I slip my hand into his and stare up at his gorgeous face. The way some of the pain in his dark brown eyes slips away as he looks at me. God, there is nothing more perfect than this man. He leans down and lays a kiss to the top of my head and then pulls back and motions with his free hand that we should go into the theatre, as the movie is about to start. Despite the fact that I’m twenty five, and have known the man that stands next to me for close to ten years, I still feel tongue tied like a twelve year old saying hi to her first crush. Damn his beauty! Just kidding.
I let go of his hand and instead slip under his leather clad arm, anxious for more of his body to come in contact with mine. When I think back and the fact that I tried to deny how much I wanted him when I learned of his permanent soul, I can’t help but laugh. I practically live in our bedroom now, and I am the same girl that, a year ago, attempted to keep myself away from the kind of sex only people who are heart wrenchingly in love can have.
We settle into seats, and Angel leaves me with a kiss as he goes off to buy the snacks he does not eat, but I am addicted to. I know that the plot of the movie will be lost to me, as soon as he sits back down and I take a sip of my diet soda we will forget that there is a large screen in front of us with moving pictures on it. I will dive into his mouth and he will dive into mine, and all that will matter will be lips and hands and tongues and flesh. Oh well. I’ll just come see the movie again with Willow or Dawn.
I can’t help but turn around and watch his large frame leave the theatre. The way only someone with 250 years of confidence under their belt can walk. The other girls in the theatre look at him longingly, and I smile, knowing I have him, and they never will. It’s petty, I know, but hey, I save the world, can’t I be completely selfish about some things?
Angel and my relationship is perfect. I know, I know, this sounds ridiculous. What could be less perfect than a slayer and a vampire? But it’s true. And, I know, I’d like to have the sunlight, and the children, but that will come. He’ll receive his shanshu. But for right now, while we are both fighting the good fight, everything is completely set. His dark is the balance to my light. My soul’s darkness mixes with his soul’s lightness, creating the perfect blend. Not only did I try to fool myself into believing that I could be happy with someone who wasn’t the man who is currently buying me Milk Duds and popcorn, but I tried to fool myself into thinking that I could ever have a relationship with a normal boyfriend. You all know who I’m talking about. Riley Finn, anyone remember that corn-fed Iowa boy? Okay, granted, he was a demon hunter for a top secret governmental organization, but, hello, I’m the Slayer. From Sunnydale. Riley was pretty normal when you go by those standards.
But, back to my point, I could never do the regular Joe thing. It’s not in my chemical make up. I belong in the dark, just like the creatures I hunt. I’ll never have picnics on the weekend, simply because I don’t like it. The sun feels too bright in my eyes and I don’t even enjoy sitting on the grass. Angel and I were built to fight. Our bodies are tuned exactly right so that with a flick of the wrist, we can snap a neck. And now, thanks to the amount of time we’ve spent together, they are tuned to each other. My body responds to his. And it always will.
I thank him, a shy smile on my lips as he hands me the candy and leans over to kiss me. I adjust myself to look at the screen, watching the previews while really I am glancing towards the man who sits on my left. I know him better than I know myself, and yet there are parts of him that I will never understand. Just like there are parts of me that he will never understand.
I will never be able to understand the kind of bond he has with Spike. It’s funny. I trust Spike. Love him, even. Two of the strongest things anyone can ever feel towards someone, and I had them both with him, and Angel had neither. And yet, Spike and Angel’s tie to each other still remains stronger than Spike and mine ever was. It’s the blood. Blood is life, I’d been told, and it’s true. Spike and Angel are drawn together by blood, and time. Time spent, side by side, spilling that same kind of blood. They say they hate each other, and maybe they do, but it doesn’t cancel out the fact that they are bound. Even with the rift I caused between them, when, during some of my darkest times, I let Spike enter my body, the concern on the older vampire’s face is evident when his Childe’s been missing all night. That’s a connection I’ll never be fully able to understand, simply because I don’t really have it.
I imagine it’s somewhat like my link to Faith. A link Angel will never be able to experience. The girl is tough and hard, and has seen the darkest parts of the human condition, mostly in herself. She’s seen and done things I cringe at, and yet I feel a responsibility and protectiveness that I can’t really place. Maybe it’s because the Universe chose us. For whatever reason, they deemed it acceptable for us to have the burden of the world on our shoulders. She is my sister. She is truly the only other being who knows what it’s like to have this kind of strength within you. To feel the possibilities.
Angel will never know what it was like to grow up with the kind of responsibilities I had. And that’s okay. I don’t want him to. Because, although I love him more than words can ever express, I am still a separate being. I still have my own thoughts, my own secret desires, my own life that he isn’t really involved in. And I’m not all that involved in his. He has friends that I don’t like, and he has places he goes to when we fight that he doesn’t tell me about. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
When Angel and I got back together, we made a decision to leave the past behind us. It was simpler for me, I think, because while I had about twenty four years of past to leave behind me, he had 250. Now, I don’t really get caught up with the way things used to be. I don’t dwell. I remember all the horrible things that happened to me, and the horrible things I did, and I recognize that every one of my experiences has made me what I am today. But I try not to let myself be whisked away into the “What if”-s, or the “should have”-s. Life is far too wonderful to miss it while we wallow in “before”.
Angel is so much different than I in that way. It’s probably because he has seen—done—so much more than me. Sometimes I catch him sitting in the darkness in one of the many rooms of our hotel. He just sits on the bed, his face in his hands, and I know he is reliving some horrible murder. And I can’t help but get a little angry.
Doesn’t it get somewhat self-indulgent? I’ll ask him. He’ll look up at me, like he doesn’t understand. And I’ll try and explain. You are not your demon, Angel. You are a good man that has a good soul. You can’t keep going over the things you did in the past, because they’re over. I don’t want to say something as insensitive as get over it, Angel, but—no, you know what, I actually kinda do. Get over it! You murdered those people, Angel. You did. And it was horrible, and wrong, and it’s good that you remember them. But are you really honoring their memory by seeing their deaths over and over in your head? Feeling guilty for yourself does nothing for them. If anything, it takes sympathy away from the victims, and puts it on you. ‘Poor Angel, the demon with a soul. Isn’t he just tortured?’ So channel your energies into something else. Killing something bad… I don’t know.
And he’ll just stare at me, with the most intense anger on his face that I’ve ever seen. And he’ll yell at me. Man, that boy can yell. He’ll scream at me for being a naïve child. He’ll say I’m silly and young and horrible to tell him not to remember them, not to think back on the things he did and feel sorry.
And his words sting, but I can give as good as I get. I’ll say that feeling sorry for the victims is one thing, but feeling sorry for yourself is another. He’ll just shake his head at me and once again say that I just don’t get it. I couldn’t possibly.
Sometimes I think he resents me, simply because it’s true that I’ll never get it. I have never killed a man. I have never felt that kind of guilt. And so I’ll say something stupid and childish, like, “Well, maybe you should fall in love with someone who does get it. Like Faith. She’s murdered a bunch of people, you should go fuck her.”
Angel will stand, and stare at me disgustedly as he makes his way around me, leaving me in the darkness of the room that he formerly occupied, and go off to wherever 250 year old Irish vampires go when they’re mad at their girlfriends. Like the pub, maybe. Or a museum? I don’t know.
He’ll be back by sunrise, either way, and he’ll either slip into bed with me, or he won’t. Sometimes our anger lasts a few days, sometimes it fades in a few hours, depending on the fight. Neither of us ever apologizes, because each of us is right in different ways.
There are so many things about each other that we won’t ever comprehend, and we won’t try and share. I don’t tell him about heaven, mostly because I don’t really think about it anymore. I’m glad it exists, I’m glad it’s there at the end. But I’m not looking at it like a reprieve, because right now, what I’m doing, what I’m living; it’s a different kind of heaven. He doesn’t tell me about hell. I hope he knows that’s not where he belongs. I don’t think he thinks about it, really. Sometimes… when he wakes up screaming from a nightmare… I have a pretty good idea what he’s dreaming about.
But why would we do it to each other? We’re not repressing either of our times in different dimensions, we’ve worked through them. There’s no need to bring them up, because the experiences are our own. I’m not haunted by the summer that let me feel complete, why should I let Angel be?
Sometimes I wish Angel would share some of his pain. He doesn’t tell me about Darla at all. He doesn’t tell me what being a vampire means. He doesn’t tell me what it felt like to feel someone’s life force drain out of them into you. These memories and emotions cause him to breakdown, at points, and I wish I could help. But I can’t, and never will. Just like he won’t ever know what it feels like to have the World’s fate in your hands. He’ll never know what it’s like to have felt numb, like I did right after I was brought back. He’ll never be able to identify with the frighteningly certain knowledge that you will die young. I won’t—Willow changed that with that one powerful spell—but I have known that feeling, and oh, how terrifying it is. He’ll never know, and that’s okay.
So we’ve done it. We’ve managed to find a common ground in our lives, and live there happily together. I can’t really explain love… it’s too complicated and I’ve never been that good with words. So I won’t try. I’ll just say that it’s good. It’s good and clean and complicated and hard, and I couldn’t live without it. And I won’t ever have to. Which is nice, if you think about it.
I look at him, his head cocked to the side, staring at the screen. He is squinting, and I smile, knowing that he is confused about some pop culture reference. I’m trying to teach him, but the going is slow.
I tap his arm and he turns to me, his squint transforming into a smile. There is some sadness behind it, as there always is, but I ignore it. I pull his head down and meet my lips to his.
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