Words Said:
Context
by Mace

"I want my life to be with you," I say.

"I don’t," he replies.

It was the single cruelest thing anyone had ever said to me, more painful than anything Angelus had concocted. Deep down, I never doubted that Angel loved me. I doubted that I was any good . . . in bed. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe my fears aren’t unfounded. Anyway, I wondered if maybe Angel was mad that I sent him to Hell, that I dated Scott. I know he was hurt . . . with the Scott part and all. I’m still not sure about Hell. I knew that he loved me.

Loved me.

My world just started crumbling my Junior year. I could feel that my few blessed months of bliss with Angel were about to end. Mom just kept reigning me in tighter and tighter. Then Angel lost his soul . . . and Giles, Giles was so disappointed in me. Angel loved me. Xander hated me, hated Angel, hated Angelus. Willow grieved for us both. Angel loved me. Angelus mocked our love, mocked me, threatened me, my family, my friends. The pressure was building. He needed to go down. I couldn’t. Angel loved me. He would understand.

Jenny died, and Giles blamed me. I blamed myself. It was my fault. I couldn’t kill him. He had Angel’s face, Angel’s beautiful, soft face, deep chocolate eyes--eyes that mocked me. My mom began watching me more closely, asking me where I was. She didn’t trust me. She didn’t know. She didn’t understand. Angelus told her that Angel and I made love. Mom was disappointed, let me out of the house even less, hated Angel. Angel loved me. I couldn’t look her in the eyes without blushing, without trying to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

Drusilla killed Kendra. Willow was in a coma. Xander had a broken arm. Giles was tortured by Angelus. I sent Angel to Hell. Words that had been nearly impossible to say months earlier tumbled freely from his mouth. He told me he loved me. I knew he meant it. He didn’t remember anything about what had happened, wanted to know where we were, trusted me enough to close his eyes--completely vulnerable. I killed him.

He came back. I dated Scott, hurt him. He still loved me. I could see it in the way he held me, the way he watched me, the way he spoke to me. Not Giles, not Hell, not my mother, my friends, Faith, could keep us apart. He loved me.

It didn’t make any sense.

He watched me sleep. I awoke to that playful, near-contented smile I only rarely saw. His eyes showed me a love words could never say. I pulled open the curtain, and it burned him. He was a little annoyed, not so much at me for being mistaken of the time--I think it was at himself because he *had* to shy away from sunlight. He didn’t get the whole Prom thing, but he knew it was important to me.

What changed between that morning and when he broke it off with me? Did he fall out of love so easily? He didn’t want me anymore. A love that could survive Hellfire, we had something few people ever find. Couldn’t he see how much I wanted him, how I spent my nights dreaming of him, how my thoughts were consumed with him? Didn’t he feel the same way? I never felt that way about someone, and I never will again. He wanted me to move on, to get over him, to find someone else who would make me happy.

Even if he didn’t love me like he used to, he still cared how I felt. Maybe the Prom-thing triggered it. Maybe he figured out how much younger I really am than him. Maybe the whole being-a-Slayer-with-all-of-these-responsibilities convinced him that I was more mature than I was. Did my mention of the Prom convince him that I was still just a kid.

I’m not a kid. I stopped being a kid when I was called. I was a woman the night of my birthday. He marked me as his, took my blood. I still have the scar, his scar. He told me once that no set of vampire teeth look the same. I looked it up in one of Giles’s old books. I know why the vampires usually run now instead of stopping to fight me. Angel’s fangs are broader, sharper, stronger, and thicker since he’s a master vampire. I’m marked, I think. I’m his forever. I always was.

How could be not want to stay with me when I need him so much. Am I too needy? Does he ever need me?

"I want my life to be with you."

"I don’t."

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t want me.

Doesn’t. . . .

Doesn’t want my life to be with him. . . .

Oh, God . . .

He doesn’t want *my* life to be with *him.*

He never said he didn’t want his life to be with me. Does he . . . Could he still love me? Maybe.

I grab my jacket, write a brief note to Willow, and leave. I have to know. Does he love me? Could he possibly still want me? I never fought him much. There was the initial shock. There was the blinding pain, but I just accepted it. I thought he wanted to move on.

<< The exact opposite, >> I think running toward my house, << he wanted *me* to move on. >>

Mom is out of town at an art convention. She won’t be back for a week-and-a-half, easy. The Jeep’s in the driveway. I can be in Los Angeles my one in the morning. I *know* he’ll still be up. I break into my own house for the zillionth time and write Mom a short note [lie] as to why I stole her Jeep, in case she comes home early for some reason. I won’t tell her that I went to see Angel and Los Angeles, but I do say that I’m not in any sort of danger. She probably won’t even see the note.

Within minutes, I have a full tank of gas and am speeding down the highway to Los Angeles. I just hope he doesn’t look at me with those sad, pitying eyes and explain to me all about his new girl friend. With his looks, I know he could. I want him to love me. The curse can go to Hell.

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