Chocolate Chip Shanshu: Eight
by Poison Pen
He knew the number by heart, but now he had it on speed dial.

After two months, the tone of the over-seas connection was familiar.

She answered on the forth ring, sounding groggy, and more than a little pissed off. “Hello?”

Buffy never answered with ‘Ciao.’ With Buffy, it was always ‘Hello.’ ‘Ciao’ meant Dawn or Andrew. ‘Yeah,’ meant Spike.

As always, his heart beat faster at the sound of her voice. He loved the sensation.

“You know, it’s four in the morning, and some of us have to work in a few hours. Now, damnit, I said ‘Hello’!”

Angel closed his eyes, and saw her glaring at him. He ached to touch her—to reach out and smooth the wrinkle from her forehead.

“Hello, hello hello!”

She’d hang up soon. It always amazed him how long she stayed on the phone.

And then she did something she’d never done before. She made his heart stop. “Angel?”

His breath hitched, and his heart jumped to his throat, blocking his airway.

“Angel?” she whispered again, and he swore he heard tears threatening in her voice. Pain and hope. “Is that you?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Across the world, he heard her scoff. “Stupid, Buffy. Get a grip,” she muttered, before raising her voice, “Stop calling here, Creepzoid.”

She hung up.

It felt like forever before he drew breath, and another eternity before he found the strength to set down the phone.

He felt ripped-up and empty, like something vital had been torn from him. His liver or a lung. Something important.

It would be a long time before he dared to call her again.

Angel lay back on the bed and cried.



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