TITLE: "Suddenly Unsturdy" 1/1 - Sequel/Companion to "What I Really Meant to Say",
Angel's POV
AUTHOR: Ducks, The Anti-Joss
E-MAIL: ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: Pft. Sure, they're mine. Not.
IMPROV #22 - sugar, frame, sheer, time
RATING: R-ish for sexuality.
PAIRING: B/A
TIMELINE: Post-Shanshu
SPOILERS: Vague for B/A Canon
SYNOPSIS: 10 years later, after the Great Coffee Accident, an ex-vampire in denial
finally sees the light.
DISTRIBUTION: Improv, Land of Denial, others who house my fic are welcome to it.
Anyone else just let me know.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Pure angsty fluff. After writing "What I Really Meant to Say", was
immediately struck by the urge (and, you know... with the begging. *G*) to write
Angel's slightly more explicit POV. The song this time is "Somewhere in Between" by
Lifehouse.
FEEDBACK: But of course...
To Ryan, who unfailingly asks for a sequel... to everything. Here ya go, girl! Also
to Anja, Shirley, and the POL's on the Babble Board... us old folks need a little
nudity in our fic. *g*
"Suddenly Unsturdy" 1/1
by Ducks
*****
"I can't be losing sleep over this
No I can't.
And now I cannot stop pacing.
Give me a few hours
I'll have this all sorted out
If my mind would just stop racing.
'Cause I cannot stand still.
I can't be this unsturdy.
This cannot be happening..."
*****
When Angel got up that morning for his ritual sunrise jog, it didn't *feel* like the
sort of day when the reality he'd worked for a decade to build would explode into
dust around his ears. Really, it was a day like any of the 3650 or so he'd spent as
an ex-vampire: jog and greet the sun. Shower, dress, cornflakes and black coffee
while reading the Times; head downstairs to the office, debrief the team, and get the
assignments for the afternoon. Nearly meet an untimely ((although, after 260 years,
could it really be considered 'untimely' anymore?)) death by attempting to drink
Cordelia's toxic bean-flavored muck. Walk to Java Joe's for an antidote.
And that was where it all went wrong... or... right, really. Horribly,
earth-shatteringly, terrifyingly right.
If he had to be honest with himself, some part of him knew she was there before he
ever plowed into her. In fact, he'd known even as he was ((reluctantly)) handing four
dollars to the cashier ((*four* *dollars*. For a few beans and some hot water. Even
after all this time, he couldn't help but think it was a cardinal sin, and that
everyone who profited from the venture was surely headed straight for Hell)) and
maneuvering through the lunchtime crowds toward the door. He'd felt that old
prickling on his skin, from head to toe... that sudden fire in his blood, and his
gums ((which didn't even have fangs in them anymore)) began to itch. He frowned at
the sensations as he walked away, and had just written them off to high blood
pressure or stress ((or utter and complete lack of female company for almost four
years)), when...
BAM!
He was soaked in coffee, awash in embarrassment, and then... drowning in her. She was
heavier ((curvier -- more woman than girl)), her hair was darker ((thick, rich,
burnished honey gold just begging for trembling fingers to be run gently through
it)), dressed more conservatively in a sheer ((Oh, Christ, practically see through!))
sundress, but... good Gods, there was no mistaking that it was Buffy.
Angel had instantly snapped into full idiot mode, swiping at the coffee he'd spilled
all over her chest and babbling incoherently like a mentally challenged speed freak,
trying not to gawk at her or grab her and kiss her until they both expired from lack
of oxygen. He wished a new Hellmouth would open right there at his feet and swallow
him whole as his hands tremored and he melted in the wake of her confident laugh, her
funny stories of life in Sunnydale... All things he had known, while always trying
not to know, because what was the point?
And all the while, his heart had been lodged firmly in his throat. He could barely
draw a breath. His arms literally *ached* to grab her... hold her close... never let
her go again, and his mind was a riot of racing memories and faded dreams and
confused babbling all its own.
((Why didn't I ever call her? Why didn't I tell her that I never stopped loving her,
and being human doesn't seem to mean as much as I thought it would without her? And
did she just say she never got married? Good God, why not? She's stunning and funny
and intelligent and... *gulp* sexy, and... Maybe I should tell her now. No, don't be
an idiot, you're standing in the middle of downtown Los Angeles with third degree
burns all over your torso, and you haven't even *spoken* in ten years, and you have
to go to work, so just turn around and walk away. Walk away. Come on... say goodbye.
Okay, that's fine, give her your card. NO, don't give her that LOOK! Are you
completely daft?))
Finally, the Awkward Silence caught up with them, and he looked at his watch... told
her he had to go and tore himself away after handing her his card with his soul
sobbing ((Please, please call me. I miss you so much.))
Then, just like that, it was over. He stumbled away, torn between the urge to skip
with joy at just having been close to her again, and to collapse to the ground and
curl up and sob because he *knew* she'd never call, and he'd never call, and who
knows -- that might have been the last time they would ever see one another.
But he said a little prayer to himself anyway.
The meeting, naturally, was a washout. His autopilot nodded and answered questions at
all the proper intervals ((he hoped)), but most of his consciousness was busy
replaying that stupid, random ((fated)) accident that had sent him hurtling straight
into the soft, bittersweet, agonizing abyss of his past all over again.
He'd done well, putting her aside... or so he'd convinced himself. She was that one
ghost that a thousand hours of therapy and endless meditation had never quite been
able to exorcise, but he managed to move around her enough to embrace his life.
Enough, even, to date, sometimes. But it had been nothing but a bald-faced lie when
he told her he'd almost gotten married. He hadn't... ever. Not even close. In fact,
no matter how hard he tried ((and he had... he really had)), he'd never been able to
make any relationship with a woman who wasn't Fred or Cordelia last more than a few
months, at best. He had nothing to offer a woman -- he couldn't very well share his
past, and he couldn't give his heart or soul, when they had been given irrevocably so
long ago. Hell, when he tried to make love to one of the sweet female companions he'd
forced himself to interact with over the years ((in the name of normalcy)), he hadn't
been looking into blue or brown eyes, but mossy hazel... hadn't laid his hands on
soft, fleshy feminine curves, but long, hard athletic muscles... hadn't run his hands
through...
Okay, so they were all blonde. But nonetheless, he was an utter failure at
companionable sex... meaningless sex... one night stands... potential long term
relationships... pretty much anything beyond "Hey, how are you?" was just beyond him,
because after that, he was teeming with "Her smile isn't quite like Buffy's," or "She
wears perfumey-perfume. Buffy always smelled like skin and vanilla and wildflowers".
Long story short - Angel and women that weren't Buffy didn't seem to mix.
Okay, so... maybe his denial hadn't been as effective or complete as he thought. But
he managed to go on anyway... managed to not call her... not jump in the Belvedere
and barrel at top speed to Sunnydale and fall to his knees at her feet and beg her to
give him a chance. Ten years was a long time to make it through, and he had.
But he thought about it all the time... going to her. Dreamed about it through 98% of
the long, lonely nights of the past ten years. He kept all of that on enough of a
shelf so that missing her no longer crippled him as it once did... but he couldn't
help but think, sometimes, that it was slowly killing him, nonetheless.
After his "meeting", he walked to Orange Grove Park, kicked off his shoes, sat in the
grass, and indulged in another old habit that he'd never quite been able to break,
despite his best efforts.
Brooding.
The afternoon slipped by him mostly unnoticed as he got lost once again in cherished
memories... nights of innocence in haunted graveyards. Long talks sitting on her
windowsill. The heady sensation of being alive, and being loved, after a century of
being nothing. He remembered the pain of separation, of lost hope and shattered
dreams... the taste of charmed, selflessly-given blood on his tongue... felt the
agony of turning and vanishing into the smoke of that last battle together. He
relived the sensual joys of a day that never was... tasted their mingled tears at the
end of it. And all the years that came after... their struggle to build a camaraderie
in the face of the End of Days, even as the specter of their forbidden, but undying
love stood always over their shoulders, taunting them in blood-soaked whispers.
Even with the vague promise of Shanshu and its eventual fruition, it had just been
too hard... too painful to try and defeat that old demon. So after the Hellmouth
closed, and his heart had once again began to beat, he and Buffy had looked one last
long, hungry moment into one another's eyes... and said goodbye forever.
Of course... it looked like forever didn't last as long as it used to, did it?
There was a good reason why he never called her... why he struggled fruitlessly every
day to force thoughts of her from his mind, and this morning's cruel twist of fate
had only proven it.
He could never resist her, no matter how hard he tried. All it took was one touch,
one glance, one word, and he was a helpless slave, groveling at her feet.
Wasn't he better than that, now? Wasn't he worth more than just the scraps of her
life that he had once devoured like ambrosia? Hadn't he spent blood, sweat and tears
to be more than the twisted wreck of a creature that had once loved her so
desperately?
"You'll be in love until it kills you both!" Spike had once raged at them... and
Angel had hoped it wasn't true... that time and distance would fade that irresistible
draw -- he the moth, and she the flame. That it would dampen the pain and lend a
duller edge to the longing.
But it never had. And though he was different now -- he was his own man, at last --
she was still so deeply in the core of him, that he knew he might never be rid of
her. And one stupid, fortunate accident had driven that truth into his heart just
like one of her stakes.
He still loved her. Still wanted her more than anything in this dimension or any
other. And now, not even the thin veneer of denial he had managed to weave over his
life could hold fast against it.
Frustrated, he dragged himself back to the office. Heart-shattering truth or no, he
was determined not to let this overwhelm him. He had a life now. A good life. Good
friends. He was happy with his job, and his lot... happy to be a mortal more or less
like any other mortal, watching a finite ((empty)) lifespan slowly pass him by. He
liked watching his friends grow... Wesley and Fred, Cordy and Gunn...he liked
watching their children grow. He loved his godchildren -- all six of them. He loved
his Rotweiler, Juliet. He loved his motley assortment of stray cats that came to eat
cans of tuna he left for them in the courtyard. He loved his even motlier assortment
of underworld acquaintances, ex-cops, ex- evil lawyers, ex-psychotic Slayers and
bizarre clientele. He loved his life, and needed nothing else to make him complete.
((Damn it!))
'Liar!' his heart shrieked at him, 'Stupid, weak, lousy, cowardly liar! *Nothing* is
right without her, and you know it!'
He ignored the incessant ranting... after all, it wasn't the first time he'd had to
share space in his consciousness with voices. He forced himself to focus. He wrote up
his reports. Paid the bills. Read the background file on his latest case. All the
while chanting a desperate mantra in his head to drown out the rebellion in his
suddenly reawakened soul:
'I do *not* need Buffy. I do not *want* Buffy. Buffy has her own life, and she
certainly doesn't need *me*. She loves her freedom, remember? She loves her job, her
family, her life, just the way they are. She's left it all behind, and it's damn well
time that you do the same!'
Then Cordy arrived for her afternoon shift, her youngest son Billy ((William -- long
for Liam)) in tow. She took one look at Angel's statement and promptly tore into him
with a vehemence she hadn't shown in years.
"I don't suppose you bothered to ask her on a *date* or anything remotely *normal*
like that, oh Mr. 'I'm Human Now and I Live Like a Human Just As Long As It Doesn't
Involve Sex'."
He glanced up from the computer screen as if he'd only just noticed her entrance.
"What are you talking about? Ask who on a date? And... excuse me, but I've had plenty
of sex."
His oldest and dearest friend cocked her head at him and gave a look that could only
be described as withering. "I'm talking about *this* century -- and soulless,
bloodsucking fiends don't count. And just for your infomation, I may be lot of
things, Angel... but stupid, blind, and completely unaware of your continued
Buffy-obsession don't happen to be any of them. I know that face."
He sneered at her, but didn't reply, choosing instead to turn back to his work.
Cordelia plunked down in the chair across the desk from him and sent Billy off to
play in the courtyard with the animals.
He ignored her pointed stare for as long as he possibly could... Which, as usual,
turned out to be about thirty seconds.
"*What*, Cordelia! What do you want me to say?"
"I *want* you to say that you *finally* decided to stop acting like a stubborn
*jackass* and took advantage of your current non-vampire situation to *finally* go
after what you've *really* wanted for all these years!" she barked back.
For a moment, he considered denying it -- telling her she was nuts, and that he
hadn't seen Buffy at all. Which would have been a stupid waste of time, because after
all these years, after all the two of them had survived together, there was no one in
the world who knew him better than Cordelia Chase-Gunn.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"It's too late for that, now. Anything Buffy might once have felt for me is long
gone. We're different people, Cor. We have completely separate lives that have
nothing to do with one another. Why drag all of that old pain up again?"
His friend snorted derisively. "Oh, gee, I don't know, maybe because both of you
idiots are still madly in love with each other?"
He glowered. "That's ridiculous. We hardly know one another anymore."
His best friend glowered right back. "Right. Whereas it was in no way ridiculous that
a 240-something vampire with a soul fell in love with a 16-year old Vampire Slayer
and vice versa in the *first* place."
They stared one another down for several minutes, until Cordy finally leaned forward
and pushed the phone at him.
"Speed Dial 1," she reminded him, "I never changed it."
Angel's stare ticked down to the phone. In that moment, he didn't think he had ever
seen a more frightening object in all of his many days. His fearful gaze rose to his
friend's face once more.
"What if she's... involved with someone?" he whimpered.
"She's not," Cordy countered.
"What if she doesn't want to talk to me?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."
"But... what will I say to her?"
Cordelia sighed. "Jeeze, Angel! You're 260 years old, and you don't know how to talk
to a woman? Especially *this* woman? Please. You broke the ice this afternoon,
right?"
He shrugged and looked away, embarrassed once more. "Mostly... I wiped coffee off her
breasts and babbled a lot. I'm not sure about what."
"Okay, look," the former seer said, getting up, "Call her or don't call her. I don't
care. But I'm telling you right now, I'm *not* coming back to this office again if
you're going to turn right back into grouchy, broody, 'I'm so depressed but
pretending stoically I'm not' Guy. And since I know that's exactly what you're
*going* to do if you don't call her, I might as well just quit. So... I quit. 'kay?"
And with that, she spun on her heel, called out the back doors for Billy, and stomped
out the main exit, leaving one very confused ex-vampire staring in stark terror at
the phone in her wake.
He knew she would be back tomorrow, no matter what she threatened -- it wasn't
exactly the first time she'd done it. But more than that... she was right.
Maybe today was a sign. Maybe the Powers That Be were sitting... or... doing whatever
they did, wherever they existed, and saying, "You know, we've put those two in each
other's path again and again, made it patently obvious that they were created for one
another, that their lives would never be quite complete without each other, and
yet... again and again, he screws it up. Can he possibly get more dense? Okay... one
last shot..."
Or... maybe he was just a hopelessly clumsy caffeine addict, and that was the only
Victoria's Secret in that part of LA, and Java Joe's was the only coffee shop near
that Victoria's Secret ((because that was where she'd been... he'd noticed the
bags...))...
Which led him to think about silk and lace. Silk and lace falling like superfluous
decorations on Buffy's perfect curves. Imagined a tiny, lacy black demi-bra thrusting
her perfectly formed breasts upward... a barely-there thong tracing the line of her
hips and drawing his eyes, then his hands, then his mouth to her soft, hot...
Okay. Enough! Fate or addiction or divine intervention, he was *not* going to call
Buffy!
Period.
((Just call her. What's the harm?))
Let it go.
((It's not that big of a deal. A friendly little chat, that's all.))
No!
((She was as happy to see you as you were to see her.))
Moot point.
((You know you want to call her. What's the worst that could happen?))
Not gonna think about it anymore.
((I wonder if there's a florist open this late.))
The next thing he knew, he was driving like a bat out of Hell... or... an ex-vampire
on his way back to the former *mouth* of Hell, his only company a bouquet of
wildflowers he'd ended up picking from his own garden, and a CD that Cordy had left
in the player ((that she had insisted he install eight years ago, when she had taken
it upon herself to tutor her "culturally retarded" best friend in pop culture)) when
she borrowed the car yesterday ...
Well... at least he liked this band. Or more accurately, didn't loathe them quite as
much as some of the crap she subjected him to. Who named bands things like "Korn" and
"Limp Bizkit", anyway?
But Lifehouse, he could handle.
"I cannot stand still.
I can't be this unsturdy.
This cannot be happening.
This is over my head,
But underneath my feet.
'Cause by tomorrow morning,
I'll have this thing beat.
And everything will be back
To the way that it was.
I wish it was just that easy."
Or maybe not.
((God, I hate pop music.))
The apropos lyrics crawled under his skin, making him itch... or maybe that was the
'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign that zoomed past. The increasing pace of his heartbeat...
the sensation that he was getting closer... closer to her... closer to all of his
dreams coming true, or being shattered forever.
It all happened so fast after that, he wasn't quite sure, later, how he had gotten
through it without having a heart attack. He was on Ravello Drive. Then he was
parking in front of Buffy's house. He was out of the car and ringing the bell, half
praying that she wasn't there, half praying that she was, but that she was ((please,
God)) alone, because what the hell would he do if he found himself face to face with
another big, strapping, blue-eyed farmboy glaring at him like he was Patient Zero in
the new round of the Black Plague?
"Not tonight, okay? I had a really bad..."
And there she was... ten times more breathtaking than she had been a few hours ago,
with her cupid bow mouth hanging wide-open and her green eyes saucer-round in shock,
and he was holding up the bouquet like a shield and indulging in yet another round of
mindless Xander Harris-like babbling, all the while wondering: what is she thinking?
Is she glad I'm here? Does she think I'm a moron? Is she going to club me with the
baseball bat she keeps in the umbrella stand behind the door?
"And... that's what I really meant to say," his autopilot concluded, leaving him at a
total loss as to what *else* he had said.
((God, just don't let it have been completely dim-witted.))
"Would you catch me if I fall
Out of what I fell in?
Don't be surprised if I collapse
Down at your feet again.
I don't want to run
Away from this.
I know that I just don't need this..."
Before he could take another breath, she was on him, and they were
sobbingkissinglaughing like a matching pair of unbalanced lunatics, and Angel could
do nothing but take that as a 'yes, I still want you, stupid', and scoop her up,
never letting his lips leave hers for even a moment, and carry her upstairs to her
old bedroom, which she didn't object to, even though it was clear that she no longer
occupied it, and time didn't slow down to normal again until she was on her back on
the soft comforter, and he was kneeling above her, looking down into those eyes that
so haunted his dreams, and she whispered,
"Is this really happening?"
She had asked him that once before, he remembered, when they were standing in a sewer
and he was ripping both their hearts out. The sheer poetry of the fact that she was
asking him the very same question while he was trying to put them back in their
proper place again was in no way lost on him.
He reached one hand up to trace the well-remembered turn of her cheek, the curve of
her lips, the slant of her eyes, and marveled at how he had managed to age her
perfectly in his fantasies. She was even more beautiful tonight than she had been the
first time he saw her, almost 20 years ago.
"God, I hope so," he sighed, "Because I'm pretty sure it'll kill me if I wake up and
find out it was all just a dream."
She laughed and pulled him down into the shelter of her arms -- the only place he had
ever felt safe and warm and alive and *right*, and it *was* a dream -- a dream come
so sweetly true, as they kissed and caressed one another breathless. Until any
lingering questions or doubts were burned form his heart and mind by a desire he had
so long repressed, he'd forgotten it existed. To finally have her...to be with her...
in her and all around her... to smell and hear and taste and feel every inch of this,
his true reward, after so long denying that it could ever be his.
It was his first meal as a human, all over again... his first breath... his first
sunrise, his first glass of wine and bar of chocolate, his first backache, and his
first cut that took days to heal all in one as he undressed her. Slipped away the
soft tee shirt she was wearing to reveal her magnificent breasts. He took forever to
blanket every silken millimeter of her torso with hands and lips and blunt teeth,
until she was crying out with joy, writhing beneath him with the very same roaring,
blissful abandon that he was feeling. Her warm fingers tangled in his hair, tore his
sweater away to reveal and then devour his chest, his back. Urging him out of his
pants and Calvins to get to his midsection, his legs, his penis that already fairly
throbbed, ready to burst at a single stroke from her little hand. He stripped her of
her sweats and practical white cotton bikinis ((the lack of satin and lace did
nothing to cool his ardor)) and he was awestruck to have her finally bare, skin
against his skin, the combined scent of their rising desire a headier musk than he
had ever remembered it being from that single day they were human together before.
He let his kisses and caresses wander through hills and valleys of tanned flesh...
buried his face between her strong legs and devoured her essence until he nearly
suffocated from lack of oxygen, and didn't care that he was dizzy from forgetting
that he now needed to breath as his tongue stroked and darted, lips suckled and
fingers plunged until Buffy was wailing his name in supplication, the glory of her
body pulled tight, bowing off the bed as he brought her to her peak again and
again...
Now *that* sound was music... her voice singing praises and keening with perfect
happiness, that sweet, erotic song pulling on his heart and soul and blood and bone
until he couldn't stand it anymore... couldn't take being this far away from her for
another moment, and reverently ascended her shivering form, looking once again into
her eyes, cupping her cheek, and kissing her softly as he slid into her...
((Finally home.))
They sighed together, lips and bodies entwined, and remained perfectly still but for
tiny kisses for what felt like eternity. Angel finally moved within her, against her,
and she around and against him, and for a moment, he was almost sorry that they were
merely mortal now, because he could make love to her *forever*.
"And ever... and... Oh, God, Buffy..." he moaned, clutching her closer, overwhelmed,
swept away, obliterated by the sheer sensation of completion, "Why did we wait so
long? Why did we waste all of these years?"
"I don't know," she gasped, clutching him desperately in the circle of her arms and
legs and the blanket of her welcoming body. "I don't care. You're here... now... I
don't care about the rest." She looked deeply into his eyes, her skin flushed a deep
rose with her pleasure, her lips slack as she panted, "Don't ever go again. Please.
Stay with me. I've been dying inside without you. Nothing's right without you here.
Please say you'll stay."
"Always," he whispered. "Until the end of time. I promise." And he kissed the single
tear that trickled down her cheek... tasted the years of pain and longing in their
saltysweet... sugar and Buffy and love..."I love you. I swear, I'll never leave your
side again, as long as I live. As long as you want me," he breathed, and his own
tears came.
This was why... why he had never loved those other women... before her or since...
why he had always framed visions of lovemaking with her beautiful face. This was the
only body that ever truly fit him... the only arms that knew how to hold him...the
only lips he had ever wanted to taste.
God, how he'd longed for this. He had forgotten the flying, the plunging and pulling
and tearing of the senses. He had forgotten the heartsong and souljoy that came with
real blending, real melding, and the true act of love.
But now he remembered. And he vowed that he would never let himself forget again.
Damn the past. Screw their pride. Let their demons rot in Hell where they belonged.
He was never moving from this Heaven -- her Heaven -- again.
And when the universe exploded into gentle, all-consuming fire, and reality collapsed
into nothing but the sensation of spilling inside of her, they cried out to one
another, and he knew...
Unsturdy, imperfect, he may be... but that was the way of human men... and that was
why there were human women. To stand solid and strong and right and carry the world
home when it was stubborn and noble and stupid and wandered away.
He held her after, and they talked. Really talked, not just about details and
mundanities of the skeleton lives they had built apart, but of the flesh that had
once been there, the pain that had leaked into the spaces they had once filled for
one another, and their hopes and dreams of reconstruction. Of children and blended
dog families (("You did *not* name your dog Juliet! One of mine is Juliet, too!"))
and where would they live... they talked and made love again... and again... and
again... until the dawn lit the room a soft glowing red, and sleep finally took him,
despite his best efforts to stay awake so this day could keep happening.
But after all, he was just a man, and his last thoughts as he wrapped his life's only
love tightly in his arms were that this was the first sunrise in ten years that he
hadn't seen while running... and he had suddenly forgotten what he had been running
for... or from... or to, and how very, very perfect this moment was...
And how they could make another one just like it tomorrow.
*****
"'Cause I'm waiting for tonight.
Then waiting for tomorrow.
And I'm somewhere in between
What is real or just a dream."
*****
FINIS. :)
E-MAIL: ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
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