Buffy Summers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whattingawhat) wrote2008-06-29 05:02 pm
whattingawhat) wrote2008-06-29 05:02 pm
Entry tags:
Let me see you through [cause Ive seen the dark side too]
["All men have one refuge, a good friend, with whom you can weep and know that he does not smile." – Menander]
She curls in on herself, knees to her chest. One arm is wrapped around her knees while the other is bent alongside her so that her hand can cover the scar on her neck. It is an entirely defensive and protective position. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows that but she doesn’t let it affect the way she’s sitting. She doesn’t have to present a front to him and if she wants to be protective and defensive with him, it’s okay.
He’s standing a few feet across from her, just inside the shadows, with his hands shoved in his pockets. “So how did he take it?”
Buffy shrugs in response. “How does anyone take that?” She looks up at him, her eyes catching his as her voice softens to a whisper she knows he’ll hear regardless of how far away he is. “How did you take it?”
“Okay, stupid question,” he concedes with a sigh that goes bone deep. He takes a step toward her and then another until he is standing in front of her. “You have to talk to me, Buffy. I still can’t read your mind.”
She looks up at him with liquid eyes and it rips at something deep inside of him then he is sitting beside her, one arm around her. With the other hand he strokes her hair. For her he’ll turn back time, change the world and try to read her mind. “Okay, so he was probably angry. I was angry.”
She nods a little and he feels things inside of her unwind, relaxing a little as she leans against him. It’s part ritual and wholly metaphorical as she lets him take on her some of her weight.
“He’ll move past it. At least to the point where he can stomach it. Eventually gratitude will take its place because it’s hard to be angry when you’re here. He’ll realize that if he didn’t have anything to be angry about, you wouldn’t be here and that’s when the gratitude will take over. Anger will destroy everything but gratitude he can live with.”
“You’re sure?” she asks in a voice that is tiny, lost in the dark except to him.
“I’m sure. I was there, Buffy. Once upon a time.” His voice is that soft rumble that used to make her warm all over. Now it just brings wave after wave of hurt. She’s learned to just lie in it, let it wash over her and take the pain as it comes.
“Things are alright now. I mean-we’re all right. He and I. Or is it him and me? I always forget.”
“Him and me but really the whole sentence is wrong,” Angel answers, his fingers are still running through her hair and his chin is resting atop her head.
“Buffy Summers, mangling the English language since 1985…or whenever I started talking.” She pauses, as if she’s remembering something, catches the thread of the topic and continues. “We’re okay. He’s just…quieter and he holds onto me a little tighter. Everything is more desperate, like he’s counting down to something that I don’t know is coming. Except I do. It’s this llama in the room and we just step around it to avoid getting spit at.”
“Elephant…not Llama and where did you come up with the spitting part of the metaphor?” Angel asks. He can’t help smiling a little because it’s entirely Buffy to change and twist something like that.
She shrugs again, going boneless against him as he hand slides from her hair down to her arm. He avoids her neck like the plague. “Give it some time, Buffy. He’s realizing what he has, what he could lose and he’s coming to terms with that. “
“Or he could be making plans to get out as fast as he can,” Buffy says more than a little cynically.
Angel shakes his head and squeezes her arm tight enough to leave bruises. “No. You said he’s smart. Not stupid. He’s not going to walk away from the best thing to ever walk into his life.”
She thinks about his words for a moment, turning them over in her head before she moves on. “He smokes a lot more and he doesn’t sleep when I’m on patrol.”
“Your Mom never did either. It’s hard when someone you love is out there and you know what they’re doing,” Angel reminds her. He feels her swallow hard and she leans a little harder against him. His arm curls closer around her.
“Willow would just jerk me out of the ground again. I’m like those weeds you can’t ever get rid of. They die, they come back and you jerk them out of the ground by their roots but somehow they still come back.”
“You’re not a weed, Buffy.” His fingertips trace over the tip of her eyebrow and down her cheek. She shivers at the cool against her skin because she’s grown used to the warmth. It makes him move his hand back to her hair. “And she won’t. Not if you don’t want her to. I’ll make sure of it.”
There’s a long space of time between them when Buffy’s breath comes in infrequent, desperate gasps, as if the knowledge and the thought makes her breath stop. When she speaks again, her voice is raw, like something bleeding scraping against concrete. “I want her to.”
He wants to argue with her. Everything inside of him screams but the selfish parts of him tamp the screams down. “Have you told him?”
“You mean have we had the talk about what he’s supposed to do if I’m dead?” Buffy asks. She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Hardly. Remember, he’s normal guy still dealing with the whole idea of I died and I came back. He’s still angry. I don’t think now is the time to discuss what happens when I die. Again.”
“He’s never going to be ready for that talk, Buffy. Not if the idea of you missing from this world is as incomprehensible to him as it is to me.”
“Yeah well…he doesn’t use words like incomprehensible. He talks like a human,” Buffy says as she shoves herself off the table, out of Angel’s arms to pace the grass. As soon as she’s away from him, her body language goes back to defensive-protective. One hand on the scar on her neck, the other tugging at her hair.
Angel sighs and stands up, one hand raking through his hair before he shoves his hands in his pockets again. He doesn’t argue with Buffy because he knows it’s not an argument. It’s part of the way they do things, almost as if there’s a script and they follow it beautifully every time.
“You should go home, Angel. I’m sure there are damsels in distress that need you. I’m not one of them.”
“You never have been,” Angel responds. He walks over to her, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead. “You should eat something.” He melts into the shadows, pausing to get a last look at her and she’s looking back.
“Hey…Angel. Thanks.”
He shrugs and offers her a small, crooked grin. “Anytime.”
She curls in on herself, knees to her chest. One arm is wrapped around her knees while the other is bent alongside her so that her hand can cover the scar on her neck. It is an entirely defensive and protective position. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows that but she doesn’t let it affect the way she’s sitting. She doesn’t have to present a front to him and if she wants to be protective and defensive with him, it’s okay.
He’s standing a few feet across from her, just inside the shadows, with his hands shoved in his pockets. “So how did he take it?”
Buffy shrugs in response. “How does anyone take that?” She looks up at him, her eyes catching his as her voice softens to a whisper she knows he’ll hear regardless of how far away he is. “How did you take it?”
“Okay, stupid question,” he concedes with a sigh that goes bone deep. He takes a step toward her and then another until he is standing in front of her. “You have to talk to me, Buffy. I still can’t read your mind.”
She looks up at him with liquid eyes and it rips at something deep inside of him then he is sitting beside her, one arm around her. With the other hand he strokes her hair. For her he’ll turn back time, change the world and try to read her mind. “Okay, so he was probably angry. I was angry.”
She nods a little and he feels things inside of her unwind, relaxing a little as she leans against him. It’s part ritual and wholly metaphorical as she lets him take on her some of her weight.
“He’ll move past it. At least to the point where he can stomach it. Eventually gratitude will take its place because it’s hard to be angry when you’re here. He’ll realize that if he didn’t have anything to be angry about, you wouldn’t be here and that’s when the gratitude will take over. Anger will destroy everything but gratitude he can live with.”
“You’re sure?” she asks in a voice that is tiny, lost in the dark except to him.
“I’m sure. I was there, Buffy. Once upon a time.” His voice is that soft rumble that used to make her warm all over. Now it just brings wave after wave of hurt. She’s learned to just lie in it, let it wash over her and take the pain as it comes.
“Things are alright now. I mean-we’re all right. He and I. Or is it him and me? I always forget.”
“Him and me but really the whole sentence is wrong,” Angel answers, his fingers are still running through her hair and his chin is resting atop her head.
“Buffy Summers, mangling the English language since 1985…or whenever I started talking.” She pauses, as if she’s remembering something, catches the thread of the topic and continues. “We’re okay. He’s just…quieter and he holds onto me a little tighter. Everything is more desperate, like he’s counting down to something that I don’t know is coming. Except I do. It’s this llama in the room and we just step around it to avoid getting spit at.”
“Elephant…not Llama and where did you come up with the spitting part of the metaphor?” Angel asks. He can’t help smiling a little because it’s entirely Buffy to change and twist something like that.
She shrugs again, going boneless against him as he hand slides from her hair down to her arm. He avoids her neck like the plague. “Give it some time, Buffy. He’s realizing what he has, what he could lose and he’s coming to terms with that. “
“Or he could be making plans to get out as fast as he can,” Buffy says more than a little cynically.
Angel shakes his head and squeezes her arm tight enough to leave bruises. “No. You said he’s smart. Not stupid. He’s not going to walk away from the best thing to ever walk into his life.”
She thinks about his words for a moment, turning them over in her head before she moves on. “He smokes a lot more and he doesn’t sleep when I’m on patrol.”
“Your Mom never did either. It’s hard when someone you love is out there and you know what they’re doing,” Angel reminds her. He feels her swallow hard and she leans a little harder against him. His arm curls closer around her.
“Willow would just jerk me out of the ground again. I’m like those weeds you can’t ever get rid of. They die, they come back and you jerk them out of the ground by their roots but somehow they still come back.”
“You’re not a weed, Buffy.” His fingertips trace over the tip of her eyebrow and down her cheek. She shivers at the cool against her skin because she’s grown used to the warmth. It makes him move his hand back to her hair. “And she won’t. Not if you don’t want her to. I’ll make sure of it.”
There’s a long space of time between them when Buffy’s breath comes in infrequent, desperate gasps, as if the knowledge and the thought makes her breath stop. When she speaks again, her voice is raw, like something bleeding scraping against concrete. “I want her to.”
He wants to argue with her. Everything inside of him screams but the selfish parts of him tamp the screams down. “Have you told him?”
“You mean have we had the talk about what he’s supposed to do if I’m dead?” Buffy asks. She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Hardly. Remember, he’s normal guy still dealing with the whole idea of I died and I came back. He’s still angry. I don’t think now is the time to discuss what happens when I die. Again.”
“He’s never going to be ready for that talk, Buffy. Not if the idea of you missing from this world is as incomprehensible to him as it is to me.”
“Yeah well…he doesn’t use words like incomprehensible. He talks like a human,” Buffy says as she shoves herself off the table, out of Angel’s arms to pace the grass. As soon as she’s away from him, her body language goes back to defensive-protective. One hand on the scar on her neck, the other tugging at her hair.
Angel sighs and stands up, one hand raking through his hair before he shoves his hands in his pockets again. He doesn’t argue with Buffy because he knows it’s not an argument. It’s part of the way they do things, almost as if there’s a script and they follow it beautifully every time.
“You should go home, Angel. I’m sure there are damsels in distress that need you. I’m not one of them.”
“You never have been,” Angel responds. He walks over to her, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead. “You should eat something.” He melts into the shadows, pausing to get a last look at her and she’s looking back.
“Hey…Angel. Thanks.”
He shrugs and offers her a small, crooked grin. “Anytime.”
no subject
no subject