Definition of Insanity
Written by Karen
I used to have a serious needle problem. More like a phobia. Unable to watch
people on TV get a shot bad. But then Ethan took the liberty of giving me my
first tattoo. Now, slayers have a high tolerance for pain, but even with that,
when I went to get it removed, I knew I had two choices; grit it out and break
the guy’s nose, or anesthesia.
Then during our little affair, Spike turned me on to some of the less-bad
drugs. Didn’t truly help with the needle problem, but oh well. I quit
when I ended it, but sometimes in the coming months, I missed that feeling.
Then a few things happened. The First;
I still have a needle problem, but it’s totally different now. As soon as
that needle pricks my skin, I anticipate what’s coming next. The thought
of something shoving something into my veins, meddling with my blood, no longer
bothers me. And when I feel the burning, I crave the oblivion I know is coming.
And then the world goes away. Those five seconds are the longest in my life.
On the outside, I’m still the Buffy Summers my friends think they know.
The Council had to be rebuilt, and I helped. The new slayers needed training,
and I helped. But the purpose for living that I had on the hellmouth, the one
that kept me going after coming back from Heaven, that was gone, and I
didn’t know how to get it back. My other reason for living had left me on
the day of my graduation, so I was living a half-life, shooting things into my
vein just to get by.
Being a slayer has some advantages. Even though it’s a hardcore drug that
people die from every day, I still consider myself a recreational user. I can
go all day without getting high or even going through withdrawal even after
using for over a year, but when the sun sets, and the heat goes with it, I turn
to needles to take the pain away. It’s my choice to shoot up, I
don’t need it, my body doesn’t crave it. My mind craves it to take
the pain away, my heart needs it to live through the nights without him. And my
slayer healing takes care of the track marks, though my skin’s gotten
harder, and it takes longer for them to heal now. But being a slayer has some
disadvantages too; it takes a lot to get me to the point of forgetting. It
takes a whole hell of a lot. And it doesn’t last as long as it should.
Sometimes, I have to do it twice just to get through the short night.
I’m careful. I went to DARE classes and all that. I sterilize the needles
I use, and I never share. I never even shoot up when anyone’s around. I
also have a deal with my supplier. He’s the big cheese in the city, and
he doesn’t deal directly with anyone but me; but that’s because I
killed the first three dealers I met-they were demons, so it’s okay;
killing demons is my job. He imports it, and gives me a cut off the top, makes
sure it’s not polluted or anything, and he gets to live. I also turn my
back on some of his other dealings, and don’t turn him in to the cops or
the Council. And sometimes, if he’s having demon-related problems, I lend
a hand in my free time. He beat out all the other drug guys in town-I guess it
helps having a slayer in your pocket.
I guess my day life is going pretty well- we haven’t lost that many girls
since we instituted a new training program. My friends are all still alive, and
Dawn’s going to be a watcher.
The fact that heroin is a depressant is kind of ironic if you really think
about it, I have no problem with being depressed. It’s kind of my natural
state nowadays.
My night life, however- the life I live when there’s no one around- is
the pits. Hence the drugs. When the sun goes down, that’s when I allow
myself to remember. Remember the normal life I’m supposed to be living. I
wonder if this is what he meant. It’s certainly not the picket fence and
2.5 kids and the chocolate lab. But that’s all I’ll let myself
think about that too much, because if I start thinking about what he would do
if he knew…there’s no guarantee that he would take me back. My
heart still thinks that he loves me, and that he’d take me back no matter
what. But my brain’s more cynical. My brain thinks that if he saw what
I’ve become in his absence, he’d be ashamed for me, he’d be
disgusted, and he’d turn on me.
My brain and my heart don’t talk to each other anymore. They
haven’t since he left. It makes things easier, like my affair with Spike.
That was easy because my heart just locked itself in its room and refused to
come out. My brain and my body were what opened up to Spike, but never my
heart, not the way he wanted it to.
Like I said, I have a needle problem, but not a drug problem. At least I
didn’t have a problem until two nights ago.
It all started with the monthly meeting. No big deal, I sit through one every
month, and just because it happens to coincide with that time of the month
doesn’t mean it was anything to get stressed about. I’m a bit more
irritated, and though we’re not supposed to have food, I keep a stash of
Hershey Dark Chocolate kisses in my purse and sneak them when I think no ones
looking.
But something was definitely wrong.
I was more irritated than usual, think I already mentioned that. Okay, we had
just lost a girl. And I wasn’t exactly getting as much sleep as I usually
did; insomnia’s a pregnant dog. And my supplier had been strangely absent
after I killed this big nasty for him. Not happy about that. I had enough to
keep me going for awhile, as long as the dreams didn’t get really ugly.
But it was something different, something more. I wasn’t even sure it was
a bad wrong thing. It could have been a good wrong thing. I couldn’t
shake whatever it was.
Guess who showed up in my office the next day, earlier today. Him. That’s
right, you know who I’m talking about. There’s only ever been one
Him in my entire life, and I’m not talking about God. I would have been
less freaked out by God showing up in the middle of a bright, sunny day than I
was when he showed up. It wasn’t so much that he showed up, because he
tends to make random appearances every few years, and I guess it was time for
him to make another one. No, it was the time he showed up. Generally he shows
up at night, and generally in a cemetery. This was in the middle of the day- I
had just finished reaching for the salad I had brought from my mini-fridge,
more than ready to enjoy it at my desk- when he walked in. And the curtains
were wide open, the window was wide open! And he just walks in.
And okay, yeah, it took me a couple seconds to notice he wasn’t exactly
bursting into flame. And that’s when I realized what was wrong. I guess
the medical term would be like a ghost heartbeat or something. All I know, here
in my breast, just to the side of my own heart, I feel this pattering, this
beating. I didn’t notice it until he walked in, even though it was
beating rather erratically, but then my heart accelerated to match it, and
that’s when I noticed it. When it wasn’t there anymore.
So here I am, sitting at my desk, a forkful of lettuce and spinach and a sliver
of carrot halfway to my mouth, when he walks in. And it was just like I shot
up, because the world disappeared, and he was the only thing I saw. It felt the
same too, the sudden euphoria (another irony, considering it’s a
depressant), and my arms felt heavy, and yet I felt light. I dropped my fork,
but I don’t think either of us noticed, because I was staring at him, standing
in the SUN! and he was standing there staring at me in the sunlight, with the
window blowing the wisps of hair that had escaped my tight bun. I wish I had
known he was showing up, because I wouldn’t have gone for the unisex
schoolteacher look, I would have at least done something different with my
hair…
And I know that sounds all superficial and all that, and even I was a bit
surprised by the thought, but the man of your life walks back into it, and you
don’t wish you looked less like uberpregnant dog nazi teacher and a
little more sexy?
Anyway, I guess he was just as shocked by the changes in me as I was by the
changes in him. Not that the changes in me are nearly as huge- so I’m
thinner…a lot thinner. If you wanted to be mean about it, you’d
maybe even say gaunt. There was a lot more muscle on my frame. There’s no
softness anymore. What little breasts I had are long gone; all the fat’s
gone, all of the things that made me soft and feminine are gone, except for
this d**ned period that for the life of me, I can’t get to go away. Not
like I want to reproduce with anyone but him, and until this very moment, that
was impossible. Hell, it might still be. The hollows of my eyes were more
pronounced- hell, all the hollows in me were more pronounced- and there were
dark purple smudges under my eyes from a combination of insomnia, my
once-weekly patrol-till-dawn fests, and the nights when even the drugs
didn’t stop the dreams and I force myself to stay awake until the sun
rises again.
But hello, he’s human! The one thing I’ve wished for for like a
decade finally happens. And we just stand there, staring at each other. But it
was worse when he opened his mouth to speak.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked. No welcome, no sorry for
barging in on me, what if I had a slayer in here with me, and we were
conferencing? Not even my f**king name that he says like it’s chocolate,
pure pleasure to have in his mouth. No.
“Do you want the short list or the long one?” I asked, my voice
dripping sarcasm. “It’s gonna have to be the short one, because I
don’t have that much time.”
He just looked at me, a bit lost. I almost laughed if his expression
didn’t cut me to the bone. He just keeps staring, and I can’t take
it anymore.
“I’ve got a conference in ten, so could we just get on with
whatever the hell this is?” I asked, twirling in my chair, as if his
presence didn’t affect me as it did.
“Buffy…” he trailed off, maybe not being able to see my
expression bothered him, but it didn’t bother me, I was glad he
couldn’t see the look of pure joy at the way he said my name. He still
said it like a prayer, with the tiniest bit of a question at the end, as if he
was questioning himself if I were real. I was glad the large chair back hid me
from view, because I shivered in the suddenly overheated room. “I’m
human,” he continued, as if he had practiced what he was going to say to
me and then the words had left him, and he didn’t know quite how to say
what he wanted to say.
“I noticed,” I snapped, turning back to him, “The whole not
bursting into flames was a dead give away, Angel.” I forced myself to not
return any emotion when I said his name. I made sure my voice was flat, cold,
maybe even frigid.
“Buffy…” he started, but I didn’t give him a chance.
Suddenly, all the anger I had ever had for the thing standing before me burst
forth, burning me. I couldn’t keep it in check.
“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t think you can come in here
after all these years and be hurt that I don’t welcome you with open
arms. You left me, Angel. Not just once, but so many times I can’t even
being to count. And not just in real life, but in my dreams, Angel,” I
was pissed that I let that tidbit slip. I didn’t want him knowing that on
the nights the drugs didn’t blow the world out from under me, I dreamed of
him. I dreamed of him coming to me, like this, human, only I’m more like
I used to be, not such a pregnant dog, and we’re still in love and we get
back together. And that’s where the dreams branch off. Sometimes we have
kids, sometimes we get married, and sometimes we just f**k ourselves silly. But
if I don’t wake myself up in time, they always end the same.
“That’s right. Your leaving me scarred me more than on the surface.
And every time I take you back, expecting this time to be different. But
it’s not, it never is. You always leave me, no matter how many times I
take you back, and how much I plead and cry and beg!” I was standing now,
my anger fueling me on; I knew that if I didn’t hold on to my anger, I
would break, and I would cry. I had promised myself long ago that I would never
cry in front of someone ever again.
“Do you know what the definition of insanity is, Angel? Doing the same
thing over and over and expecting different results. Benjamin Franklin said
that. I’m sick and tired of doing the same thing over and over again, and
expecting different results, because it’s always going to be the same
d**n thing. I’m tired of it!” Through my little speech, my anger
drained from me, leaving me physically tired. Looking into his unfathomable
eyes made me emotionally and mentally tired. I was just plain tired, and I
wanted it all to end.
“Fine,” he said, his voice quiet, all emotion gone. I forgot that
he had long ago learned control over his emotions. While he stood there, calm,
cool, strong, I felt like my knees were jelly. While no emotion showed on his
countenance, I knew if he didn’t leave, I was going to start crying, no
matter how I vehemently I swore I wouldn’t. I bit the inside of my cheek
to stop the smarting in my eyes. “If that’s what you want…”
“It is,” I told him, my voice surprisingly calm, strong. No quiver
I was so afraid of.
He nodded once, before he turned without a word and left. I watched his back
grow smaller as he walked down the hall. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry
out to him to stop, to come back. No. I had moved on. I didn’t need him.
I needed to forget.
I
put the lid back on my salad, threw it into my fridge, grabbing up papers and
my bags and folders…Once I thought I had everything I might need, I raced
out of my office, slamming the door behind me. I raced down the hall, people
moved out of my way, I was probably a pretty scary sight, and I reached my
destination within minutes.
“Will, I don’t feel well. I’m gonna go home and hope it blows
over,” I told the red head, my long time best friend, but suddenly I
hated her, because she could be with the man she loved and I couldn’t.
She could trust Oz to not hurt her again even after what he did, but I could
never trust Angel.
“Okay, Buffy. Do you want me to drive you?” she asked, “You
don’t look so good.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll take it easy, I’ll be fine. See
you tomorrow,” I told her, before leaving. I was glad I had lied to
Angel, I didn’t have a meeting today, I just didn’t want him
hanging around, because if he did then he would break down all these walls
I’ve built around myself to protect myself, and then I’d let him
back in and he’d leave me and hurt me again.
I threw my things into the back seat of my small car, sliding into the
driver’s seat. I jammed the key into the ignition, turned it, and threw
the car into reverse. I backed out of the space and headed for the highway. I
gunned the engine once I hit the entrance to the high way, zooming up to the
speed limit and far past it. I knew I was being reckless, and yet I didn’t
care. If I died in a car crash, then my heart could stop hurting, my head could
stop screaming at me for still caring about a man who had broken me as easily
as it took him to take a step.
I swerved around the light traffic, my slayer reflexes coming in use as I fled
the city and him. I reached home in record-breaking time, and just in time too,
because it wasn’t until my heavy oak door slammed behind me with so
finality that I allowed the tears to come. They fell all through the process of
getting things ready, heating the powder until it melted, boiling the needle,
just to be extra sure. I filled the syringe, and not taking the time to prep my
arm, jabbed the needle into the thick vein in the crook of my elbow, squirting
the drug into my system. I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table as I waited
for it to kick in, but the high was slow coming, and was lower than it ever had
been in the past.
Now I understand; the high, the euphoria I get from this could never measure up
to the thrill I get at the way he says my name.
Fighting the effects of the drug, I prep more and shoot that into my arm as
well. And then another needle full and yet another. Dreams will not plague me
tonight, I couldn’t bear it. But as it kicks in, I know it’s too
much; even a slayer has limits, and that last dose was past my own, twice as
much as I’ve ever used in one sitting. I feel my heart slowing just as I
feel his heartbeat next to my own, beating strong. My lungs slow, and I want to
laugh for the absurdity of it. I don’t have a drug problem; I have a
demon problem. But it’s the drugs that are going to kill me.
But now I have nothing to live for.
I sink back into the kitchen chair, not caring when I lose my balance and fall
to the floor in a heap. There’s no fight left in me. I have drowned
before, and that wasn’t the most pleasant way of going, and I bet
suffocation isn’t either, but oh well. Your brain can survive without
oxygen for a few minutes before brain damage occurs. That’s the thought
that passes through my mind as my breathing slows even more.
I can’t figure out if it’s the drugs that make me not care, or his
easy dismissal of us, and everything we were. Why didn’t he fight me? Why
didn’t he make me see that we were meant to be, forever? Unless he truly
didn’t love me…
He threw open the door, scanning the empty house. His soul tugged him towards
the left, and he followed. He found her lying on the floor in a heap. Drug
paraphernalia littered the kitchen table, and a strange odor permeated the air.
In a second he was by her side, pulling on the loose sleeves of her cotton top,
pulling them back so he could see the insides of her elbow. Then he checked for
a pulse, knowing he wouldn’t find one.
“Call 911!” he screamed to those that followed him, slower than he
was. Then he lay her flat on the floor, tilting her head back. He pressed his
ear to her lips, trying desperately to feel a breath, but he felt nothing. She
was still warm, he hoped he wasn’t too late.
He put his lips over hers, pinching her nose shut as he did so. He exhaled into
her mouth, thankful to feel the breath go in. He repeated the procedure before
he put his big hands over her heart and pressed down firmly. He didn’t
need to find her ribs and go from there, he knew where her heart was without
thinking; it was where his own was. He then checked to see if she was breathing
again, but she wasn’t. He gave her two more breaths, starting the process
over.
He went through eight cycles of CPR, two breaths followed by 15 compressions
repeated four times, before the ambulance got there. As the rescuers moved
across the kitchen, he continued until they forcibly pushed him away, fitting a
mask over her mouth as someone else took over the compressions.
“She overdosed,” he croaked, “Heroin.” They took the
information and filed it away, working as quickly as they could. They loaded
her on the stretcher, the rescue breathing and compressions never stopping as
they wheeled her out. They wheeled her down the front walk, and loaded her into
an ambulance. He was right beside her holding her hand in his own.
They stopped him as he tried to climb into the ambulance with her. They asked
him a question, a question he didn’t hear over the blood rushing in his
ears. “S-she’s my everything,” he stuttered, never taking his
eyes off her pale face, and that must have been enough because they allowed him
to climb in beside her, her small, fragile hand once more tucked in his.
When they reached the hospital, they sped her away, leaving him standing alone
in the Emergency Room. But before his anguish could overwhelm him, the sight of
the pretty red head that had shown him to her house showed up; his anguish
turned to anger.
He stared at her tear-streaked face; the salty tracks should have cut him to
the marrow, cut his anger at the base, but it did nothing. All they did was
remind him of other tracks, the ones he had seen on her arms. “Your best
friend was doing a hard core drug, shooting poison into her veins, and you
didn’t even know?” his voice was barely contained anger.
She flinched at his words as if he had physically slapped her. She shook her
head, “She never changed. She showed up for work on time, she made
reports when she patrolled. There were more all-night patrols, but not out of
the ordinary. She didn’t seem to have much of a social life, as far as I
could tell. I-I never noticed.”
“Not when you hung out, or just talked?” he asked.
She was silent a moment. “We haven’t really talked, truly talked
since Sunnydale. Maybe even before then, before her death, maybe even before
her mother’s death…” she looked up at him, and her tears
became ones of frustration, “You have no idea what it’s like. I
tried, and tried. I really did. Xander did too. We tried. But she shut me out,
shut us both out. I gave up. I know that’s wrong of me to do, but I
couldn’t keep trying! She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t
want to hang out, she didn’t want to get piss drunk. So I left her alone,
hoping all she needed was some space. And then Oz came back into the picture, and
yeah, I got distracted. I admit that. But Xander, through it all, kept trying.
And she still hasn’t let him in. I don’t think she ever
will.”
The flame that was his anger shrunk as it used up some of its fuel. He stared
at the redhead, before sighing, “Just the thought that she could do so
much damage to herself without either of you knowing…back in Sunnydale, I
would have said it was impossible…” he ran a hand through his hair,
“This isn’t exactly the normal life I left her to…”
“It’s not exactly the life I had envisioned for her after she told
me about the spell, either,” she informed him.
They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts for hours, until a doctor came
out and headed their way. He jumped up, meeting the doctor half way across the
room. After introducing himself, the doctor gave them the news, “We
restarted her heart and filtered her blood to help her liver out in the long
run. She’s conscious, but sedated, and we will be holding her overnight
for observation. We highly recommend that she go to a drug rehabilitation
program, but we can’t force her to do anything.”
“No one can force Buffy to do anything she doesn’t want to,”
“Can we see her?” he asked.
The doctor nodded, “She may be out of it,” he warned, “Close
brushes with death can do that.”
They were silent as he led them to her room, not wanting to mention that this
wasn’t her first brush with death. When they entered her room, she was
facing away from the door, towards the shuttered window.
“Buffy…”
“Get out.” The voice was hard, unfeeling.
“Buffy,”
“I don’t need your pity!” she yelled at her friend, “I
need you to mind your own business!” When she spoke again, her voice was
softer, quieter, “If you knew what I did today, if you cared at all, you
would have let me die.”
“But I do care!”
He was still here, even after seeing me at my worst, and me being such a
pregnant dog to him, he still came.
“I-It wasn’t a dream,” I murmured, and he shook his head,
“You…you really…?” I knew I didn’t have to finish
my sentence for him to understand what I was talking about. He nodded again.
“Why?”
“I went to your house to get an explanation. I didn’t understand
why you acted the way you did…I still don’t,” his voice was
harsh, and it cut me.
“Angel,” I started, but he interrupted.
“What the hell were you thinking, Buffy? What the hell were you doing,
shooting things into your veins? I thought you knew better than that?”
“And I thought you’d love me forever!” I yelled at him.
The doctor interrupted our little meeting, “You need to rest, Ms.
Summers, to stay calm. You put your body through a tremendous amount of
stress-“
“I know,” I stopped him. I shook my fuzzy head, “I’m
tired…”
“We’ll let you rest,” Angel said, pulling
The next afternoon I could go home. I spent just over twenty-four hours in the
hospital. But that was still enough time. I didn’t know it while in the
hospital, but once I got home I learned what had been happening in my absence.
Everything, everything, was gone. My box spring was gone, replaced by a
mattress on the floor with two pillows and sheets and a blanket. All of the
cupboard doors had been removed, my bedroom door had been removed, my clothes
were living in laundry baskets…Even the bathroom door was gone.
Safe to say all my needles, my stash, my extra stash and my just in case stash
were gone as well. It wasn’t until I thought that did I realize just what
a hold the drug had over me. But why shouldn’t it? It made the dreams go
away.
There was also something new, in the form of a blanket and pillow on my couch,
and a suitcase behind the couch.
“What the hell is going on here?” I cried as I stared at my
apartment.
“We’re not going to force you to go to rehab,” Angel said
from behind me, he and
“f**k you,” I spat without even turning, staring at all the space
uninhibited by doors. He stayed silent. I stared at everything, knowing it was
futile to argue. I knew both of them well enough to know they were d**n
stubborn. Almost as stubborn as I was, even if they weren’t as strong.
“Who’s my jailer?” I asked.
I felt a presence behind me, there couldn’t have been an inch separating
us, but he still wasn’t touching me. “I am.” I shivered at
both his nearness and the ice in his voice. I wanted to cry and scream and
throw a huge tantrum, I didn’t want him knowing just how bad my life had
become, and yet I wanted to throw myself into his arms and promise to be good
as long as he would love me again.
Instead I kept quiet. I walked over to my sofa and threw myself backwards onto
it with almost enough force to tip it over. I reached into the pouch on the
side, that I had made, and grabbed the remote. I hit the power button and settled
in to do some serious channel surfing. I’ve spent enough time with
teenagers over the past few years to be able to pull off a pretty decent sulk
in my old age.
I heard the murmur of voices, but I didn’t look up from the television.
After awhile I heard a door close- wow, so they actually left one door in my
apartment alone- and then someone was standing in front of the television.
Well, not someone, him. My babysitter, my jailor…
Without acknowledging his presence, I got up and headed towards the bathroom. I
could hear the soft tread of socks on thick carpet. When I turned around,
unbuttoning my pants as I did, he was standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me, but I have to go to the bathroom,” I told him, glaring
at him.
“I’m not stopping you.”
I sighed, exasperated, “I would like some privacy, if you don’t
mind!”
“Actually, I do mind. Even though we went through this apartment top to
bottom, you’re resourceful. I wouldn’t e surprised if we missed a
stash. So no, you cannot have any privacy.”
“Angel,” I said, keeping my voice calm, when all I really wanted to
do was scream at him, “It’s that time of the month, I would really
like it if you could at least turn your back for a moment.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before,” he said, and
I blushed crimson at the tone of voice he used, the lack of caring in his
voice. But more than anything, I wanted to cry. Squashing that impulse, and
feeling like I was on exhibit, I pulled down my pants and sat, going about my
business as quickly as I was able. I was not going to allow him to think I was
unnerved. Inside I was seething at this treatment, and I knew my face must have
burned. Peeing in front of him like this was humiliating on so many levels.
After
I was through, I went back to the television. I sat there, unmoving besides a
twitch of my fingers to change the channel, until an enticing aroma came to my
nose. I tried to ignore it, but my stomach gave me away, growling loud enough
to be heard over the talk show I was watching.
Grumbling, I turned off the TV and stood, following my nose into the kitchen.
Angel had his back to me, stirring something on the stove. I took a deep breath
through my nose, taking in the delicious smells, and sat at the kitchen table.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I decided on stir fry,” he
told me, turning to him. “I also made rice with egg and shrimp in it, and
I found some egg rolls in the freezer that I’m heating up. I figured
everyone likes Chinese food, right?” he looked at me, the sweat on his
forehead glistening in the overhead lighting. I wanted to tell him I hated
Chinese food, just to get back at him for what happened in the bathroom, but I
couldn’t.
“That’s fine,” I told him, noncommittally.
“Good. It’ll be ready in a few, but if you want to set the table or
something?”
“You’re inviting me to set my own table?” I asked.
He turned, looking at me, “I’m sorry. I know that this is awkward,
and everything. I remember you not being into cooking much, so I just figured…”
he sighed, “I just thought that maybe if you were busy, maybe we could
move past everything between us, all the awkward and the anger and hate, and
fall into a routine.”
I looked at him a moment, before sighing and shaking my head, “Angel,
you’re human, and we’re playing house. Ten years ago, this would
have been my dream come true. So I’m sorry if I’m a bit weirded out
by you watching me go to the bathroom, and cooking Chinese in my
kitchen!”
He moved to crouch in front of me, leaving no escape, “I know we agreed
that it was over between us, but seeing you lying there…” he
trailed off, looking away, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I would
see in his eyes if I forced him to look at me, pain, love, pity, or disgust.
“You did so much for me, whether you realize it or not. And now, you need
me, even if you won’t admit it, and I can’t turn my back on you.
Some part of me, the part that the memory of your smile kept going through the
darkest times, that part still loves the sixteen year old that knocked me on I
disagree when we first met. I know you’re not that girl anymore, but if
you could ask her, I know this is not how she would have wanted to turn
out.” By the time he was through, he was looking at me again, and I
stared into his eyes, but I couldn’t decipher anything from their depths.
They were guarded.
What did he mean, some part of him? Did that mean that as a whole, he no longer
loved me? Was my smile really the only thing to get him through some days, just
as the feel of his arms around me was sometimes the only thing that prevented
me from going insane?
Before I could ask, he had averted his gaze, pushing himself to his feet. He
moved back to the stove and his back was to me once more. Though I was reeling
from his revelation, I pushed myself to my feet as well, sliding by him to get
to the cupboard I kept my dishes in.
“Generally, I just use paper,” I told him in a false cheerful tone,
“Much easier clean up when there’s just one. But a real meal
deserves real plates. I’ll even clean up, since you cooked.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said with a smile, the tense
moment forgotten.
After dinner I cleaned up, and though I desperately wanted to take a shower-I
just felt unclean- I didn’t want an encore, so I settled for going to bed
early. I was exhausted, and my body felt heavy. But at the same time, even
though I knew I needed sleep, I didn’t want to sleep, knowing that if I
did, the dreams would come. After mulling over my choices, I forewent sleep,
and settled on the opposite end of the couch from Angel. He looked as if he
didn’t really know what he was watching, and with his permission, I
flipped through the channels until I found a movie. It was old, filmed in the
90’s, and while I had seen it a dozen or more times, he had never even
heard of it. It was a chick flick, and I warned him, but he wanted to watch it
anyway.
I had forgotten how much the plot, twisted slightly, matched our own twisted
love story. The movie was Ever After, a version of Cinderella where Drew
Berrymore plays Danielle De Barbaraque. Though I guess Beauty and the Beast is
the fairytale our story is the most like. It’s a nice movie, anyway, one
that you can get lost in.
After the movie, I decided I put off trying to sleep long enough, even though I
was no longer tired. I quickly changed for bed, keeping my back turned to the
empty doorway as I changed. Then I climbed into bed, but my back and muscles
were aching, so I decided to get up and do some stretches before bed. Usually I
patrolled so I was limber when I went to bed, but I didn’t think Angel
would let me patrol. The stretches only helped a little, but I could hear Angel
getting ready for bed in my living room, so I climbed under the covers, turning
off my bedside lamp as I lay down.
I tossed and turned for awhile, how long I’m not certain, but I must have
fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was the feel of his arms
around me, his hands on me, running the length of my naked flesh, his feather
light kisses running the length of my neck and chest.
But before it got really good, just as I felt myself adjust to his length, he
tore out of me so fast it hurt; I cried out in pain both physical and
emotional. Without saying anything he stalked out of the room, slamming the
doors behind him. As my body shook, the tears came, as I cried out for him.
But then I was being cradled; I must have fought against the arms around me
because when I finally opened my eyes and looked at him he had scratch marks on
his face. Tears poured down my face as I sobbed. His hand at the back of my
neck pressed my face into his shoulder and I took the comfort he was offering.
My body didn’t stop shaking when the tears did. Even though his arms were
warm around my thin frame, I shook with cold. My skin prickled at the thin
hairs on my skin rose to try and trap warm air close to my skin. His hands
never stopped rubbing my back as he whispered in my ear, “Symptoms of
withdrawal,” he told me, his voice soothing. Carefully, he scooted me
over, sliding under my comforter as he laid me down, still wrapped in his arms.
He held me close to his chest as I shook, and he didn’t flinch as the
muscle in my thigh contracted and kicked my foot out.
Even though the symptoms of withdrawal made me want to cry- my bones hurt!- I
somehow knew that the reason for my crying previously would not plague me again
that night. Even as I lay there, waiting for my body to become my own again,
the long nights of sleeplessness caught up with me. I yawned, before my eyes
slid closed on their own and I was asleep.
I woke the next morning, still wrapped in his arms. I realized that for the
first time in years, I was rested. Though I didn’t want to, I gently
disentangled myself from his grasp- he was the same sound sleeper, alive or
dead- and decided I would take the chance to take a shower without him watching
me. A part of me wanted to check and see which stashes he might have missed- I
didn’t think he would want to hold me every night, and eventually he was
going to have to leave, and then where would I be?
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me
before turning towards the door. Just as I thought, he stood there. I was glad
for the thick towel covering me from chest to mid thigh, though I wish I had
more on.
He looked at me a moment and I had to force myself to meet his gaze, to not
stare at something else because it made me more comfortable. Finally, he
averted his gaze, “I was wondering what you wanted for breakfast,”
he said.
“I’m not hungry,” I said softly.
“What do you want?” he asked again.
I bit my lip to hide a smile, he was still protective of me, “Scrambled
eggs,” I said at last. He nodded and left. I stared after him a moment,
before I went into my room to get dressed.
Five minutes later I entered the kitchen; his back was to me, his focus on the
pan. “Why’d you leave me by myself?” I asked, “Not that
I’m complaining.” I sat at the table, folding my hands in my lap,
unsure of what else to do with them.
He bowed his head, “I feel really bad about that incident in the bathroom
yesterday,” he said quietly. “I was just so mad and scared that you
could do something like that to yourself…” he shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” I found myself saying, though I didn’t
know where the words were coming from, “But if you knew why…”
I trailed off shaking my head.
“But I want to. I want to understand why you could defile yourself like
that…”
“It’s not like I haven’t done it before…” I said
harshly, “I’m sure you’ve heard about my little affair with
Spike. How was that any different than this?”
He turned red, “That wasn’t-”
I interrupted him, “Wasn’t what? Degrading? Painful? Physically and
emotionally draining? Out of character?” I shook my head, “But what
was is? Numbing. Blessfully numbing. It stopped the pain, it stopped the
dreams, it stopped the flood of images that shouldn’t be in my
head!” I cried.
He was in front of me in an instant, “What dreams? What images? Did you
have a nightmare last night? Is that what you’re talking about?” he
asked softly, pulling my hands away from my face, I’m not quite sure how
they got there.
I stared at him, shaking my head. I couldn’t tell him. If I told him,
then he’d know that I still loved him, and he’d feel guilty because
he no longer loved me. Maybe he would even stay with me, because he
didn’t want to see me hurt, but it would all be a lie, because he no
longer loved me.
I was shaking again, and I really, really wanted to shoot up. But I
couldn’t, so I did the next best thing, I pushed away the hovering tears,
and asked about the eggs. He rushed to the stove, obviously having forgotten
them, and it gave me enough time to collect myself. The shaking was bothering
me, though.
I had gotten myself under control by the time he slid a plate of food in front
of me, a plate of food I had no interest in eating. But one look at his face,
and the expression he wore, and I took a bite. It was this odd mix of pride and
uncertainty, smugness and shyness. He seemed to be confident in his cooking
skills, but as I ate, he kept hovering, asking if I wanted anything, or if they
were all right. Finally I told him they were perfect, and they were close, just
so he would eat his own food and leave me to pick at mine.
After he was through, and I had forced about half of the scrambled egg into
myself, I pushed my plate away, “So, what’s the plan for today?
I’m guessing you’re not going to let me go to work.”
“You could if you would always be in my sight,” he said.
“Some of the meetings I have with the slayers are confidential,” I
told him.
“
When he turned back to me, he was smiling, “I was thinking we could do
touristy things today. Willow told me that when you moved here, you kind of
jumped right in with both feet, not really giving yourself time to do any sight
seeing.”
“I’ve done plenty of sightseeing!” I cried, “I usually
patrol every single night!”
“But that’s at night,” he said softly, “Finish your
egg, and we’ll go,” he told me, sitting back down across from me to
finish his cup of coffee.
“I’m done, I’m not really hungry.”
“Eat,” he ordered me. I sighed and picked up my fork.
After my slave driver let me leave the table, I decided to change into a
sundress. As I passed the bathroom after I had changed, I noticed Angel’s
back out of the corner of my eye. I had kind of been lost in my
thoughts-thinking about work and who was doing my job, and how would the girls
manage without me-, so when I turned to him, sound came back to me. It was then
that I realized that we were in the same boat. He had sacrificed his own
privacy to make sure I didn’t have any. For some reason, that made me
feel better about the whole thing. I slipped down the hall and sat on the
couch, waiting for him to be ready, giving him some of the privacy he gave up.
We
drove downtown, parked the car on some side street, and set off on foot. I
didn’t have a destination in mind, but he seemed to. We ended up in a
wide-open area, with carts and street vendors everywhere.
We spent the day going through the outdoor stalls and the shops that lined the
area. I didn’t realize that Angel was so into shopping. He kept dragging
me from stall to stall to check out things that caught his eye. He insisted on
buying almost a dozen things for me, but every time I tried to talk to him about
buying something for him, he pulled me in the opposite direction to look at
something else. He also stuffed me full of different fatty foods, pretzels and
elephant ears and French fries, and so much else. So much that I felt like I
was going to be sick after my strict diet of salad or nothing. But just when I
thought I couldn’t eat any more, he convinced me that I was hungry, and
sat us down outside a pizza parlor.
By mid-afternoon, I was not only stuffed, but happy for the first time since I
could remember since moving to the city. We had been bantering back and forth
all day, and a couple times he had to put his hands on me, either to get me out
of someone else’s way, or to change direction; no matter his excuse, I
shivered at each contact. I wish he didn’t affect me so, but I
can’t help it.
And the best part, after the last time, when I was going to veer off to check
out a shirt I thought he would look hot in, he put his arm around my waist and
pulled me back beside him. But he didn’t let me go. He left his arm
draped around the small of my back, his hand snaked around the thin hip. When
he touched me, he didn’t touch me like I was diseased, or sick, he
touched me like he always did, like he was in love with me.
As the sun set, we were ambling through a small side street, trying to find the
car, when a figure melted from the shadows just ahead of us.
“Buffy,” the demon said conversationally, “Where have you
been? You were supposed to come pick up your…payment last night.”
I had totally forgotten about the meeting, “I-I don’t want it,
Morty. Not now, not ever. And I’m not doing any more jobs for you,
I’m clean.” I told him, Angel silently giving me the courage just
by his arm around my waist and his coat draped over my thin shoulders.
“What’s this nonsense? Without me, you’d still be the
vamp-whipped girl. I changed that, didn’t I? Me and my drug, we helped
you,” he said. I guess he didn’t recognize Angel, not yet anyway.
“I’m through,” I repeated.
“You can’t do this to me, Slayer, you’re my best customer.”
Before he could threaten me- I can take care of myself, by the way- Angel let
go of me, stepping into light cast by one of the lamps nearby, “She said
she was through, Morty. You’d best believe her and get out of here before
she decides to sick the council on you,” he said.
Morty’s expression turned from one of anger to one of fear.
“An-Angelus,” he stuttered, “I didn’t know you were
around…So sorry…” he turned tail and ran. I couldn’t
help but smile; I didn’t know that even now, after so long, Angelus was
still a thing to be feared.
We stood there a moment, staring after him. Finally, he moved back to me, put
his arm back around my waist, and led me towards where he thought the car was.
But the banter was gone, the happiness was gone. And his arm was stiffer around
me, almost like he did it just because he thought I wanted him to. I wanted to
shoot up so bad.
When we finally reached the car, my hands were shaking, and my muscles were
aching, even though we hadn’t done anything that had physically exerted
me. I tucked myself into the passenger side as he climbed into the
driver’s seat. I knew it was bad if I was letting him drive-I drove here.
I had told myself it was because I knew the layout better, but it was because
of my control freakiness, and we both knew it.
When we reached the house, I headed straight for my bed, where I curled up in a
quivering ball. I couldn’t keep lying to myself. My body was addicted to
the drug, the symptoms weren’t new to me, just compounded. In the past, I
had muscle twitches if I went too long without shooting up, or muscle aches I
thought were just because of a bad fight the night before. No, my body was
addicted.
My mind was too, for a completely different reason. Because here, in my bed,
alone, the images streamed through my mind, confusing me, making me crazy as I
tried to focus on just one image. Yet, I didn’t need to. I knew all the
images by heart, they were from my life with Angel, or dreams since he left me.
And now images of today were added to the mix, a touch, a smile, the sight of
him in the sunlight, his thick hair curling slightly from the humidity. All
moments that made my heart flop; now I wished for the prick of a needle to make
them all go away.
Angel came in a bit later with a plate of food. He found me curled in the fetal
position, rocking myself slightly. He set the plate on the bedside table,
sitting on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on my side. I flinched.
“You need to eat something,” he said quietly.
I shook my head, not trusting my voice. I was shivering again.
“Buffy, please. You need to keep your health up. I know this hurts, but I
need you to eat for me.”
“How do you know?” I asked, my voice quivering. “How do you
know what it’s like?”
He sighed, “Back at the turn of the century, 17th century,” he
amended, knowing I needed clarification, “We spent some time in
He looked down at me, smoothing some hair off my cheek; I shivered at the
touch, knowing it would go into the streaming video that was my life without
drugs, “You got to keep going on. Please, eat, for me.”
I looked up at him, saw the caring in his eyes, and struggled to sit up.
Everything hurt. I was addicted, addicted bad. He helped me into a sitting
position before he placed the plate in my lap. I took the fork, but my hands
were shaking so badly I couldn’t cut the steak he had cooked or make the
potatoes stay on my fork long enough to make it to my mouth. I made a small
noise in my throat in frustration, so close to tears it scared me.
Gently he took the fork and knife from me, cut up the meat into smaller bites,
and started feeding me as if I were a baby. I couldn’t keep the tears in
then, and they streamed down my face as he put bite after bite into my mouth.
Once the plate was empty, he took it from my lap and put it back on the bedside
table, before taking me into his arms, just as he had the night before. He
didn’t have to ask what was wrong. “I know,” he murmured,
“I know.” Yet again he lay me down in my bed and allowed me to cry.
I woke the next morning with his arms still around me. I inhaled the sweet
scent of him, before I slowly crawled out of his embrace. I didn’t want
to, I wanted to stay there forever, safe and warm in his arms, where his
nearness made all but the worst symptoms of withdrawal seem irrelevant.
I was in the shower when I heard his voice, “Do you mind if I use the
bathroom?” he asked.
Behind the semi sheer shower curtain, I wrapped my arms around my chest, biting
my lip hard. For a fleeting second I didn’t want him to just use the
bathroom, but I wanted him to come join me in the shower. Generally, I’m
pretty dense, but it didn’t take a blind man to see I was still in love
with him.
“S-Sure!” I called, hoping he didn’t catch my stutter, hoping
the nervousness I felt couldn’t be heard in my voice. I stood there
self-consciously as he went to the bathroom, I could see his wide shoulders
through the curtain. I was waiting until he was done before I moved, not
wanting to bring attention to myself, but instead of leaving, he turned to the
sink, grabbing his can of shaving cream. I saw him shake it and felt myself
shiver.
Slowly I moved from behind the opaque outer curtain and back into the spray of
the shower. I could see his back was to me, so slowly, I began to finish my
washing, though more than anything I wanted his hands to be the ones running
down my body. I was so self-conscious, I had never really noticed how much my
body had changed, how different I was, how…unfeminine.
After that I was done with my shower real fast. I didn’t want to give
Angel the chance to join me, in the off chance that he still felt anything at
all; I didn’t want him to see what I had become. The only problem-he was
still in the bathroom. After a moment of thought, I turned off the water, and
reached out to quickly grab the closest towel. I retreated back into the
shower, wrapping it firmly around myself, before I pulled back the shower
curtain.
As I walked away I felt his eyes on me, and I shuddered, if he knew what I had
become, he’d loath me.
The withdrawal was the worst it had ever been that day. We stayed around the
house, cleaning and stuff. I wore a huge oversized sweatshirt, and even though
it was a hot day, I kept it on. The thing came down to my knees, and I thought
it would make me happier, but it just made me look even more sexless. I had
lost my femininity; I had lost myself.
I sunk into depression, but if Angel noticed, he didn’t give any
indication. He kept shoveling food into me by the ton- or at least it seemed
that way after my months of eating just one meal a day. He told me that
generally symptoms of withdrawal went away after seven days. On day four, he
cajoled me into going for a run, teasing that all the rich food would make me
fat if I wasn’t careful. But if that gave me some curves again, if it
made me look like a woman, I would do it, because maybe he’d love me
again.
That night we watched a movie, and I fell asleep on the couch, using
Angel’s shoulder as a pillow. The next morning, I woke up lying down, in
his arms, and without thinking I wiggled slightly to get more comfortable and
fell off the edge of the couch. The day kinda followed that. The symptoms
weren’t as bad as they had been the day before, but my muscles still
ached and my hands were shaky. Worse, we were running out of things to do
during the day, and there really wasn’t much on TV. Finally, Angel took
me to the nearest library, of all places, and I got a library card, and we got
out some movies, and Angel got out some of those really old books he likes.
We spent the next few days watching movies and reading out loud. I decided to
pick up a few books by an author I had heard a lot about but had never had time
to read. God, were the books hilarious! I kept interrupting Angel’s
reading to read him a section. One of the evenings, when the cravings were
incredibly awful, Angel curled up with me on my bed and read aloud to me. I’m
not totally sure what he read was in English, but it sounded pretty d**n nice
to me.
By day six, my cravings were pretty much gone, and I wasn’t having muscle
spasms so much, and when I did, they weren’t all that bad. It was then
that I was faced with another problem. Now that the drug was out of my system-
for good, I hoped, because I could not go through this again- Angel would be
leaving soon, and his presence was worse than the drugs. It was infused in my
bones, and when he left, I would be going through a totally different type of
withdrawal. This one, I thought, was probably going to leave me babbling
incoherently in the nearest padded room, or maybe just a corner would suffice.
Living with him for the past week, though it started out rough, had shown me a
way to get to heaven again, and I knew when he left, I would wake up in hell.
So I did the only thing I could do. I pushed him away.
Usually, we either fell asleep on the couch after watching a movie, or fell
asleep in my bed after reading out loud. It’s funny how it only took us a
week to fall into a routine. He has the nicest voice, and it just lulls me,
until the world is perfect, because all there is is him. On the sixth day after
my fatal high, we watched a movie, but I forced myself to stay awake, and when
it was over, I left him sleeping on the couch, slipping into my own room. The
dreams I had that night weren’t the pleasant ones I had been having in
his arms, but when I woke up crying, I put my pillow over my head so he wouldn’t
hear me. I didn’t fall asleep after that, afraid I might call out to him,
because I knew he would come.
I made sure to get up long before he would, and I showered and started
breakfast. I was even cooking, and I had to be self-sufficient. My heart had
already started to hurt, even though he had yet to leave.
That day he put my doors back on, he wouldn’t let me help despite I was
ten times stronger than he was now. He looked so sexy, shirtless, with sweat
trickling down his chest and back. His skin was warm, healthy, no longer cold
and pale, and I wanted him all the more. While he was being all muscley,
masculine, I cleaned up, putting the books we had been reading and the movies
we had been watching back in their place. But I left out the book we had
started two nights before, a collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s short
stories.
“You can stay as long as you want,” I told him during dinner,
“At least to finish Doyle’s collection. I don’t think
I’d have the chance to finish if you didn’t force me,” I
softened it with a smile. I needed him to stay longer. Ripping himself out of
my life now would put me back where I started before the drugs. Even if I
slowly weaned myself from him, it still might. I looked at him expectantly,
hoping against hope he’d stay a little longer.
He seemed to mull it over for a few seconds, before he nodded,
“Okay.” Maybe he understood what his leaving would do to me, maybe
not.
“I have to go back to work tomorrow,” I told him, “I know
Will gave me another week, but…You can come with, or you could stay here,
whatever you prefer.”
“I’d like to see more of the Council,” he told me. He
didn’t argue about me going back to work or anything, and that surprised
me.
I nodded silently, “I won’t be able to stay with you all
day,” I warned, “I have tons of meetings to make up, plus all of
this week’s. I’m in charge of the training and patrolling of all
the slayers in the city. Plus I do phone or email correspondence with all of
the slayers around the world.” He looked impressed, and I smiled.
The next day went smoothly, if a bit hectic. Fifteen minutes after getting
there, Angel had disappeared. Work was work, and there was nothing new about
it. The week’s vacation I took didn’t harm me in any way, if
anything, it helped. For once I had something to talk about with some of the
slayers that were either more book inclined or movie inclined. I was even able
to recommend something to some of them. It felt really good.
Instead of eating at my desk, I ate in the cafeteria. The food wasn’t as
bad as I expected, and it was good seeing
As I was getting up to go, Xander stopped me with a hand on my arm,
“There’s a new club that opened downtown. What do you think?”
he asked.
“Uh, I think I could show up for a couple hours,” I said, knowing
it wasn’t the exact answer he was looking for, but it still made his face
light up, “I haven’t done any patrolling for the past week, so I
need to get back in the swing of things,” I said, giving him a playful
smile, “Uh, is it okay if I bring Angel? We’re not together,”
I hastened to add, “but he’s staying at my place until he can find
somewhere else,” I told them.
“Oz and I will be there after dinner, around eight,”
“I was thinking of bringing someone,” Xander said slowly,
“I’d really like to know your guys’ opinion of her.”
I sat back down, feeling like we were in high school, “That’s great
Xander! I’m sure we’ll like her,” I told him, putting a hand
on his lower arm supportively. It shocked me that even after so long, I still
knew Xander enough to know he was uncomfortable. “So, we’ll meet
you there around eight?” I asked, standing again.
“Yeah,” my friends said as one.
I
told Angel about going to the club as we drove back to my place, I hadn’t
been able to find him before then. It had taken me a half hour to find him in
one of the classrooms, having a discussion with some of the slayers. It warmed
my heart to see him like that. He really had a way with the girls. As I had
watched from the window, he had smiled at something one of the girls said, and
I felt a sudden shot of jealousy flow through my veins. My reasonable half had
told me I had no reason to be jealous, he wasn’t mine anymore, but my
heart wouldn’t listen.
I hadn’t been to a club in a long time, and I hadn’t been to this
particular club, so I really had no idea what to wear. I told myself I was
going to reconnect with my friends, to show them I was okay, and to get back
into slaying. But some part of me also wanted Angel looking at me like he used
to. It was that part of me that chose my outfit. I knew that he wouldn’t
be the only one looking, and though I felt a bit bad about that, that same part
of me was snide, wanting him to feel the jealousy I felt.
I put on one of my long coats with large pockets full of stakes and smaller
knives and Holy Water while Angel was still changing in the bathroom. For once
I was ready before he was. When he did finally come out, he looked
uncomfortable in the colors he wore. I thought he looked so incredibly sexy in
colors, and it hit me then that I had never seen him in anything but black and
white. The khaki pants went well with the light blue cotton shirt, and the
light color of the outfit went will with his healthy tan skin.
“Ready?” he asked. I just nodded, biting my lip. Maybe inviting him
along was not the way to slowly wean myself from him… Maybe instead I
should have spent the night without him, just as I had spent the day. But it
hadn’t felt like I had spent the day separate from him, maybe because he
was in the building. It had felt so natural to find him talking with those
girls, so natural to confide in him about my day on the ride home.
We drove in silence, me going over the directions
She stood, taking my hand, “Stephanie Daisuke. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Oh, this is Angel,” I said, trying to
think up a way of explaining Angel, but I saw I didn’t have to, her
attention was on him for a second, and then it moved to someone else. I turned
and saw that she was staring at Xander, who was coming through the crowd,
carrying two drinks.
“Buffy!” he cried when he saw me, “You look fantastic,”
he gave one of the drink to Stephanie, put the other on the table beside her,
and hugged me. “Trying to make Angel jealous, are we?” he asked in
my ear, before he let me go and sat next to Stephanie.
The night passed quickly, full of dancing and a bit of drinking. I didn’t
drink anything stronger than soda, knowing how I usually took to alcohol and
other stimulants. I didn’t want to get off one and find myself addicted
to another. It wasn’t very far in the evening when I found out Angel
could not dance, so he stayed at the table with Oz and Xander as us girls
danced, drawing attention to ourselves. Not that I needed any help in my black
mini skirt and shiny red halter top that left my back exposed. Only a strap
behind my neck and two across my back kept me from being incredibly
embarrassed. It felt good, letting loose and having fun. I hadn’t truly
had fun in years, and it felt weird at first, but I soon warmed to the idea. Of
course, I don’t think I would have been having nearly so much fun if
Angel hadn’t been watching. Stephanie was a good dancer, and I liked her
immediately. She made Xander so happy, and it was good to see Xander happy. For
once, we were all pretty much happy. Of course, unbeknownst to me, I was going
to be a whole lot happier in about five hours.
Besides drinking and dancing, we did the small talk thing, and when a slow song
was played, instead of looking like idiots sitting at the table alone while the
others danced, Angel and I danced. We didn’t do the close dancing, body
to body- I’m not sure who was making us keep our distance- but he held me
in his arms, and it was bliss. He was human, and I was human, and we were just
a normal not-couple out with friends.
At about two thirty we headed home, once again in silence. I said goodnight and
headed to my room, pushing the door mostly closed. I had kinda gotten used to
not having a door, and it was Angel. What he had said a week ago was true, he
had seen it all, not in a long time, but he had.
I was slipping out of my shoes when I felt his presence. I started to turn, but
wasn’t fast enough. His hands on my face, he backed me up until I fell
onto my bed. He seemed to float down on top of me, keeping all but the tiniest
bit of his body weight off of me, not that I couldn’t have taken it
all...
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he growled, deep in his throat.
I could feel his erection pushing against my stomach and felt a rush of warmth
shoot from my stomach down into the most private of regions.
I had to lie. That was the only way out of this, the best way. If I lied, if I
told him I didn’t want him like he so obviously wanted me, then he would
go, I could see it in his eyes. But just the thought of him leaving, of him
being gone forever, never to be in my life again, it cut me to shreds. I should
have known I couldn’t lose him again. Hadn’t my dreams been enough?
He looked down at me, his eyes so dark with want they were black. But it was as
if there was a curtain in his eyes, I know this sounds weird, but go figure,
and just behind that curtain was something else, but I couldn’t figure
out what.
I knew I had a decision to make; tell him I loved him-he didn’t…he
didn’t ask me if I loved him, he asked me if I wanted him. Wanting and
loving are so very different. He probably hasn’t had sex since he became
human, so he figured he’d test everything out on me!
Now I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, hoping he didn’t see
the tears fighting to gain access to open air, “I-I…” I
started, but the words wouldn’t come. I don’t, how hard is that to
say. Three words, well, two and a contraction. But I couldn’t get them
out. I took another deep breath to start again, “I-
I…can’t,” I said at last. I couldn’t lie to Angel, I
just couldn’t.
His lips descended on mine, and while earlier, on the dance floor, I thought I
was feeling blissful…just his lips on mine brought me tantalizingly close
to a release I hadn’t had in years. Not since Sunnydale, not like this,
anyway, not with someone who loves you.
Somehow I knew Angel was trying to take it slow as he memorized every inch of
my mouth with his tongue. I had a delicious thought that I wished he would be
so thorough in other areas and another rush of warmth headed south.
I ran my hands down across his neck where they had been tangled in his hair,
and quickly undid the first button I came in contact with. I needed him, and I
needed him now.
After that, the clothes disappeared, not that mine were really any barrier. A
small part of myself must have wished this outcome as I dressed myself that
night.
Just before I fell over the edge, I looked into his eyes, and the curtain was
gone. What I saw there shocked me and pushed me over the edge. With one more
thrust, he followed.
“I love you,” he murmured in my ear as we rode out our bliss.
“I know. I love you too,” I knew we still had a lot of things to go
over, a lot yet to talk about, but I knew without a doubt, this was right where
I was supposed to be.
As we lay there in the silent aftermath, his head drooped over my shoulder, his
breath tickling my neck, I had to tell him something. “Angel,” I
murmured.
“Yeah?” he asked, lifting his head to look me in the eye.
“You’re my anti-drug,” I murmured.
He smiled down at me, before leaning down and placing open-mouthed kisses on my
neck that made me squirm, “Funny, you are my drug.”
It’s been four months since my fatal overdose. And since then, I’ve
slowly been rebuilding my life. I spend much more time with my friends, and I
eat healthier. I even have some of my curvier curves back. And I’ve been
heroin free for four months now. I no longer have a needle problem, but
I’ll always have a demon problem, and I kind of still have a drug
problem, only this one is totally different, and I get it in a much different
way.
As I sit here, listening to my best friends making speeches, I can’t help
but look over at the guy sitting next to me. He’s gorgeous, and I guess
you could call him my supplier. Oh, good news about Morty, ran in to him about
two months back, and he won’t be making any more drug deals. But back to
the happy ending.
I look over once again, and he’s looking at me. I smile, biting my lower
lip, trying to contain my happiness. I can’t believe we’re finally
here, I mean, who’d have thunk it?
And I guess I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’m just a little
bit crazy, because I’ve done the unthinkable. For the final time,
I’ve done the same thing, expecting different results. But the best part
is, this time I know the outcome will be different.
He leans over and kisses me, and I taste wine on his lips. Or maybe
that’s my wine I’m tasting. I’m not really sure. Yeah, yeah,
I’m a bit drunk, and I know I said I’m not really a big drinker,
but I’ve found the best drug of all while I’m in his arms, and it
mixes very well with liquor, so I figure a little alcohol can’t hurt.
Besides, it’s my wedding day, and I’m getting lucky tonight.
END