own body, fully at choice to move or to rest, tingling strangely within the boundaries of undead skin. And in a sudden flash of insight, he saw the schism between them, whole and complete. The line between observer and participant fell away, and Angel saw his own limits clear, his own need for distance and the darkness that lay behind it. He nearly winced - that need in him hurt Buffy; she respected that desire for distance, yeah, although he knew she didn't understand it, and consequently suffered the tortures of the unknown while she waited for Angel to come around, to either confirm or dismiss the fear. He swallowed heavily. He couldn't bring himself to hurt her again; time would do that all too soon. And whatever else happened, she would have the memories. As did he, but memories were cold comfort in the middle of the night when the longing was almost overwhelming. He said nothing more - and that was probably for the best at this juncture - but his expression never wavered in the least and he was mildly appreciative of the all-encompassing dark as he so usually wasn't. Even like this, nerve-wracked and a little sad and terribly unsure, he made no move to set things right. "Yeah. Good luck with that." Angel's face was stark, bones delineated under the skin. For an instant he actually looked more worn, every one of his near three hundred years and more. Wordlessly he whirled and strode off, body moving on auto-pilot.