Resolutions
By Blackwinged Angel

Disclaimer: I'm not Joss Whedon, nor am I Fox, or Mutant Enemy. 'Kay?
Author's Notes: To my friend Stephanie, without whom I would lose what little hold on sanity I
presently have . . . even though she's the biggest B/A shipper whoever walked the Earth.
Summary: Angel's New Year Resolutions

December 31st. Again. This is number 246, and neither that number nor the date means a thing to me. Nor should it. Simply arbitrary numbers . . . But not this year. Not because of the millenium's coming, nor the prophecy that is carried with it, nor any of those other small things one would guess would create a unique being out of such a simple, irrelevant passing. This year, I am not alone. This year, I am not sitting alone at my kitchen table, with a bottle of Irish whiskey and the firm intention of getting plastered and passing out before the noise makers ring and shatter my hung over head into thousands of terribly painful pieces as my only companions. This year, I am not wallowing in my own self-pity, my own self-hate, nor am I cursing the Universe or Darla or myself, or God knows what else. An improvement. I have not had anything to drink, nor do I plan to. Resolution number one: stop drinking. I know that every year, the cycle continues : I keep making, and breaking that damned promise and let it come back to bite me in the ass. But this year . . . this year will be different. The bottle is my own personal demon, and this year I'm going to kick its evil ass where it belongs -- as far away from me as humanly possible. Or unhumanly. Whatever.But, right now, I do not need anything to drink. That's nice. Not to need. But I do need . . . just not that. Resolution two: get out more. I am surrounded by people, and it's nice. I like it. Resolution three: get out more. Just in case I forget it the first time. This nightclub is better than the Bronze. More adults, less demons. Nice. Better music, cretainly. But no offense to Oz and the Dingoes. But no, this is better. Fiona Apple is smoother, more sultry, more real. I like her. I've got both of her . . . albums. Resolution four: buy a CD player. And CDs. Having to special order everything on record is very far from modern. Damn, I hate being wrong. Change is bad. But as I look back at my date, who is very far from being Darla, very far from being Drusilla, and very, very far from being Buffy, maybe change isn't all bad. It can be good. People change. Love changes. Darla was a bitch, Drusilla was a brat, and Buffy . . . Buffy was a child. She doesn't know what she wants. I leave, she goes ahead and fucks another guy, then starts in on another one. I'm so glad I made such a lasting impression upon her life. Certainly put me through a whole lot of shit. Maybe I do need a drink . . . after all, officially my resolutions don't start until the bell tolls midnight . . . no, I think I'll start now. If I break down five minutes after I make my resolution, there's no way it'll keep. So no drink.

"What are you thinking about?"

Huh? Oh, Kate. Right. Shattering my silence, my void, pulling me back up for air and light.

"Nothing. Resolutions."

She smiles, pulls me a little closer, as the song changes to slow. Slow dancing I can do. Her hands on my shoulders, mine on her hips, we're in business. Sway with the music, be close enough to feel her warmth, her pulse, breathe her in.

"So, have you made them, yet?"

"Hmm?"

"Resolutions."

"Oh, right. Maybe, I don't know."

pale september, i wore the time like a dress that year/ the autumn days swung soft around me like cotton on my skin/ but as the embers of summer lost their breath and disappeared/ my heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within/ but then he rose brilliant as the moon in full/ and sank in the burrows of my keep/

"What are they?"

"Hmm . . . lessee . . . stop drinking. Get out more."

"That all?"

"Maybe . . . maybe out more in the company of a lovely blonde lady . . ."

She smiles. "Maybe?"

and all my armour falling down/ in a pile at my feet/ and my winter giving way to warm as i'm singing him to sleep/

"Well . . . I - I really like you . . ."

"Do you want to hear my resolutions?"

"More than anything."

he goes along just as a waterlily/ gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats/ unweighed down by passion or intensity/ yet he is unaware of the depth upon which he floats/

"Okay. Number one: learn to relax."

Feeling her soft and smooth and wonderful beneath me, I beg to differ.

"Oh . . . I think you're doing that just fine, right now."

She smiles. It's beautiful.

and he finds a home in me/ for what misfortune sows he knows my touch will reap/

"Alright, I'll take your word for it. Number two: try to be less cynical."

"I like you just the way you are."

Wow. Too much weight to those words. Dammit, I wish I could just speak without having to shield my heart or leave it exposed to be drop kicked. But she doesn't say anything, and my words must have pleased her, because she moves her body more firm against mine, cuddling up and pulling me closer with her arms around my neck, so that we are nearly one single, solitary being moving and flowing under the lights and the music, the heat.

and all my armour falling down/ in a pile at my feet/ and my winter giving way to warm/ as i'm singing him to sleep/

"And my last one: settle down. Be happy."

My breath becomes ragged and uneasy. The lights flicker, the music stops, and the countdown begins.

Ten. Her eyes meet mine, she smiles a little, caresses my cheek and doesn't move from her stance, doesn't disrupt the balance between us, the harmony and unity we've created . . .

Nine. together. I can smell her gentle breath, stained softly with liquor, as she lets her lips graze my cheek before coming down . . .

Eight. to meet my lips. Soft, butterfly touches, tasting of liquor and peppermint from her drink, and the warm, undeniable saltiness that she retains, true, throughout . . .

Seven. the kiss. lasts an eternity. Soft and strong, her gentle tongue in my mouth, massaging and caressing mine, and the warmness courses strong and true . . .

Six. throughout both of us, sends electric shocks through our bodies. I taste her, I feel her, I smell her, and touch, see, feel . . .

Five. I need her. Need. Need is a strong, funny word. I know that word, too well, having spent hundreds of years in Hell, and I know that it hurts the tongue. It's hollow and heavy. But I do . . .

Four. I need her. Badly. I wonder . . .

Three. If it's just lust, but then, slapping myself in the face with reality, hard, I know that it isn't. Lust is fun and heated and absolutely untangible. You can't taste it. No, that's wrong . . .

Two. Taste is the only thing lust has. Lust is as empty to the world as need is on the tongue. It's sticky and fun and without reason. Or meaning, but love . . .

One. love is meaningful, tangible. This is love.

"Happy New Year," I whisper, pulling her close and breathing her in through my skin.

"Why don't we go somewhere a little less . . . festive. We can wait for Y2K . . ."

"I'm not very patient."

She smiles. Her eyes twinkle mischeivously. "Don't worry. There'll be some reindeer games."

God, yes, this is love. I hope I don't lose my soul tonight. But, strangely, I almost don't care if I do. This thought holds as she looms over me, wonderfully naked, and spectacularly beautiful, hours later, when dawn is creeping up on us. God, love . . .

all my armour falling down in a pile at my feet/ and my winter giving way to warm as i'm singing him to sleep