who. buffy and angel what. a continuation of the last buffy/angel thread. when. immediately after the last thread where. angel's apartment status. complete
Buffy: There was always the voice in the back of her mind that whispered the possibilities of failure. If this didn't work - this last ditch effort - then there really was nothing else to do. She'd exhausted every single resource she had and then some. Hell, her soul had been given for the cause, and if it didn't work .. well, Buffy wasn't sure she'd be needing the year and a half after all. Movements ceased and breath hitched as Buffy waited for any sign of life in the apartment. And there it was. A sound that resembled a pained sob filtered into the living area, and Buffy was in motion before she could even really decide where it was coming from. Instincts told her the bedroom, so she followed, not stopping to think about anything else or to take any kind of precautions. "Buffy?" That voice - God, how she missed it - was filled with anguish that only a tortured soul could muster. Still, she didn't get too close. Not yet, anyway. Angelus had proven time and time again that he was an amazing actor. She had to be sure. So she watched him. Each movement, each shift of dark, pained eyes was taken into account. It was startling how much she wanted to abandon every bit of her common sense and reach out to his fallen form, if only to wipe at the tears that stained his drawn features. "An-" Words caught on a hitch, and Buffy had to fight past the growing lump of emotion in her throat. It wasn't until her vision grew blurry that she realized tears of her own were a very real possibility. "Angel?" -- "I don't--I can't remember." Every single pretense and caution she'd been struggling to maintain crumbled around her feet then, and she was dropping to her knees so that she could just touch him, if only to reassure herself that he was really here. Fingers brushed across the arcs of cheekbones, dusting away the trails of salt. Desperately, green eyes met brown, searching for the truth she craved. And it was there. This wasn't Angelus. The creature before her wasn't the monster she'd been dreading; it was the man she'd been mourning for weeks upon weeks. She couldn't manage an answer for his question about reality. Instead, she was pulling him against her in a clumsy, too-tight hug. Buffy thought she might choke on the sob of relief that she could feel wanting to break free. "God, Angel -- I missed you so much." Voice trembled violently, as did the hands that clutched viciously at him in more attempts at proving to herself this wasn't another dream. She'd had hundreds, after all.
Angel: He didn't know how long he sat like that, how many heartbeats counted themselves out while he stared at that dark form, willing himself to wake, to move, to blink and erase this image, this specter of his heart's hope. At last he breathed, a ragged gasp that felt too close to breaking. Buffy's low, soothing voice was close now, almost a whisper. Angel opened his eyes and remained silent. To speak to hallucinations only gave them power, created alternate realities, false memories. As if in answer, the first delicate thread of returning presence wound around the base of his skull, stabbing gentle current into the center of his brain. Then it rose, swelling over him, a single soft note building to a silent symphony in seconds, until it was there, that unmistakable harmonic surge. Moonlight cast hollows of shadow on the familiar features. He was pale in death, the skin stretched over the fine cheekbones, lashes soot-dark on the cheeks. And still. He was so still. Even the full lips were bloodless, cold. Then another breath, labored and gasping, followed by a low shudder as the involuntary reflexes took over, lungs remembering to draw air they no longer needed. Finally, he stopped trying to say her name and just held onto her, fingers slipping into the thick hair, his face bent close against the strong neck and the steady new heartbeat pulsing there. He found himself overwhelmed by the scents of cotton and metallic blood and the first rush of his own salt tears. A hundred questions pressed at him, none of them finding words. Hell wasn't the place people often imagined. It wasn't all fire and brimstone or frigid cold. It was nothing like that. It was worse - so much worse. For Angel, it was day after day of Buffy in the sun, his arm - extended to touch the halo of her hair - bursting into flame, healing only to burn again, endlessly. It was reliving their one and only night together, Buffy petal-soft beneath him, her eyes wide with trust, her mouth candy-sweet. Was there any truth to the saying ‘you always want what you can't have’? Is that why he was always aching to touch her? Because he knew he shouldn't. Every time Buffy was near, Angel seemed overwhelmed with the urge to break her, to cut himself on her bones - a poor facsimile of the memory of her - to mix his blood with hers and keep her close forever. Didn't exactly help that he'd been reminded of that so often lately that he tried to (futilely) claw the insufferable images from his head. It was bad enough before, now it was excruciating, surreal. When his eyes blinked shut there were flashes of unbearable light and color that exploded around him, waiting in abeyance for his moment of surrender to descend upon and overwhelm him. "No--no, I can't . . Stop it. Leave me alone--" Angel sobbed, and suddenly became a living, writhing, panting animal in Buffy's embrace.
Buffy: Had Buffy been the religious type, she would have been thanking God right about now. Unfortunately, she knew the truth - as crushing and painful as it was. This had nothing to do with God. What had happened here was an exchange between slayer, vampire, and all kinds of forces of evil. Buffy could still taste the undeniable burn of sulfur in her mouth, along with the distinction of ashes. The demon she had bartered with had given her the kiss of death -- literally. And right now? Now that her hands were touching Angel, were clinging to him as if he were her very last reason for existing at all .. she just couldn't bring herself to care. A year and a half seemed like a lifetime, anyway. And this way, Angel wasn't forced to spend an eternity in hell because of someone else's greed. When eyes screwed shut, the tears refused to be held back any longer, and a few made their way down her cheeks while fingers clutched at him that much harder. It would have been impossible to mistake the expression on her face as anything other than pure, undiluted joy. That changed quickly enough when Angel began to writhe and buck in her arms. Joy flickered to confusion, then to utter heartache when she looked at the pale planes of his face. Buffy felt something tear inside of her, something violent and living. "Shh," She tried to be soothing, but found that her own exterior was cracking, too many emotions rushing in all at once. "Angel, Angel ... look at me!" One hand grasped his shoulder, the other coming to rest at the side of his face. "Everything's okay now, I promise. You're back. I got you back." Words broke on a sob that she fought to keep under control. "You're here, and I'm real." A beat, as Buffy's fingertips ghosted across his jaw, the high arch of cheekbone, his brow -- everything. "I'm real, Angel. You're safe." Normally, those last two words would have been a laughable thought in itself. Safe? Safe didn't exist for either of them. But Buffy had just gotten him back, and she would make damn sure that he stayed that way. "Shh."
Angel: There was a moment of chaos in his head melting dreams with reality, making blurred shapes of gray shadows strange to him. His head pounded, his breathing increased, until the rising panic shoved the drowsy-fog aside enough for him to recognize his room. He remembered this room. This place. Angel now seemed almost hypnotized rather than insensible; his body responded with small, tentative shivers to Buffy's touch, his eyes dull as cloudy marbles, tight-lipped and silent and blind to everything. The soft sob wrenched out of him like something breaking free, something deep and vital that left him dizzy with vertigo. "Buffy." He knew he couldn't do this, couldn't hold onto her like this, couldn't just let himself come apart like this - but the knowledge was pale and indistinct and very far away, and once the name was past his lips there was no stopping it anyway. And when arms went around him - when returning strength caught him and pulled him close, hugging him awkwardly against that soft frame - questions slipped away, and he closed his eyes and held on, for that one moment not caring if he ever got the answers. His thoughts turned in rapid circles, his body running hot and cold with the unpredictable waves of feeling, with the surreal awareness of Buffy in front of him - here, really here. After days-months-years of nothing but shadows and gradations of light, Angel couldn't wish for anything more than to see Buffy's face again. Even for just a minute. And now that he had - well, it was a little anticlimactic - but Angel knew what he saw, regardless. He saw love. Still, he didn't answer, not fully trusting his own senses to know that it truly was Buffy there. "God, Buffy . . I feel like I haven't seen you in years. Everything is . ." He broke off, trying to get his scattered thoughts together. His voice sounded as ragged as he felt. He drank in the familiar face, the little worried frown between the dark brows. Feeling like he might lose it again, he tore his gaze away and put a little distance between them, burying his face against the curve of her shoulder. "Where are we?" he whispered, his words broken and muffled as he tasted blood and ash. His last venture in hell - while lacking physical signs of duress - had nearly destroyed him psychologically, and it had taken months for the memories to subside . . for the memories of the acts he'd committed while soulless to return.
Buffy: Finally, finally he seemed to realize that this was real. They were both there, and at least for the time being -- both of them were safe. He's back. Those two, simple words that held monumental importance were played on a loop inside of her brain until she thought she might start saying it aloud. His next words were so familiar, and she was suddenly thrust back to his mansion, sword in hand. "God, Buffy . . I feel like I haven't seen you in years. Everything is . ." It was better that way - better that he didn't remember everything, if anything, just yet. He would. That was unavoidable, and she wished more than anything that she could make sure he never had to remember anything. It was so unbelievably unfair that Angel had to be the one to suffer for what Angelus did. But for now, she was thankful for his temporary lapse of memory. Gently, as if afraid she might shatter him into millions of pieces, fingers wove their way through his dark hair when he rested his face against her shoulder. "Where are we?" It was a simple question, but speaking still felt as if she were trying to lift the a ton. "We're in your apartment." Turning her head a fraction so that her cheek rested against the side of his face, Buffy sighed, the sound coming out more of a drawn out whine. Free hand moved across the broad spanse of his back in an attempt to comfort him in any way she knew how. "I missed you so much." She'd said it just moments ago, but thought it needed to be repeated. Words that true could have been repeated thousands of times and not lose an iota of truth. Already, this time was turning out leagues better than the last. For one, she didn't have to slam the business end of a sword through his chest. Buffy had faced a lot of things; death, pain, suffering -- but nothing in her lifetime could have compared to the pain she'd felt when she watched the portal open behind his unsuspecting back. And God, he'd trusted her so completely. He closed his eyes because she had asked him to, and because of it -- but no, it was different this time. He wasn't going anywhere.
Angel: He rolled his head from side to side trying to divine relevance from the consolatory touches and brushes of warm flesh, his skull unwieldy and weighted while his body continued to ache in unfamiliar places. As disturbing as any violation was his sense of seeing both what was and wasn't there - the overlapping of reality and hell doubling the maddening weight of the world that pushed him past his fatigue, past the edge of thought, and suddenly it was deadly earnest. I'm dead, Angel thought, heaving with wild agony. The sense of being immured in his own rotting flesh tore a silent scream from his throat. He nearly shook and sobbed, his scream dying into hoarse, disregarded pleas that never made it further than his own mind. Something in Angel's aching throat relaxed and it was simply good: the in-rushing smell of Buffy's body, the spilling warmth of her heat signature. His senses, which had been steadying out, flared up again at that placatory touch. He realigned his body in a way that was almost natural - fine easy flow, loosened of its recent pain - so that her hand slid off the furrow of his spine. Encouraged, he latched more fiercely to Buffy's embrace - his mainstay, something so essential it spared no quarter for fairness or mercy - determined to forge a belief that this was real. Everything about her was admirable and evoked love, and slowly Angel returned from his isolation and reinhabited the wan, sore complacency (but not quite happiness) he'd become accustomed to around her, which ached like a bone broken and reset. The rhythm lulled him toward acceptance. Sometimes he didn't know what to say in the face of Buffy's kindness, or to her literal face in which innocence disguised such beauty that Angel would have thrown himself on a knife in sacrifice to it. Sometimes there were moments when he looked at her and recognized that he'd wanted this girl for as long as memory stretched, wanted these elements, as starkly as a child wants snowfall or guidance. He'd just been waiting, like a child standing at a fence in twilight surrounded by snow and emptiness and silence, looking at a road down which no one ever came. For a moment, the slight feeling of exposure was excruciating. But Buffy's hug eased the rawness, made it all right, and he found himself breathing normally, relaxing as her cheek rested against his own. "I missed you." Their sheer physical awareness of one another shimmered in the space between them, not a distraction, but a simple, overwhelming fact. There was no reservation in it, only straightforward, honest hope. It made something in Angel's chest turn over beneath the slow, uncomplicated urging of that intimate grasp, his own arms pulling her in. He turned his head and kissed her gently at the spot where neck and shoulder met, feeling the frisson of reaction. "I missed you. God, Buffy . . I thought I'd never see you again."
Buffy She didn't want to imagine what it had been like for Angel, or what he'd had to go through for the past month and a half. To start with, his trust in Justice had been shattered - even if Buffy had never understood that trust to begin with - and because of it, he'd spent the past weeks in hell. The thought of Angel being tortured, of being stuck there with no hope of being let out .. it was enough to turn her stomach. She had to do what she did, because there was no way Buffy could have left Angel there. He would have done the same for her a hundred times over without batting an eyelash. Despite his silence, she was able to feel him shaking. Angel was shaken to the core, but he was here, and Buffy found it hard to concentrate on any other fact but that. The kiss Angel placed at the crook where shoulder met neck was nearly enough to tear her at the barely-there seams. Buffy was hanging on to her composure by a thread, and it wouldn't have taken much to tear that thread in half. "I missed you. God, Buffy . . I thought I'd never see you again." She knew exactly how he felt. After Willow had done the spell for the tenth time, and when they had ran out of resources -- Buffy was sure that she'd never see him again. It had been a bold-faced lie when she'd bowed up to Faith in defense, declaring that there was a way to restore Angel's soul. Everyone had given up long before she had, and had it not been for the lead on the Crossroads .. she would have, too. There was only so much one could do. "I know the feeling." Breathing deeply, Buffy inhaled, focusing on his scent - the one that only he had - and almost expecting to smell the same kind of stench the demon had carried. ( Who would have thought that hell smelled bad, right? ) Instead, there was only the underlying tones of soap and expensive silk, and that in itself made Buffy want to weep with relief and joy. Leaning back just enough so that she could take his face in her hands, she searched his agony-filled eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, she could almost see hell in their chocolate depths. Pad of her thumb traced across the fullness of his bottom lip. "Sorry, I'm just -- I'm having trouble believing you're really here, that I'm not going to wake up and you be gone."
Angel: Phantom time passed, what might have been a day and a night; and then another day and night. Solitude and waiting. Then Angel, exhausted and worn, cheeks a scrimshaw of silvery-striped tears, shifted when he felt Buffy stir against him. He closed his eyes again with the confusion of nightmare and half-memory that still gripped him - tried to dial down his sense of smell, of sound and sight, throat giving up soft utterances that untethered him from reason. Seconds drew out between them, in which he couldn't have guessed her thoughts if his head depended on it. They both said nothing for a while, for different reasons. Angel blinked wetly and turned his head - struggling through a fog of headache and renewed animosity - then rolled a little; the curve of his face was met by the cradle of Buffy's hand and he leaned completely into its silken cradle. He found himself giving in to gravity and his own weariness, to a compulsion so powerful it knew no resistance; because he wanted with a deep, tidal pull to be safe, safe and in her arms. Movement 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. Angel's hand rested on her chest, pressed against her fluttering, twisted heart - gentle, so gentle and terrible - scraping some old scarred inner wound to fresh blood while taking him so softly that it might just rip him apart. Fear on a whole new level. And then Angel was breaking, shaking less than before, covering his face with her own, shutting out everything. It sent a lance of frustration right through him. Despite the ease of the words he felt Buffy's fear, heard it in a soft whisper of tension behind the casual response. His hands moved automatically, worked at unwilling muscles, tilted the blonde's head back until their eyes met again. "I'm not going anywhere," he insisted, feeling all the fierceness of his own frustrated pain, his insufferable longing. "I'm not letting you go anywhere." Angel sighed faintly, the shadowed angles in his face rearranging to accommodate the movement. He couldn't help it. He fed off of the connection between them at moments like this - always tinged with surprise, that he would do this, that he had somehow managed to find this - find her - in his un-life. He'd always known that it meant something, but he'd never known what. "I love you," the words spoken through feather kisses at her hairline made him shiver softly; ache, less softly. And the sense of cold apprehension vaporized immediately under a wave of righteous heat.
Buffy: Here and now, now that she was staring him in the face - a perfect face that she had seen for the past month and more every single time she'd close her eyes - everything seemed to shift back into place, like a deadbolt sliding home. It felt as if the infinite weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders had been lifted. And even if that wouldn't last forever, she was thankful for the chance to breathe. It seemed like it had been forever since she'd really been able to just ... breathe. Every breath had been strained, full of pain and feeling as if she were swallowing gallons of sand. But now, now she was taking in breath by the lungful. Free hand - the one that wasn't busy tracing his well-loved facial features - came to rest over his own hand that was resting over her heart. "I'm not going anywhere," He seemed so sure, and Buffy prayed he was right. Now that she had him back, if she ever lost him again, it would kill her. She'd be hollow again, and God, she was so tired of being hollow. Lately, the only two sensations she'd felt were lancing pain or a cold kind of hollowness. So she welcomed the fire, the relief that his touch brought on, and the promise of safety in his deeply-spoken words. "I'm not letting you go anywhere." She left the few tears unchecked that finally managed to make the journey down her cheek. "I love you," Buffy felt another sob threaten to crawl past her throat, but she managed to keep the sound checked as he kissed her hairline. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel safe. There had been nights where Buffy couldn't sleep, because even the shadows on the wall frightened her. She'd always been so sure that it was either Angelus or Justice coming back to enact some more damage. The only sleep she'd ever gotten was when she'd crawled into bed with Dawn, just so she wouldn't have to be alone, or when she'd passed out from sheer exhaustion. Speaking of rest; "I'm sure you're exhausted, Angel." Lips pressed against his cheek, leaving a trail of butterfly-kisses up to his brow before speaking again. "Why don't you lie down? Try and get some sleep?" Fingers tightened around his hand that she still rested her own upon. "I won't go anywhere, I promise. I'll just be in the living room." Soothingly, her hand smoothed across his forehead before once again coming to rest on his cheek. "Try to rest."
Angel: Stepping out of, well, hell - quite literally - was like emerging from deep water; the light and the air dazzled him; rarified with sound and sensation. The grating normalcy of the environment gnawed at his stomach. He took a deep breath, pure reflex, tingling at the touch of fresh air over his skin, of Buffy's warm respirations against his cheek. Angel wasn't gray anymore, but he was very pale, almost ghostly; pallid and looking like he was trying to keep that haunted pallor out of his expression, which of course just made him look more perturbed. Even if he wanted so desperately to call upon that bottomless fount of strength for Buffy's own sake. Mossy eyes met his own, and something turned over inside him, some huge and unexamined thing - probably everything he'd spent all this time not thinking about, he guessed. He suddenly felt aware of every single inch of his body, of hers - suddenly, inexplicably, warmed - and wondered dimly if his trembling had worsened. As if Buffy had punctured some inner barrier, Angel felt like he was drowning in unspoken words, submerged abruptly into a state of near-panic by all that was yet unsaid. He watched her press her lips together. A faint flush stained his pallid cheeks, and he took some small consolation in the thought that perhaps he wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable here. "Buffy . ." Angel managed. That one simple word felt good, a small admission. "If I wake up and you're not here I think I'll lose my mind." What's left of it, anyway. It was a flat, commonplace statement that made the vampire's blood thin with a sense of impending loss, his forehead furrowed into deep lines of concern. He placed a small kiss to the top of her head before shakily rising to his feet and pulling Buffy up along with him. Buffy kept petting him - one hand moving in slow circles on the small of his back, the other sweeping gently back from his forehead to the nape of his neck, over and over. Nice. Loving. Easy. It was easy - yet another surprise in this day of staggering surprises. When they finally drew apart the bed he occupied, while allegedly his, was unfamiliar, cold. He listened to the quiet noises from the other room, absently tracking Buffy's progress as she slowly and methodically put the living room to rights. The sounds were somehow tranquilizing without making him feel at all tranquil, and before he knew it he drifted away on them; drowning once again in the gloom that swarmed up to claim him, pressed deeper by the burden of awareness that he could no longer avoid.