Making Up For Lost Time

AN: Just a few notes to explain the British expressions and places referred to in this story:

1. “Welly” – slang for Wellington Boots. These are basically waterproof rubber boots.
2. “Kegs” – English slang for trousers or underwear. It is used in this chapter to denote underwear.
3. Plymouth and Exeter are two major cities in Devon, a county in the South West of England.
4. Newquay – is a seaside town in the English county of Cornwall. Due to its position on the North Cornish coast, it’s popular with surfers, families, young people and bikini-clad women alike.

Chapter One 

The long rolling green fields of the farm seemed to stretch for miles, scattered among the woods and the trickling stream. From her favourite spot beside the old oak tree, Buffy Summers felt she was truly within the grip of rural South West England, far away from the noise and excitement of London . Even the nearest cities of Exeter and Plymouth had that old country charm, caught between the attempted trendiness of the big smoke and the half-soaked ambience of a backwater town. Life in the English county of Devon was as different from the one she had once led in Los Angeles as chalk from cheese. The days here had predictable rhythms, punctuated by the community-spirited fetes, fayres and social dos that were becoming ever more frequent as the showery days of April shimmered into the sun of May. Her mother’s friend Rupert Giles had once told her about British weather, expounding upon the joyous diversity that could be found within one week, from dazzling sunshine to torrential downpours. To the young Buffy it had all seemed very exotic, but now, sitting under a bank of cloud, waiting for the sun to peek through, she felt a pang of longing for the cloudless skies of home and her old life. The life she had given up for The One, the definitive love of her life, forsaking all others. At the age of twenty-three, her Liam “Angel” O’Leary had been all the reassurance she needed, and she had stepped on the plane at LAX without looking back. That was three years ago.

Idly Buffy picked at a daisy, using her nail to delicately place a slit through its stem before threading another daisy through it. It was something she had watched the children of Angel’s cousin Wesley, Sarah and Rebecca, do many times, smiling as they hung the completed bracelets and necklaces around their wrists and necks. Sometimes the three of them would walk the fields of Wesley’s farm, laughing as the big Labrador Ben bounced through the long grass, heading joyously for the stream. Sometimes Wesley and his wife Fred would join them, and together they would wade welly-clad through the stream and across to the woods where Wesley had hung an old tyre for the children to play on. Angel had snorted the first time he had seen her place her feet in the plain green Wellington boots, teasing her that they wouldn’t go with her Prada bag. She had sucked her bottom lip, feeling the press of tears in her eyes but had said nothing. He had no idea how many of her former worksuits and designer dresses were packed away, wrapped mummy-like in their dress bags, never again to see the light of the day. With the mud and the potholes littering the farm and surrounding fields, she was certain she would never see a pair of heels again, a great loss to a woman of no more than five foot three. Still, here she could breathe the blustering air of the windswept countryside and sit alone beside an oak, lost in her own thoughts and memories. Soon she would stand and meander back through the fields, smiling warmly as she passed Fred’s kitchen window at the family scene she would see inside. Then she would walk up the tiny lane to the thatched cottage that was now her home and switch on the kettle, ready for Angel’s return home.

The cloud was slowly shifting from the sky, letting the sunshine begin to warm Buffy’s face as she lay back upon the grass. It was almost the same feeling of peace she had had as a child, lying beside her little sister Dawnie, the endless days of summer seeming to last forever. That was before the divorce and everything that happened after. That was before Buffy had even known what unhappiness was and Angel had swept into her life and changed everything.

She felt her eyes drift closed, the fields before her dissolving into the campus of the UCLA, to the day she had walked across the quad with her best friend Willow and had almost been knocked over by a dark-haired rushing man. Indignant, she had righted herself, ready to let out a torrent of ranting on the inconsiderateness of male freshmen. Then she had seen the anxious look on the man’s face. His face was gorgeous and brooding, truly Byronic: the curve of his lips, his deep chocolatey-velvet eyes, gazing at her, right at her. She had quickly looked away, her face reddening as she realised she had been staring. He had touched her shoulder lightly, asking if she was alright in a strong Irish brogue which Buffy had instantly found attractive. From that day on, they had gone from tentative coffee meet-ups to somehow stumbling into a comfortable pattern of sharing a bed, a bathroom and a life. Their relationship had seemed indestructible until Angel had graduated a year before Buffy and announced he was moving to London to take over his family’s art dealing business. Angel’s father had insisted upon this change, believing Angel’s major in Art History to be at best use in the family business. It had seemed a strange request to Buffy, considering Angel’s father was in perfectly good health and more than capable of travelling between Dublin and London as need be. Still, Angel had not questioned it. A week later he had been on a plane, disappearing out of Buffy’s life, leaving her only with memories and a dog-eared London phone number.

Her senior year had possibly been the most miserable of her life, the majority of her days being spent pining until her weekly transatlantic phone call with Angel. Yet amazingly, as the year grew to a close and graduation loomed, a strange transformation began to take place in Buffy. When Willow pleaded with her to go to a campus party, Buffy began to less reluctantly accept, even making an effort with her hair, makeup and clothes. There were even dates: strange and furtive events which always ended with a chaste kiss and the puppy dog-eyed devotion of the man in question. It was not that Buffy was toying with them, rather that it had never occurred to her that they wanted anything more from her than company. Then had come the offer of a lifetime, the chance to do something with her Communication major that she had never imagined possible, and she had taken it. The fact that it would keep her away from Angel was the only downside to working at the most exclusive PR company in the Los Angeles area. Then, just a year later, she had given it all away for a gamble on love.

She was startled out of her daydream by a gentle tap on her shoulder. Looking up, she gazed into the familiar brown eyes she had melted into countless times, and tried to smile. “Hey,” she said, pulling herself up from the ground.

The lopsided grin was there as Angel watched his girlfriend wake up groggily from her reveries, her thin body cocooned in a thick sweater and old comfortable jeans. “I knew I’d find you here,” he told her.

His hand was held out, and as was expected she took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. For a minute, he held her there, tenderly brushing back the golden wisps of hair that had fallen from her messy pony, fingers lingering on her cheek. If it was the look in her eyes, she could not tell, but something shivered through Angel and his hands drew away from her and into the confines of his pockets. He began to walk, Buffy following, easily falling into their established rhythm. For a little while, they did not talk, Buffy kicking the grass as she went with the toe of her trainers, Angel gazing off towards the farmhouse where his cousin Wesley and his family resided. In the distance, the birds chattered sweetly, their calls familiar and welcoming. Buffy wondered how long it would take her tonight to make their tea and whether Angel would offer to assume control half way through, a subtle reminder of his superior culinary skills. After that, she would switch on their small television and watch one of the Australian soap operas that the British seemed to be obsessed by, dimming the sound before Angel could come back in, with two trays in his hand. Dinner would be served and like students, they would eat a TV dinner.

The sound of a Land Rover pulling into the gate caused both Buffy and Angel to look up, for a second their eyes meeting. Then as quickly Buffy looked away, waving politely to Wesley as he got out of the muddy Land Rover, and nodded cordially to them both. It was almost strange to see Wesley dressed for work, the smart slacks and stiff white shirt of a college lecturer a far cry from the scruffy jeans and anorak he normally favoured.

“So, you two lovebirds were taking a walk?” Wesley observed, his eyes twinkling with the enjoyment of the tease.

Buffy felt Angel’s eyes upon her, his hand now cupping hers flimsily, the connection as likely to droop as the heads of the daisies on Buffy’s chain. She felt her own face move into the machinations of a smile, her muscles moving the lips in a well-oiled curve. As she glanced at Angel, she saw the same reflected in his face, the guarded and typical response to one of Wesley’s little jokes.

“That’s right, Wes,” Angel returned, bringing Buffy’s hand to his lips in a flutter of romance. “You can’t let the romance go dead just because the woman’s seeing you in your kegs.”

Briefly, the irony of his comment amused her, an expression Wesley took for contentedness. Wesley smiled at her kindly, then softly said to Angel, “Well, you just take care of her. Our Buffy here is a good woman.”

The nod from Angel was imperceptible before Wesley had waved goodbye and had immersed himself in the heart of his happy family. As she walked towards the gate with Angel, Buffy could hear Wesley laughing heartily with Fred and the girls as Ben jumped round them in joy, his little yips of excitement mingling with the growing mirth. Angel opened the gate, and they passed through, Angel shutting it behind them with a firm click. Buffy wondered what the Wyndham-Pryce family would eat for dinner as they gathered around their table, and how soon it would be before the girls begged to take Ben out for one last walk before they did their homework. One day Buffy had thought it would be her place to be a wife and a mother and live in a perfect home, one so different from the house she had grappled to keep after her mother had passed away, with its leaking taps and drafty windows. It had only been Willow and Xander, her longstanding friends, who had kept the wolf from her door and helped her out so many times with mates’ rates repairs. Xander, who had hated Angel from first sight and resented him for taking Buffy away from LA. Xander, who she had been in more scrapes with in High School than she could count, along with Willow , Oz and Cordelia.

As Angel opened the front door to their cottage, beckoning her in from the increasing chill as evening grew closer, she remembered the Halloween she had been forced to participate in the high school shepherding scheme for the neighbourhood children’s trick or treating. There would never be such a scheme here; the village frowned upon such American customs.

Angel placed a mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of Buffy, mouth twitching in annoyance as she hardly moved or acknowledged him, her eyes fixed upon the sunny climes of Australia flickering dimly on the television set. He returned to the kitchen, laying out the items he would need for tonight’s meal. Tonight they would eat something simple and then he would watch the news.

~~

Halloween, 1997, Los Angeles .

The corset was digging into her ribs, making breathing a challenging accomplishment. In the shop, the 18^th Century-style hooped dress and chestnut curled wig had seemed like the perfect Halloween costume, but now as she struggled to keep up with Xander as he strode down the street, she wanted nothing more than to rip it from her body. “Xander!” she screeched finally, tripping over the long hem of her skirts in her haste to keep up with him.

He turned slowly, a sort of quizzical grin on his face. She pouted pointedly, flinging her hands out at the injustice of her imprisoning outfit. “What’s the matter, Buff?” he drawled, unable to withhold the quip any longer. “Corset a bit tight?” The levity lifted as soon as he saw the ire glowing in Buffy’s eyes, a sure preamble to the full Summers wrath, and he made the appropriate apologetic smile.

Tired of running and from the dull ache that was becoming ever-constant, Buffy sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, not caring as the folds of her skirts crushed against the dusty grime. She sighed deeply, her face cupped in her hand as she wondered why exactly these types of things always happened to her. If only she had not been loitering in the halls, laughing with Xander and Willow , Principal Snyder would never have pounced upon them and enforced this torture upon them. Lord only knew why Snyder would think Buffy Summers, the girl who couldn’t even keep her cyberpet alive, would be the perfect candidate for playing shepherdess to five sugar-intoxicated children. As it transpired, it was not her shepherding abilities that were the problem, but rather Xander’s. Somehow while he had been admiring Cordelia’s form in her skintight cat unitard, five children had vanished. In a panic, he had fled, searching for the children high and low until he had eventually happened upon Buffy and her little gaggle.

Now Buffy’s group was safely ensconced with Willow , disguised fittingly as a ghost, and Buffy was watching Xander pace up and down, his toy gun placed soldier-style across his broad shoulders.

“You know what I’m thinking, Xander?” she finally commented, fixing him with a smouldering glare. “We should turn you into a soldier, for real. Then at least you’d find the kids.”

“Well I don’t see you finding them either,” he retorted, kicking a pebble across the sidewalk in his frustration. He flopped down beside Buffy, thoroughly annoyed with himself for being so hormonally-charged that his mortal enemy Cordelia Chase could inspire such lust in him. Being seventeen, responsible and male were not a probable combination. The only plus side was that it had only been five minutes since he had last seen the kids, and the neighbourhood was teeming with high school students. So how hard could it be to track down two mini-demons, two vamps and a fairy princess?

“Look, Buffster, what we need is to get into the mind of a kid,” Xander began, curling his lip at the smirk beginning to spread across Buffy’s face. “So, what would I do if I was a kid?”

“A lot like you’d do now,” she returned lightly, struggling to adjust her corset again. “Eat lots of candy.”

Jumping up, Xander grabbed hold of Buffy’s hands and pulled her to her feet, barely able to contain his excitement. “Hot and smart,” he exclaimed, whirling them around in a circle as his idea formed. It was obvious. The kids had scampered off with another group, overpowered by the draw of more sugary goodness. “Buffster, I think you might just have saved my ass.”

Standing beside him, Buffy smiled as he held out his hand, and she gracefully curtseyed before him. “Thank you, kind sir,” she giggled.

“Buffy, Lady of Buffdom, Duchess of Buffonia, I completely renounce spandex,” he told her admiringly, gazing at the curves revealed by Buffy’s sumptuous dress as they began to meander down the street. The sound of children’s excited chattering could be heard, and Xander stopped, a hopeful look on his face. “I think we found the runts!”

The sheet-covered form of Willow came hesitantly into view, good-naturedly propelling a small nation of children forward. As Xander caught sight of the glitter of a plastic tiara, he ran to Willow , signalling for his group to come forward. “How did you find them?” he demanded of Willow , frantically doing a headcount of the children. “Not that I’m not grateful and all.”

Through the eyeslits of her ghost costume, Willow smiled coyly at Xander, feeling her face warm at his attention upon her. “They stayed to get more candy,” she explained, self-consciously pulling at her sheet. “Cordy saw the extra kids, saw me and well…”

As Xander gave the children a military-style lecture his commando outfit never looked more comical, his relieved smile belying the stern posture and bellowing tones. Unnoticed, Buffy came to Willow , pulling her aside. “Will, you’re never going to get him by hiding,” Buffy told her rebukingly, lifting the offending sheet. “I thought we talked about this.”

“Well, we did,” Will returned, scurrying for a way to solidify her defence. “You said Halloween is ‘come as you aren’t night’ and I said…”

“And you said nothing,” Buffy finished, yanking the sheet from Willow with a determined tug. As Willow seemed to fairly squirm, arms moving to cover her suddenly bare midriff, revealed by the short leather skirt and rib-skimming shirt, Buffy looked admiringly at her work. “Wow, you really are a dish.”

Defensively grabbing the sheet from Buffy, Willow covered her bare flesh before Xander could see. Sighing deeply, Buffy watched as Xander walked off with his group, oblivious to Willow’s efforts. He really was dense sometimes. Willow had been his best friend since forever, a staple part of his life and sometimes that meant that he was the least cognisant of the subtle changes in her mood and penchants, whims and fancies, especially as they related to him. It was not Willow ’s style to highlight her feelings with flashing neon lights, nor Xander’s to view Willow as anything other than a friend. It was a heartbreaking dance to watch, and Buffy was glad of her own safety net with Riley.

Just as Willow was about to slip the sheet over her head, she heard the gentle growling of an engine, and looked up to see a van slowly driving down the street towards them. The sheet drifted from her hands, and she gazed up at the driver, a smile of recognition upon her face.

“Hey isn’t that Oz?” asked Buffy suddenly, a grin beginning to curl its way across her lips as she noticed the intensity in the exchange. “Oh my God, Will! He’s totally checking you out.”

Willow shook her head emphatically, her pale face becoming flushed. “No, no, there’s no checking out of any kind. Just computer nerd solidarity,” she babbled, hardly able to contain the unfamiliar frisson she felt as Oz’s mouth twitched into an enigmatic grin.

“He’s checking you out,” Buffy finally reiterated, steering Willow away from the lamp post she was about to walk into. “This is so cool.”

A little smirk of pleasure escaped the cool denial of Willow ’s defence, and the thought that Oz, senior Oz, Oz of The Dingoes, Oz, Oz, Oz, looking at me, Oz, became transparent on her face. Beginning the walk back to High School, the children an untidy gaggle snaking in front of them, Buffy linked arms with Willow . She felt so safe and warm and loved; nothing could go wrong. Tonight she and her two best friends, Willow and Xander would gather around Buffy’s TV, eating popcorn and giggle over Cordy’s cat costume. Then Buffy would climb into bed, smiling, knowing in the morning she would hear the comforting beep of Riley’s horn as he came to pick her up.

Then the van had stopped and Oz had gazed at Willow so tenderly, and that was it. Buffy saw the change immediately and knew that Willow ’s heart was hooked. In the months that followed, she saw Willow begin to date Oz, Cordelia and Xander become an ill-matched but somewhat solid couple, whilst she and Riley trundled on in their own unwielding way. That was before things began to crumble, and Buffy saw the cracks in everything around her. There were no certainties after that.

~~

Buffy’s arms spread across the white cotton sheets, feeling the weight of the comforter pressing down upon her. She squinted her eyes against the hazy morning sunlight, wondering idly why the curtains were open. She turned over indulgently, automatically reaching for the warm body she expected to be beside her. She was almost disappointed by the cold empty space she found.

“Angel?” she called tentatively, pulling the sheet around her to ward off the slight chill of the room.

Hearing no answer, she rose from the bed, the shirt of Angel’s she slept in swallowing her small frame in soft, downy folds. The smell of coffee, bitter and warm, hit her nose, sending a tiny thrill of memory through her. She remembered when he used to make her coffee every morning before their first class, padding into their shared room bare-chested, clutching two mugs of steaming coffee. It was the best sight she had ever woken to, desire and rejuvenation all in one. In those days, the coffee had often grown cold, the brush of hand on hand leading to much more sensuous places. It was a ritual which had faded to memory as the late summer nights of London had turned autumnal and Buffy had no longer had a reason to wake in the morning.

She lounged into their kitchen, expecting to see Angel pottering around. A bright and cheery annoyingly familiar laugh tinkled through the room, the Californian twang a faint reminder of the girls she had hated so much at high school. The flow of her growing mise-en-scene stalled, and she turned away, feeling awkward, a stranger in her own home. It was her again. Nina was Angel’s colleague of sorts, an associate art dealer in the business. An art aficionado like Angel, they would sit for what seemed like hours, discussing art history and contemporary trends, barely noticing that Buffy was there; it was as if Buffy faded away like temporary dye from a blank canvas. She often wondered how it was that her fellow Californian, golden haired and curvaceous, glamorous and self-assured, had ever failed in her quest to snare Angel. It was a quest so obvious to Buffy, but apparently not so to Angel. He was oblivious to his own attractiveness and charisma, which conversely made him all the more alluring. Women such as Nina savoured the challenge.

“Buffy, I thought I heard you,” Angel said from behind her. She turned and faced him slowly, self-consciously pulling down the hem of her shirt. She saw him look over her, following the line of her fingers as they lingered upon her thigh, seeing something in his eyes, flickering candle-like, waiting to ignite. Then Nina was there.

“Hey, Buffy,” Nina greeted curtly, flicking back her own styled hair as if to draw attention to Buffy’s unbrushed bedhead.

Buffy smiled tightly, not bothering to return the acknowledgement. She looked at Angel critically, a slight rebuke in her voice. “I didn’t know we were expecting company,” she commented.

Angel smiled faintly at Nina, hinting for her to move back into the small dining room. Finally, Nina reluctantly walked away, not shutting the door behind her. “Buffy,” he began, coming towards her and placing a placating hand on her arm.

She shrugged her arm back, releasing his grasp, moving as if to return to her room. “I smelt the coffee,” she told him, leaving the implication to hang in the air, stagnant and heavy as the memory of Nina’s flirty tones echoed in Buffy’s mind. A sad, furtive look clouded Angel’s eyes - memory, desire, then guilt. He took a faltering step towards her, seeming to wince as she stepped back. He hesitated and gazed down at her, awkward longing in his eyes.

“I didn’t know she was coming,” he told her finally, casting a glance back at the open door through which Nina had just gone, no doubt listening to every word that was now being said.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Buffy said, turning her back on him and closing the door in a soft click behind her.

Angel stood for a long time, staring at the oblong panels of the oak door, tracing the grain of the wood as it trickled like raindrops down a window. Like the beating of his heart the first time he had kissed Buffy in his black Plymouth and the windows had steamed up. Like the day they had walked along the beach at Santa Monica and he had seen the sunlight glinting in her hair, and was blinded, rays of warmth beaming down as they kissed. Days in LA, thousands of miles away, another life ago. Then Nina called. He turned and went back, already tasting the black coffee like bile in his throat.

~~

At first she had not meant to phone. Somehow it had just happened. The next thing Buffy had heard was the bright cheery voice of Willow and then she had been crying, soft sobs that never stopped, and Willow had listened and now Buffy was at the point of no return, with no place to go now that Willow knew everything. The doubts, the fears, and most of all, the reality of Buffy’s everyday life, where she had no job and no purpose. How could she go on with this life now? How could she pretend? Willow would ask the questions she most feared, the ones she even avoided asking herself.

“But you still love him, right?” Willow persisted, her voice gentle.

Buffy paused, the words caught in her throat as she tried to answer. “I-I think so,” she replied, prodding the mass of tightly coiled emotion nestled within. There was love there. There had to be. You did not get on a plane to fly to a country thousands of miles away and give up everything for someone who was not your whole life. “I mean, yes, of course.”

She heard the sigh in Willow ’s voice, almost seeing the deep crinkles that were lining Willow ’s forehead as she considered her next words. “Buffy, come home,” Willow suggested. “Give yourself some time out. Tara and I would love to see you, so would Xander, Anya and… Dawn.”

Willow ’s awkward hesitation upon Dawn’s name said it all. However much Buffy hoped that time would heal the rift between she and Dawn, it never seemed to happen. All Buffy could do was continue to wire her money, send birthday and Christmas cards, and hear her news through Willow and the guys. They were Dawn’s family now. Buffy had made them promise to look after Dawn before she had left.

“I don’t know, Will,” Buffy answered hurriedly. “There’s Angel and-”

“And what, Buffy?” Willow questioned her, her voice seeming to press into Buffy’s conscience, forcing out long held secrets and grey shadows. The pause held a lifetime of shared understanding and Buffy knew what was coming next. “You gave up a dream job, your friends, family…” It was almost as if Willow felt the tearing, the ragged edges of Buffy’s sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s okay,” Buffy answered, almost reflexively. It was something you became used to, apologising for the deceased status of your own mother, making others feel better about it. She had been practicing since she was 20, had the art almost perfected. Except for the quiet dip as she finished the “okay”, the “ay” tailing off to some stilled pause, somehow mournful.

After it had happened, she had called Angel. When he had come to the house, he had grasped her hand and squeezed tight, leaving her to stare at the window, wondering about the silent tinkle of wind chimes and the children that continued to play outside. Her mother had been taken away shortly afterwards. The death certificate stated that her mother died of an aneurysm; the doctor said there was probably nothing that could have been done to help. Buffy had been unable to resuscitate her, unable to make her mom warm. She thought now that her younger sister Dawn had never forgiven her.

“Buffy, I forgot to tell you. Oz is coming to England .” Willow ’s voice cut through Buffy’s thoughts suddenly, a shaft of dusty light in an unused room.

“Oz?” Buffy repeated, the old name rolling unfamiliarly off her tongue.

“Yeah,” Will continued, seeming a little distracted. She imagined Willow was doodling, drawing little flowers and houses and swirly lines. “Tara and I saw him at a Dingoes gig and he said he was heading your way before going to a gig in Newquay. I think he’s planning to drop in and see you.”

Despite the apparent casualness, Buffy surmised the meeting with Oz had been anything but easy. Tara and Willow were long term partners, together since college. Before that it had been Willow and Oz, something forever and stable. As Buffy was beginning to realise, forever is a long time. He had left in Willow ’s sophomore year, after having some sort of life crisis, telling Willow he needed to find his own way and get his head together. He thought that she deserved better than him. The resentment and hurt Willow had felt had never truly gone away, even though she loved Tara with all her heart.

“Oh,” Buffy said, pulling at her sleeve. The frame of the photo of Angel cuddling her against him glinted in the morning light. “That would be good.”

~~

There was a knock at the door one morning as Buffy bit into her toast, watching as Angel scanned the paper and took occasional sips of his coffee. He had glanced across at her, about to stand but she had hastily left the kitchen and answered the door. She gasped as she saw who it was.

“Oz!”

“Hey,” said Oz, his countenance characteristically noncommittal, yet the slight uplift of his eyebrows was enough to make her smile warmly. In the six years since she had seen him, nothing much had changed. He still had the same spiky hair that changed colour almost at will and the same near to constantly deep-thinking expression.

“It’s good to see you,” she returned, opening the door to invite him in. “Will told me you were thinking of coming.”

“It’s been a long time,” he observed thoughtfully, looking around the cottage with an approving mouth twitch. “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” she said, feeling a slight flush of pride at the compliment. She had put a lot of effort into decorating the cottage, made it her special project, her one consolation for the lack of job, financial independence and decent public transport.

Angel appeared at the door, his coffee poised questioningly midway to his mouth and he appraised Oz silently. Oz nodded at him, leaving Buffy to do the groundwork. Angel had never approved of Oz’s actions towards Willow and was unlikely to be any more than civil to him now.

As she made small talk, Buffy saw the uncertainty in Angel’s face, the way he seemed to peer at Oz as an inspector would examine a grimy kitchen. In response, she smiled more brightly at Oz, letting her hands make little touches here and there, on an elbow, a wrist. Angel sipped harshly at his coffee.

“Oz is staying in the village a few weeks,” Buffy announced, showing Oz into their kitchen.

Angel stared as Buffy seated Oz in the chair he had just left and sat beside him, beginning to chat animatedly. He was going to be late for a meeting, the clock ticking, seconds dragging round. He wondered then about the last time Buffy had talked to him like that. He could not remember. It was a long way in the past, almost as far as Buffy was from him. He said his goodbyes and left for work, all day the curve of Buffy’s smile burning into his retina - the smile she had once reserved for him. That night, Angel did not rush home.

Chapter Two

“I'm going crazy
A little every day

And everything I wanted
Is now driving me away
I woke this morning
To the sound of breaking hearts
Mine is full of questions
And it's tearing yours apart...”

Lyrics from Sheryl Crow’s Home.

~~

Angel lay back in his favourite chair, placing his feet up on the ottoman. He had been home for over an hour and he had yet to see Buffy. There had been the obligatory note - slipped hastily on the kitchen counter - announcing rather helpfully that she was out and would be back later. Whenever later was he was not sure, but as the seconds passed by on the old grandfather clock, the tick reverberating ominously around the quiet room, he began to worry. It was not like Buffy to go out without first having casually mentioned it to him, but now it seemed that his solid certainties were all crumbling like dust through his hands. Yet if he could not trust her judgement, and allow her space, what did that say about him and their relationship? He would wait.

He had barely seen Buffy since Oz’s arrival a week ago, having been away in Bristol tying up one of the most lucrative deals in the business’s history. Nina had, in her travels, happened upon what she described as the most exciting artist on the British scene since Damien Hirst. She had called Angel in a frenzy, insisting that it was essential that Angel meet with them both straightaway. Not wanting to leave, yet feeling obligated by both his father’s stern “Liam” down the line from Ireland and Nina’s near-hysteria, he had gone anyway.

Buffy had accepted his absence as calmly as she had his kiss goodbye. It seemed these days the only time that she made eye contact was when she asked him to pass the butter at breakfast. Yet at night, after they had both fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, he would wake to find that she had scooted closer to him, her body spooning familiarly against his. Then as the sun rose, Buffy seemed to drift further away, returning to her side of the bed with regimented timing, ready for the day to begin all over again. Angel never told her that he felt her every movement, heard every sigh of her night time activity. He had been surviving for what seemed like months on barely any sleep, and it was beginning to feel natural. Coffee was his best friend, and seldom was he now seen without a cup in his hand, from first thing in the morning to last thing at work before he drove his old reliable Rover home.

He felt a pang of longing then for the car he had to leave behind in LA: his Plymouth . Shiny, sleek and black, it had come to be both a familiar friend and the scene of more than a few seductions - all, of course, of Buffy. He had acquired it in a deal with Doyle, an old childhood friend who had emigrated from Ireland to the USA with his family five years before Angel enrolled at UCLA. However, Doyle had an unfortunate knack of falling into all sorts of trouble and was only too pleased to ask his old mate Angel for help. The deal basically was that if Angel could prevent Doyle’s body parts from being scattered all over the Southern Californian region, Doyle would reluctantly hand over his beloved car. Not one to back down from a challenge, Angel had used his height and intimidating glare to good effect, keeping Doyle’s skull intact and earning his nineteen-year-old self some wheels. The timing had been perfect, for the day after he had driven his dream car away from a heartbroken Doyle, Angel O’Leary had set eyes on the most dazzling woman he had ever seen.

As he closed his eyes, he could still see that moment all over again: the smooth skin of her hand as she touched his arm; the shy, shielding dip of her eyes as he gazed back at her. Those were the things that he thought about when he felt lonely, when sleep eluded him night after night, and the red numbers of the alarm clock taunted him in the darkness. Although Buffy’s slim form was the same body that had shared his bed for the last seven years, the woman inside was not. He now wondered whether moving to Devon had been a huge mistake on his behalf, and whether he had ruined things for the both of them.

Three years ago, he and Buffy had had their dreams, but somewhere along the way things had become less clear, the shiny on their new life more faded and worn by the day. Like a fog, the thick city air of London had descended over Buffy, swallowing her into the fast-paced and faceless life of a city worker. Despite her glowing references from LA, PR work in London had escaped her, leaving her prey to the ravenous world of new media. And though that job had paid some of the bills and funded her endless love affair with Oxford Street , Angel had seen a restlessness in her that had made him nervous. At twenty-three, she had been a hungry, squawking fledgling, needing challenge and varied sustenance to help her fly. It would only have been a matter of time before she would have seen another opportunity, another man with a bigger car and more promising prospects. Another life that was not with him. So when he met Nina at a launch, a feisty, determined woman, full of plans and ideas for expanding the business into the sleepy Westcountry, Angel did not think twice. In his mind he could already see the long rolling fields and the quiet country pubs where he would share drinks with Buffy in the endless summer evenings. It would be the perfect place for them to begin the life that he had promised her when she had come to England.

Convincing Buffy had been less than easy however. At the mention of Devon, she had fixed him with that questioning gaze and wrinkled nose, informing him there had been a guy at her high school with that name. “He was a bit flakey. Blew Cordy off a few times. And there was something about Barbie leather interior seats…”

He had smiled patiently, loving the cuteness of her humour but knowing that it was really a defence tactic. So resiliently, he had began upon another tack, winding the whimsy of her heart around his fingers as he made her fall in love with a beautiful idea. Her own cottage; fresh air; plenty of space and time to work on building her own PR business.

In the morning, she had given in her notice at work. A month later they were finishing packing the contents of their small flat and loading the boxes into a removals van, destined for a cottage a world away. After eight months of London, they were heading for the sticks.

What Angel had not bargained for was the demand his new business venture would place upon him, or the inertia that would fall upon Buffy as she realised that the nearest city was over twenty miles away. Or maybe it was the reality that her life in LA was over: there would be no more parties, no more high-power meetings with the It-star of the minute. Burning apple pies intended for the school fete and smiling woefully while Fred good-naturedly baked replacement ones was now the highlight of Buffy’s social calendar. It was rare these days that she even looked up when he casually mentioned he needed a glamorous escort for a launch.

“Ask Nina,” she would suggest quietly, not noticing the shadow of pain darkening Angel’s face.

It was how they were now; it was their pattern. And Angel had no idea how to change it.

As the clock chimed, impassive and slow, Angel stood, intending to make himself a cup of coffee. Then he heard the familiar sound of a car’s engine rattling down the narrow lane that led to their cottage, and looked out of the window expectantly. Of course. Buffy had been somewhere with Fred. The two women had developed an easy friendship since Buffy’s arrival in the village two and a half years ago, and often went off for drives together in Fred’s old Ford Fiesta. As Buffy did not have a driving licence or ever intend to obtain one, owing to her bad experiences of Driver’s Ed in high school, it was the only real way for her to leave the village other than using her own two feet.

He watched with a tiny smile on his face as he saw Buffy exit the car, heading straight for the trunk. Then as Fred excitedly opened it, a girlish grin of unashamed mirth on her face, Angel gasped as he saw Buffy retrieve several bags, perky, sleek little bags from the sort of stores one would only find in a city… like Exeter . This had been no jaunt to the nearest Safeway; Fred and Buffy had been doing serious shopping. And that could only mean one thing… their next credit card bill would be a thing to dread.

She breezed into the cottage, Fred behind her, their excited chatter filling the silent calm with a strange and uncontainable energy. Angel found himself drawn to Buffy, walking towards her as if under a spell, his hands reaching out as if to whisk her small body into his arms and turn her around and around. She stopped suddenly as she saw him, her hands closing upon the bags with a defensive determination. Fred was immediately quiet, looking at the couple in slight concern.

“So I see you went shopping,” he ventured lamely, mentally kicking himself as he saw the instant flare up in Buffy.

She shrugged lightly, sharing a furtive look with Fred. “We decided that it was time that we put a dent in the credit cards,” she reasoned, collapsing upon the sofa with Fred. He winced as she looked up at him tiredly. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of himself towering awkwardly over her. He shifted back, but still she grew more morose, her good humour becoming more strained. “Well it’s not as if I ever spend any money...”

“I know,” he said quickly, silently pleading with Buffy to not let this escalate into a fight in front of Fred. He gave her his plaintive grin, the one that she had complained caused heart flips-flops and thoughts which were sinful in a number of American states. “So, when do I get to see the catwalk show?”

“You don’t,” she told him casually, gathering her bags together and standing up. “I’m going out.”

He felt a pang of hurt, but masked it with a nod of forced good grace, trying desperately not to cry out, ‘But why? You always used to show me your clothes, couldn’t wait to, and you’d parade up and down in front of me. What’s changed, Buffy, what’s changed?’

Instead he said nothing and let the moment pass.

Fred smiled nervously, a little embarrassed to be witness to their domestic arguments. “I’d better go, y’all,” she announced in her soft Texan drawl. “Wesley and the girls will be waiting.”

Giving her an apologetic look, Angel softly bid her goodbye, wincing as Buffy gave Fred a close hug and promised that they would meet soon. The door snapped shut and then Fred was gone.

Helplessly, Angel gazed at Buffy, his shock at her bluntness quickly dissolving into a flash of annoyance. “You’re going out?” he exclaimed, following her as she headed for their bedroom. “But you only just got back. I thought we were going to spend some time together.”

Pushing through the door, she flung the bags upon the bed and stared back at Angel, her joie-de-vie disappearing under the weight of her tired sigh. “Look, I’m sorry, Angel, but Oz asked me earlier if I’d go down the pub with him. I honestly didn’t think you’d mind,” she said, a little too innocently for Angel’s ears. She gave him a measured look then, sitting down upon the bed demurely. “You’re free to come with, if you want.”

“Okay then, I will,” he replied carefully, giving her one final reproving glance before leaving the bedroom. “Have fun with your clothes.”

From the steady shuffling of bags and the entire lack of an answer, Angel assumed she would be doing exactly that. What precisely she would be wearing when she emerged frightened Angel more than he ever realised it could.

~~

Buffy saw Oz look up amicably as she entered the local pub, The Horse and Groom, his expression remaining constant even as the scowling figure of Angel came into view. Since she had emerged from their room half an hour ago, Angel had been even more taciturn than usual, barely commenting upon her outfit. Even so, she could feel his eyes upon her, the way he was silently but moodily appraising the tight, low cut shirt and hipster jeans, resentful of every sliver of bare flesh that could be seen. In response, she had cheerily grabbed her purse and reminded him that they were going to be late.

“Hey Oz!” she greeted, slithering into the booth as she gave him a friendly hug. Oz merely nodded, and then looked up at Angel questioningly, who stood staring stone-faced at them both. “Angel, you get the drinks, okay?” was Buffy’s only comment as she stretched, settling back in the chair, exposing more of her taut midriff.

As Angel gruffly asked Buffy and Oz what they would like to drink, and then marched over to the bar, Buffy grinned at Oz. “So you liking our little village?” she asked, picking up the beer mat on the table and twirling it in her fingers.

For a moment Oz looked thoughtful. “It’s quaint,” he finally decided. “Lots of fields and sheep. You don’t get a lot of that in LA.”

“No,” she agreed, a tiny giggle in her voice. “Well, apart from the sheep, maybe.”

“Good point,” he conceded, again glancing over at Angel, who was now slamming change down on the bar with little response from the barman. “Is he alright?”

She watched as Angel gripped their drinks, the glasses clinking violently together. “He’s just tired,” she answered distractedly, suddenly feeling a wave of discomfort wash over her. If Oz noticed, nothing in his expression indicated it, so she changed the topic. “So you must be psyched that The Dingoes are touring internationally at last?”

“We’ve had a few gigs in England so far. Something to do with demand on our website,” he shrugged. “Especially in Newquay. Hear that’s like a whole other country for those guys down there.”

She smiled back at him. “Well, it’s Cornwall… they have the whole Independent Movement. And lots of pride in their pasties,” she quipped, lightly brushing her fingers against Oz’s.

Oz grinned slightly at her joke, but moved his fingers gently away.

“Guess I’ll see when I go down for the gig,” Oz replied. “ Devon’s already there-”

The drinks banged on the table, and Buffy looked down nauseously, her head feeling thick and heavy like cotton wool. Angel was now sitting beside her, his body pressing hard into hers, as he glared into the amber sloshing liquid of his pint.

“So Oz,” Angel finally spoke, his voice a barely restrained threat. “How long you planning on staying?”

“A few weeks,” Oz answered coolly, unperturbed by Angel’s obvious antagonism. He had never been one to rise to the bait. “Thought it would be good to catch up with Buffy.”

“So I see,” Angel commented bluntly, swigging back his drink heavily and wiping his mouth with an exaggerated swipe of his hand. “Always good to have an Irish ale. Tastes much better than that watery crap you get back at home, eh Oz?”

Shoving herself away from Angel, her stomach suddenly lurching violently as if she had been rocked by a buffeting wave, Buffy stood, placing a steadying hand on the table. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” she said, rushing off before either Oz or Angel could stop her.

“What’s up with Buffy?” Oz asked Angel, unease now clear in his eyes.

Angel shook his head despondently, watching as Buffy disappeared into the bathroom. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, looking at her untouched diet coke.

He was beginning to realise that he had not known for a long time.

~~

An hour later, Angel and Buffy entered the cottage, neither speaking. Angel threw his jacket uncaringly across the sofa, pulling off his shirt and flinging it the same way. Buffy stood at the doorway, hugging her arms across her body, waiting for the harsh words that would eventually come. When Angel came past with barely a look at her, she realised then what he was doing.

“You’re sleeping on the sofa,” she said softly, listening to the bang of cupboards as he tore a blanket from their closet.

“Yeah,” he replied flatly, as he again came into the living room. He sat down on the sofa stiffly, the blanket clutched in his hand. “I’m tired.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and acrid. Buffy stepped back, her hand upon her chest. “Oh,” she said, her head drooping down, suddenly wanting to shut the door and curl into bed, away from his coldly glinting eyes and this conversation.

“Oh?” he parroted then, his hand flying up as he tossed the blanket back onto the sofa. She pulled back, startled, even though she was standing across the room from him. “Is that all I get after spending most of tonight wondering what the hell I did wrong?”

“So it’s all about you? How sweet,” she said icily, stalking towards him, angry and hurt. “Well, what about what I want? I don’t hear you asking about that.”

He felt the bitterness in her tone, felt it seep into him and all he could do was look at the blanket he had just thrown down. “I don’t know what you want. How could I know?” he asked quietly. “You never talk to me anymore.”

He thought that he heard a choked laugh or maybe it was a sob, her arms again clutching her body as if it would shatter. ”Maybe it’s because you don’t want to listen,” was her barely audible reply.

As if a gale force wind had blown through the small cottage, Angel felt his view of the world shake, the picture becoming distant and hazy. He looked at her imploringly, his hand reaching out to grasp hold of her trembling arms. She shook her head, edging away and his hands fisted away into nothingness.

“I can’t believe you’re saying that. I am here for you day after day. I’ve tried my damndest to make you happy. If that’s not enough for you…” he stopped, unable to go on with that sentence, unable to make concrete his worst fears. “If anyone’s not listening, it sure isn’t me.”

“The saddest thing is I think you actually believe that. But I can’t. I’m sorry,” she murmured, unable to look at him as she left the room without so much as a goodnight. He heard the bedroom door shut firmly.

“So tell me what to believe,” he whispered into the cold, silent room.

There was nobody to answer.

~~

Angel woke with a neck crick. He rubbed at the sore spot futilely, blinking his eyes at the morning sun. It had been a week since his argument with Buffy, seven days of a lumpy sofa, cramped joints and waking in the night shivering from the draft that blew in from under the living room door. Of course, that was when Buffy was not stumbling through the front door, slightly tipsy, her voice a shrill and hyper squeal as she realised that their coat stand was not in fact a rather handsome man. Two nights ago at 3 am , he had been treated to a rousing rendition of “I’m every woman”, Buffy shrieking the words as she tripped through the hall on her way to the kitchen. He presumed from the glitter wig he had found slumped on the bathroom floor the next day that she had been to a 70s night.

It was now a nightly ritual. Angel would come home, much later than usual, exhausted, his arms laden with paperwork, as Buffy would be flying out the door, still applying her lip gloss. She would give him the obligatory goodbye, barely flinching as he merely grunted in return, and then she would be off in Oz’s big white van, ready for another night of wild fun. He had heard from Fred via Wesley that she had been all over the place with Oz, sampling nightclubs everywhere from nearby Plymouth to as far off as Exeter and Torbay . She had even been to Newquay with Oz for a Dingoes’ gig. All the time dressed in tiny little skirts and shirts that, more often than not, he considered to be a hair’s breadth away from indecent. Even Wesley had noticed her change in dress, commenting with a little nudge to Angel’s ribs that “his girl was getting feisty”. More like out of control the way Angel saw it.

The Buffy he knew didn’t go out and get drunk every night, wearing clothes that barely covered her. She wouldn’t just ignore him when he asked her to stay in and then go out anyway. The woman that he loved was kind, thoughtful and sensitive, fun-loving and witty. She loved to take long walks through the fields and make daisy chains with Sarah and Rebecca; she liked coffee first thing and watching trashy Australian soaps. She felt safe falling to sleep with her head in his lap and agonised over picking out the perfect present for her sister although she knew it wouldn’t ever be opened. She kept trying to bake the perfect apple pie, even though she hated it.

The Buffy of late wasn’t interested in any of those things.

He knew Buffy loved to dance; she always had. Right from the beginning of their relationship, she had become ecstatic at the prospect of a night clubbing, carefully shimmying into a sparkly halter and a pair of tight jeans. Being more of a pub man, Angel generally disliked clubs but her enthusiasm was infectious. As she wrapped her arms around his neck on the dancefloor, grinding her body lithely around him, wanting to leave was furthest from his mind. In fact, more often than not, it ended with Buffy’s back being pressed hard against a bathroom stall as he took her, neither caring about the queue forming outside. That was before her mother died, before her 15 year old sister Dawn needed a guardian and Buffy moved with Angel back to an oversized house, filled with memories she was not ready to have.

It was only natural after her hard life that Buffy would want some fun. He understood that. He just didn’t know why she was so hell-bent on having it without him.

Last night something in him had snapped and he had reached for the whisky. Now the almost empty bottle lay discarded on the floor and his head throbbed mercilessly in the unforgiving morning light. Still, at least he had slept. He had not even heard Buffy come in last night.

Raising himself from the sofa, Angel stretched his arms redundantly and stood. Though it was 9 am on a Saturday morning, he was certain that Buffy would still be sleeping, her tiny form wrapped foetal-like around her stuffed pig, Mr Gordo. It was how he had found her every morning, his heart performing a small cheer that she had chosen to return home. He would then reach out, his fingers grazing the curve of her cheek, suddenly fearful that she was as insubstantial and unreal as the waking dreams that he had at night. Then reality would hit him as she murmured in her sleep, her eyes fluttering as if to open. He could not be caught in there, could not let her see how much pain he was in. No, the idea was unthinkable.

This morning he promised himself that he would try hard not to open the bedroom door, ball his hands together tightly and force his feet to keep going until he reached the kitchen. Yet the panic again rose in him, the memory becoming vivid that he had not heard the now familiar slam of the front door as Buffy almost fell through it. What if she was not home? What if something had happened to her? Unable to stop himself now, he almost ran to the bedroom, flinging the door open and almost gasping as he saw that she was not there. The bed was smooth, unslept in. She had not even been home last night.

A wave of sickness overcame him, as unbidden, the thought of her and Oz together sprung in his mind. Without closing his eyes, he could see her hand winding in Oz’s, pushing him gently back upon a bed as she straddled him. He could hear the way she screamed Oz’s name as he brought her to the height of pleasure again and again. He walked calmly from the bedroom into the bathroom, collapsing to his knees as he heaved the contents of his near-empty stomach into the toilet bowl below. Rising slowly, he then went to the sink, pushed the cold tap on full and splashed water over his face, spitting the foul taste in his mouth into the sink and watching dispassionately as it whirled away down the plughole. Just like their relationship.

His fist had not really meant to hit the glass, but as he looked up he realised his reflection was shattered, his hand dripping with blood. He could not feel the pain though, could not feel anything as he again held his hand under the force of the freezing cold water, then wrapped it in his towel. Somewhere in his mind he vaguely wondered whether he should go to hospital and get some stitches, or maybe call Fred and ask if she would bandage it for him. Fred would be furious with him if she found out that he had let a wound go untended. As a farmer’s wife come potential nursing doctoral student, Fred was a stickler for hygiene. But right now Fred’s opinion was the last thing on his mind, his still bleeding hand not even a concern. His partner of seven years was cheating on him, was being unfaithful, was playing away from home, was jumping the bones of the first available man she had found. However he worded it, it still amounted to the same thing. The trust was broken, his heart was smashed. And that little scrawny imp of a musician Oz would soon be seeing the better side of his undamaged fist.  

Yet like a trickle of sunshine through the hazy rain, a shred of doubt cut through his most vigorous convictions. He didn’t really know for certain that she was sleeping with Oz; there was no proof other than a neatly made bed and the absence of Buffy. He wanted to believe so desperately that she would never betray him, never allow herself to be touched by another man. It nearly killed him to even consider it. After everything they had been through - losing her mother, the fight for custody of Dawn and his transfer back to England – did he not owe her more than pronouncing their relationship over without a second glance? Could he honestly live with himself if he ended this without having solid proof of her infidelity with Oz?

He decided with resounding clarity that he could not.

Tonight he would find out for sure whether he could trust Buffy or not. Whatever the outcome, it was better to know. As he clutched his hand at the sharp rip of pain, he knew he was kidding himself.

If they were over, Angel would have lost the whole of his world.

~~

This afternoon, Buffy had woken up on a scratchy, lumpy carpet, her throat dry and her eyes sore. For a little while, she had felt groggy, not quite knowing where she was, but then she had heard a gentle rumbling snore from the bed above her. Remembering her surroundings, she looked up and saw Oz sleeping on his stomach, his arms spread across the bed. She vaguely remembered that Oz had tried to make her go home, but she had refused, saying it was too late. Eventually giving in, Oz had told her she was welcome to crash on the floor.

So, the floor it had been, but from the dull ache in her back, she probably would have been better sleeping at home. Not that she actually slept that well at home; she just pretended to. She knew that every morning Angel came in to check on her, and that he softly and tenderly brushed her cheek with his hand. It took all of her willpower not to open her eyes.

But she feared that if she did, she would weep from the sadness in Angel’s eyes. And she had never, ever been able to bear that. Not back in LA when he told her that he had to leave, or now, every single time he looked at her.

However, it didn’t stop her from going out; it didn’t stop her from wearing a variety of tight and revealing outfits. And as time went on, she was having difficulty in reconciling her recent actions with the expectations she had of herself and her relationship with Angel. Wasn’t it supposed to be all long country walks and snuggling by the fire and perfect idyllic coupledom?

She couldn’t even remember the last time they had spent a night in together.

It wasn’t just Buffy who was questioning the relationship. Fred was beginning to become suspicious, too.

Fred had asked Buffy what she was doing, going out with Oz every night and leaving Angel at home alone. Buffy hadn’t had a good answer for that. Perhaps it was because she honestly didn’t know. Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to answer. Either way, Buffy had been rather unforthcoming.

The subject had come up during one of those girly chats that Buffy and Fred often had, whenever Fred had a spare minute. More often than not, chats were squeezed in between Fred’s demanding baking schedule for the girls’ school and the research she was doing for her thesis. The routine for the chats was simple. They would sit back on the Wyndham-Prices’ comfy, squishy sofa with Ben the dog at their feet, and talk, gossip and giggle their way through a bag of tortilla chips and brownies. Topics included anything from Ben’s love for Wesley’s holey socks, or the new mechanic at the local garage. Mostly it did not include Angel, and when it had done, Buffy had felt very uncomfortable.

She didn’t like to discuss her relationship with anyone. Not even Fred, who had become the closest thing she had had to a best friend since leaving LA. It was strange, in a way, how well they got on, considering how different they were. Buffy was the Cosmo to Fred’s Journal of Advanced Nursing, but their friendship worked. In many ways, Fred reminded Buffy a little of Willow.

It was always nice to have a reminder of home.

She pondered then that perhaps that was what Oz was to her. A living, breathing memento of everything her life in LA had been before things went wrong. He was a flashback that allowed her to go out and go wild, and pretend that she was 17 all over again. She tried not to think about how many times Oz had watched with guarded concern as she sashayed past Angel on her way out to another club. That tainted the fantasy a little, and there was enough buffering against its edges as it was, threatening to burst in and pummel it flat. She could never let that happen. She liked having a life that was all hers.

Of course, she hadn’t told Fred that. She had just smiled and told Fred that she was making up for lost time. The troubled look in Fred’s eyes had said it all. They hadn’t talked about it after that.

So now, as she sat on the floor of Oz’s B&B room, she asked herself what she was doing. Why hadn’t she wanted Angel to see her new clothes? Why did she push Oz into going out so much and insist that Angel didn’t want to go? Why did she lie to Oz and tell him that Angel didn’t care about her going out? And why did it make her feel giddy with power that he did, and there was not a damn thing that he could do to stop her?

And most of all, why was she really here, sleeping on the floor of a B&B room, instead of in bed with Angel?

She had stopped understanding any of this mess a long time ago.

Instead of trying to find an answer to her many questions, she stepped into the scalding hot water of the ensuite shower, and let it graze her too-tight skin. She had wedged herself into the persona of “Happy Buffy” for too many years and now she didn’t where that girl ended and where the real Buffy began. But the echo of the border was there, and she felt it every time that she lost herself to the beat of the music or slipped into a halter. The real Buffy was in there somewhere.

But, for now, she would have to wait: it was time to go home and talk to Angel.

She just hoped that there was at least something left to say.

~~

When Buffy came in some ten hours later, Angel was sitting in the living room, eyes staring straight ahead, his bandaged hand resting in his lap uneasily. She walked into the room, and stalled, looking at him in frightened shock.

“Angel?” she asked cautiously, touching the bandage upon his injured hand lightly. “Are you okay?”

He peered up at her, his face unsmiling. She was dressed exactly as she had been last night, in a tight black corset top and leather pants. But her face was bare of make up, her blonde hair scraped back in an untidy bun. She had taken a shower at Oz’s, he was certain. He could almost smell the generic scent of complimentary soap and shampoo, almost see the red marks where she had rubbed her body again and again to hide the trace of Oz’s caresses upon her skin. Yet there was no hiding what was obvious to Angel.

He whipped his hand away from her grasp, half-heartedly shielding himself from her with his other. “Leave it,” he snapped at her, the venom hardly registering in his voice.

He watched the wounded look sweep across her face as she crouched on the floor beside his chair. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” she said pleadingly.

“Just tell me where you were last night,” he requested coldly, his eyes fixed at some distant spot in the fields outside.

“I stayed in Oz’s room. I slept on the floor. It was late and I was tired, so Oz suggested I crash there,” she explained with no hesitation whatsoever, edging closer to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” It was no good. Angel was closed off now, his mind on a one track mission. She could only wait to find out where the final destination would be.

His next questions were simple, direct hits, his voice strangely vacant as he spoke. “Why didn’t you call?”; “Why didn’t you let me know where you were going?”; “Didn’t you think I would worry?” And every answer was the same. She repeated over and over that she was sorry, the tears now beginning to trickle freely down her face as he gave no reply, only asking more questions.

“Are you sleeping with him?” he asked finally, his eyes brutally boring into hers’.

For a moment, she didn’t answer him, literally gaping at him as she tried to comprehend what he was asking. He could not have just asked her that; it was not possible. And yet he was still looking at her, his hand now gripping her arm fiercely. “Are you sleeping with him, Buffy?” he demanded again, giving her a rough shake.

“No!” she screamed, her own silence breaking in an explosion of emotion. “I am not screwing Oz, I have never screwed him. Do you understand? Now just get your fucking hands off of me.” She pushed away from his grasp determinedly, backing away as he stood, his face now twisting in indescribable pain. “How dare you accuse me of that when I’ve spent the last two and a half years playing housewife and watching that whore of a woman come on to you.” She spat the word “whore” out like a bad taste from her mouth, her view of Nina becoming startlingly clear to Angel.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Angel refuted, completely floored by the venom of Buffy’s attack. “Nina and I have always been just friends. You know that, Buffy.”

She glared at him then, her voice reaching a screeching, ear splitting level. “Don’t you fucking patronise me with your Buffy this and your Buffy that. I’m not your little pet dog that you can just pat when you’re feeling bored –”

“Buffy…” he interjected, but she was on a torrent, a crashing tsunami that would not cease until it had destroyed everything in its path.

“I am worth more than that, more than that ho, and it’s just about time that you saw that,” she flung at him viciously, not even registering the broken bowing of Angel’s head, the way he clasped his hands as if he would break. “You just talk about your art, all damn day. It’s all about you. Well I’m sick of your bullshit, I’m sick of my life being all about you.” She paused then, looking at him defiantly. “I want my life back.”

His next words were a soft patter of rain, the shivering of the breeze through wind chimes. It was more than a knee-jerk answer. “So do I.”

She gave him one final, bruising look and then left the room, walking to the bedroom and slamming the door behind her. He could hear murmuring, the sounds of Buffy talking to someone and he presumed that she was on the phone - probably to her new lover. Moments later, she emerged with a small overnight bag and went straight out of the front door into Oz’s waiting van.

Without a backwards glance, Angel calmly walked into the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he prepared to take a shower. He, too, had plans.

~~

The dance music pounded loudly from the heaving city club, drowning out the drunken chattering of the horde of young women and men who were queued outside. The rain had just started, slickening the streets in a shiny grey haze. The bouncers stared on indifferently as the women began to shiver, their carefully styled hair drooping flat against their heads. There were no umbrellas here, no room for shelter. Once inside, they would soon forget as they poured the first vodka slammer down their throats and threw themselves onto the dance floor in a seething, bustling mass. Only tomorrow with the first sneeze would it bother them.

Angel watched from across the street as a van pulled up outside, and a small woman exited, flanked by a casually dressed, red-headed man. Though he could not see the woman’s face, he knew it was her instinctively. He followed them unnoticed as they were waved through, the bouncers seeming too mesmerised by Buffy’s movements to push him back. There was no other person who could become lost in the music like Buffy, who could move fluidly as if she was merging with it, becoming it.

From the sway of her hips as she walked into the club, her sheer backless dress clinging to every narrow curve, he knew what she intended tonight. And he saw it in the awestruck faces of the men as they stared after her hungrily, the lust rolling off them in waves, their jealousy of Oz growing more potent by the second. The familiar pull of possessiveness awoke in Angel, memories of nights when it was he who was holding her hand, he who was protecting her from the desiring eyes. Yet Angel kept back, slinking into the shadows of the heaving club, intent now to observe.

Drawing Oz away from their table, Buffy shimmered through the crowd, her shoulders and head swaying sensually to the fluttering bass of the music. Oz stood before her, gazing at her perplexed, unmoving as Buffy wound around him, grazing her body against his with subtle, suggestive force. It was as if a spotlight had fallen upon them and Oz had become her world, the flick of her head and the slow, steady grinding of her waist and hips a primal reminder of all that was womanhood. Her hands then slid around Oz’s neck and she was against his chest, leaning back to fan out her long golden hair. From the edge of the dance floor, Angel glared on, anger building in him - a slow burning rage like nothing he had ever experienced in his whole life.

The song then ended and Buffy stopped. Oz firmly unpeeled her hands from his neck, and gently took her hand in his. “I think it’s time to sit,” he told her, leading her from the dancefloor. Stubbornly Buffy shook her head, breaking away from Oz as she pushed through towards the bar, stumbling slightly.

Angel came closer to them, sneering in disgust as Oz followed and grabbed hold of her, steering her back towards their table. It was just like Oz to be irresponsible, he inwardly raved, not to give a crap about anyone except himself. He had proved it when he had left Willow , only interested in pursuing his musical ambitions with his band. Now he was showing it yet again, letting Buffy become drunk, probably thinking it would make it easier to seduce her later.

Angel did not hear Oz’s words, did not know that Oz was telling her she had had enough to drink. All he saw was Buffy’s coy, flirtatious smile, and the way she was leaning her body into Oz’s, her hand sliding over his seductively. Then her lips had descended on Oz and she was kissing him, her fingers digging into his forearm.

Oz broke off abruptly, pulling away. “That was unexpected,” he said, hardly having time to take another breath before Angel’s fist connected with his jaw, knocking him flat to the floor.

“And so was that,” Angel rejoined, his face livid as Oz scrambled to his feet, clutching his aching jaw. “So what I’m really interested in, Oz, was that the plan all along, huh? Come over to England , be all mysterious and musician cool and get my girl into the sack.”

Oz held out his hands placatingly, clearly troubled by the scene that was unfolding. “You’re upset, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Oz reasoned, positioning himself between Angel and Buffy. “You know I’d never pull a move like that on Buffy.”

Sneering, Angel shoved Oz out of the way, and grabbed hold of Buffy, yanking her from her seat as she shouted in protest. “You’re coming home. Now,” he growled.

She slipped out of his grasp, shaking her head vigorously. “I’m here with Oz,” she told him bluntly, not caring as Angel thrust his face directly into hers.

“We’re leaving now,” he bit out, his hands now locked firmly around her waist and dragging her towards him. It was then that he felt Buffy being tugged away, Oz’s hands slapping against his chest, driving him backwards with a loud clatter into a nearby table.

Angel stood slowly, seething as Buffy clung to Oz, her eyes cold and immoveable. “Get your hands off my fucking girlfriend or I’ll kill you,” he threatened, his voice low and dangerous as he stalked towards Oz, his fist gripped in barely restrained violence.

“Mate, you’re out,” came a booming voice from behind him and Angel cursed as he was held between two burly men and dragged back.

Still, he stared at Buffy, his hands reaching out towards her. “Buffy!” he yelled. “Please come home with me now, Buffy.”

From her place by Oz, she shook her head again, her expression resolute. “Do what you like,” she snapped. “I’m staying here.”

As he was hauled out, Angel watched horrified as his girlfriend of seven years pressed herself more closely against Oz, her fingers reaching into his hair and tufting the now strawberry blonde spikes. He was powerless to act, unable to stop it as again she moved her mouth against Oz’s, kissing him desperately, frenziedly. It was his worst nightmare, his every suspicion confirmed.

“Buffy!” he cried, the tears already forming in his eyes.

The bouncers uncaringly deposited him outside, not even lifting an eyebrow as the powerfully built man fell to the ground, his body shaking with emotion.

Then the shaking stopped. Angel looked up, his eyes now dry. Brokenly he pulled himself from the ground, the fight drained from him. Without looking back, he walked away from the club. It was too late. He had lost her anyway.

~~

Buffy’s hands twisted in Oz’s hair as she kissed him hard, tears now dampening her cheeks. This wasn’t how she had meant for this to turn out, but it was happening anyway and she was kissing Oz, her body grinding against his, and he wasn’t stopping her, wasn’t telling her no. Her head felt woozy, the loud music of the club whirling around her, a voice screaming despairingly. She broke off, panting harshly, staring into the bewildered eyes of Oz.

“What are we doing? What are you doing?” he asked her.

She blinked her eyes, her tears now slipping away more freely, mourning something she had irrecoverably broken. There was nothing left in the world now that she understood; all meaning had fragmented into emptiness. And Angel had walked away. She had made him do it, it was all her fault, and now he was gone, gone, gone. Why had she been so angry? Why had she been so determined to get one up on him? She had just wanted him to know how much his accusation had hurt her, for him to feel the pain that she did every time he smiled at Nina instead of her. Why did she have to ruin everything? She realised then that what she had feared all along was true: she was decay and, because of her, everyone and everything around her festered and died. Her parents’ divorce, her mom’s death, her estrangement from Dawn: she had caused every one of those things. She knew it deep in her bones; a truth as certain and eternal as the rocks of Haytor. Angel would leave her and she would be alone and now no one would love her and she could barely breathe, breathe, breathe...

She felt herself shaking, and it was almost as if she was going to fall apart. She wanted strong arms and firm kisses: a new reality which made it all okay. She wanted to forget just for tonight.

It didn’t matter now; nothing mattered. Mom, Dawn, Angel: they were all gone.

And she was tired of feeling alone.

“Take me back to yours, Oz,” she answered softly, the meaning clear in her voice. “Now.”  

Then she took his hand, leading him towards the door. 

Chapter Three

Buffy held onto Oz’s hand tightly, the rest of the world fragmenting - colours, sounds, people skittering away. The drink she had had earlier was now wearing off, the sick, dizzy nausea of too-much, too-soon and “what have I done?” slamming into her like blocks of jagged concrete. Angel’s face, his pained, slashed eyes – the memory screamed and yelled and kicked. Yet still she was walking, her hand in the hand of a man who had been her friend for the last nine years, who had only ever been a friend, but now, it was all different. Nothing was the same anymore. Everything that she had thought was real and solid was all plastic, fake, bending in the ever-sobering reality that was swallowing her as they came closer to the door. This was it. This was really it.

She was going to do the one thing that she had never thought that she would do. That she had never even dreamed could be possible. To cheat, to give herself to someone else, to someone who wasn’t Angel. To tear up the memories, their dreams, their future, to set fire to it and watch as it was consumed to nothing. To do the one thing that Angel – jealous, sweet, possessive, passionate – would never forgive. Two years ago, three years ago, he had been everything – food, water, heat, love. Her reason for stepping on a plane, leaving a career, her friends and the eighteen-year-old sister - off to college and her own life – that she and Angel had fought so hard to keep from the custody of her useless father.

When Buffy had told Dawn she was leaving, Dawn had screamed, shouted, swore and slammed doors, promising never to speak to her again. After that, there was nothing but Angel. His kisses, hugs and promises of happiness and love; his begging, frantic phone calls when she had said she couldn’t leave. He had wanted her so badly. So, she had gone to him, to England , a place where she knew no-one. Her mother was dead, her (little, beautiful, innocent) sister estranged, and her friends barred from her across a cold, endless ocean. But there had been London , then Devon , and it had all gone to hell, along with her own identity. None of this would have even been possible before England , before her mom died and Dawn became her life.

Was it actually possible now?

She noticed then that Oz had released her hand, and was looking at her with the most serious and lamenting expression she had ever seen him give. Her hands felt clammy, her skin cold.

“Buffy, this is not going to happen,” Oz was saying quietly.

She stared up at him dumbly, only seeing the sharp movement of his mouth, the sound coming through like muffled static. “What?” she mumbled.

She saw how his face became pained, his lips twisting in the grip of strong emotion. The last time his face had been this expressive was when he left Willow , when he told her he wasn’t what she needed or deserved. That she was worth so much more than what he could give her. Oh God, Willow…

“I’m sorry, Buffy. We can’t do this. This isn’t what I want. You don’t either - not really,” he told her more firmly. “You’re not thinking clearly right now.”

She nodded her head, not really knowing what she was agreeing to anymore. The sickness she had felt earlier became more powerful; she felt her legs wobble, and she stumbled forward. Oz grasped her arm, but she blundered on, pulling away from him and the mistake she had almost made.

“Angel…” she said. “Got to find him.”

Then she pitched downwards, the lights of the club flaring harshly before she saw the hard concrete of the floor, and anticipated the hard, heavy crack to her head. She didn’t care, not anymore. Let the blood come to her mouth, let her vision spin and darken to spots of murky white…

Then, there were arms around her - thinner, less muscular arms than she was used to, but strong and sure all the same - tugging her back to her feet.

“Yeah, I think you should talk to Angel. You guys need to work this out,” Oz urged her, his arms still around her waist, keeping her firm and steady. Yet still she swayed, the insides of her stomach feeling like pincers tearing into her, her hand clamping over her mouth as a rush of bile came up in her throat.

“Okay, first maybe we get you out of here,” Oz said.

The cold rush of night came upon her, the rain a prickling drizzle on her coatless skin. She leaned over, and retched violently. Nothing came. It seemed now that her stomach was as hollow as her heart.

She stood, wiping her mouth roughly. Oz then pressed a tissue into her hand. “Thanks,” she muttered gratefully, avoiding his eyes, too ashamed to discover what she would see reflected in them.

“Buffy,” he nudged her gently. “I’m not blind. I know you and Angel… things have been tense, but what is going on here? This is not like you.”

“Not now,” she said, dismissing his questions, her eyes empty. She stared down the road, looking for a Rover that once upon a time would have been a black Plymouth . In another life, in another time. Cars, like love, seemed to slip away, and become just another memory.

There was no sign of Angel’s car anywhere; he must have left.

“Oz, please take me home,” she said calmly, still not looking at him.

She knew that Oz was gazing at her, trying to work out what she was thinking, what was going on, but he, too, was tired.

“Okay,” he answered, walking to his van and unlocking it.

Buffy followed him, her body moving in unsteady, shuffling clumps. He opened the door for her, and she got in, but before she could close the door, his hand caught it, holding it still in his pale, guitar-calloused fingers. Fingers that had once stroked Willow ’s soft skin and brushed over her quivering lips as tears had run down her face, and he had told her he would not be coming back. Buffy felt a sharp pinch of conscience. How could she have ever thought of sleeping with him? He was Oz, Willow-Oz - the old boyfriend who Willow had never quite forgotten.

All the people she could have wounded, could have scarred, flitted through her mind, and she closed her eyes, trying to blot out the images, the memories, and the pain. Willow , Dawn, Oz, Xander, and stronger, insistent, more blatant, Angel underscored all of them, everything. It hurt more than she had realised, ever could have guessed, to think he could now be lost, fluttering away from her grasping fingers. All because of one kiss, one mistake, one urge to scratch his seething, angry words “are you sleeping with him?” from her mind.

“This, none of it, ever should have happened,” Oz bit out then. “I should have stopped you.”

She felt his pain and his anger, and instantly felt guilty. She should never have placed him in this position. Finally she looked at him, and clasped his hand. “No, Oz, this isn’t about you. You didn’t do this,” she corrected him. “I did this and so did Angel. I don’t know what’s going on with us, whether he’ll even want me…” She broke off, unable to voice her inner dread. “But… I’ve got to try, I have to.”

Oz’s mouth quirked, as if in thought, taking in her words; then he gave a little nod of his head, and waited for her to continue.

“But I’m sorry that you got caught up in this. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she apologised.

He let go of her hand, and gave her a simple, composed look. “I know that,” he said, and she felt the comfort of their old friendship returning. She smiled tiredly up at him, relieved and regretful all at once. “Now let’s get you home.”

The door was closed and he walked around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the engine.

And she wondered then if she had a home to go to.

~~

After what seemed forever, the van finally pulled up outside the little cottage that Buffy had shared with Angel for the last two years. It was dark, no lights at all twinkling in the windows; Buffy felt an overwhelming sense of trepidation. The house was never dark, no matter what time of night she came home. All those times she had stumbled in slightly drunk, there had always been the welcoming glow of the lamp Angel left by the door - the one he knew that she hated but kept because it had been a housewarming gift from Wesley and Fred. Even though Angel no longer shared her bed, he still cared about her well-being, her safety; she had never really thought about that before. She had never considered how it must have felt for him to have his long-time girlfriend coming in at all hours, having been out all night with a man whom he practically despised, while he had slept on a lumpy, too-small sofa.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the clamouring of regrets and pain. She needed to be thinking logically, to be filled with reason and sound argument which overcame the murky tatters her relationship with Angel had become. Especially after tonight, after what Angel had seen her do. She had no idea what it would take to convince Angel that there was nothing going on between she and Oz.

She knew Angel was home; his much maligned Rover was sitting in the gravel courtyard. She turned to Oz at last, her face pale. “Wish me luck,” she uttered.

“You don’t need luck,” he reassured her. “Just be honest with him. Tell him how you feel.”

She gave him a thankful smile and then climbed out of the van. She heard Oz shut the door behind her and then start the engine. He pulled up to the farm gates, shifted into reverse, and then turned the van around. She watched as the last speck of dirty white van disappeared up the pitch black country lane, feeling the sense of ominousness wash over her again. She could not evade it any longer. It was time to go into the cottage, to face Angel and whatever else was waiting for her. To go and lie in the bed she had made, so her grandmother would have told her. Back then, they were big on the blaming of women; yet, even with the heavy weight of her own mistakes, Buffy still did not feel completely to blame. They had both caused their relationship to falter: she, through her silence; he, through his all-consuming focus upon work. The honest communication they had gained through three years of living together in LA, two of which had been with Dawn, had fallen apart over the years in England, evaporating until neither knew what the other wanted anymore. How could they have drifted so far apart?

With the lucidity of her inner-arguments bolstering her resolve, she reached for her key and placed it in the lock. She was determined to have her say, to air all the lingering doubts and fears she had had since moving to England . And, of course, the ones she had held even before that, when he had so abruptly departed from LA following his graduation, leaving both she and Dawn to cope alone. She wanted him to tell her why he had left, why he had needed so urgently to listen to his father and give up everything that they had built together in LA. She wanted him to tell her everything.

She turned the key, opening the front door. She imagined for a moment that Angel would be waiting for her, sitting quietly in the living room. He would be silent, hardly giving her anything, and then he would explode and it would be lips and hands and skin, and everything that they had both been withholding for the last three years would tumble out. And then, it would all be fine. It would be alright; it would. It had to be.

Then she pushed the door fully open and gasped, the breath leaving her body in a swift stab of shock. In the hall were two suitcases. She looked at them numbly, hearing the sound of drawers being opened, and the sharp zip of a suitcase being shut. He was packing, he was leaving.

Walking towards the bedroom, she watched as, in the dark, Angel mechanically folded clothes neatly and placed them into a holdall. Her holdall. She could see its bright tassels glinting in the slivers of moonlight, the tassels that so many years ago Dawn had painstakingly made under their mom’s tutelage. It was then that she knew. He would never take that bag, no matter how angry he was with her. He was packing for her.

The composure that she had so diligently threaded together, the logical explanations that she had swathed around herself like protective armour, all fell apart and she found herself rushing towards him and grabbing his arm. He froze for a moment, but did not turn. He then resumed his packing.

“Angel,” she pleaded, her hand still on his arm. “Don’t do this.”

He completed the emptying of the drawers, and Buffy saw the last flash of silk as he tucked it carefully into the bag. “It’s done,” he answered stonily, handing her the bag. “Thought that might come in useful for your new boyfriend.”

She took the bag, flinging it down to the floor, her nails now almost digging into the soft flesh of his arm. “He’s not my boyfriend! You know that,” she countered, indignation in her words despite everything she had promised herself. “I would never, ever cheat on you.”

He flinched away then, her hands dropping, empty, towards the floor. “That’s not what I saw,” he spat out, not even looking at her. “What I saw was you and that useless shrivel of a musician – if you can call him that – all over each other-”

“Angel, it wasn’t like that,” she interposed, knowing even as she said it that he would not listen.

“Then tell me what it was like, huh?” he snarled, grasping her bag and slinging it out of the room with a grunt of menace. She huddled on the floor, tucking her knees against her chest. “Was it hot, did he make you tingle? Was it even better knowing that I was there, seeing you tangle your fingers in his hair, kissing him? Did you get off on that?”

She rubbed her hands over her face, hardly knowing what to say, her visions of this conversation quickly dissolving into a Dante-esque hell. “No,” was all she could murmur.

“No?” he parroted her, regarding her with an especial look of disgust. “Then, why?”

“I don’t know,” she whimpered, her arms cradled around her. She rocked herself slowly back and forth, hoping and hoping that this nightmare would go away, that she would open her eyes and it would be she, Angel and Dawn, all sitting around the breakfast table, happy smiles on their faces. She had wished herself away as her parents had fought and bitterly slung accusation after accusation between them, except then it had been Dawn who was scooped in her arms. And like now, when she opened her eyes, the pain had never died away. It would still be there, stronger than ever, bleeding into every corner of her life.

Yet as she looked up, she saw Angel staring at her, a familiar softness in his eyes, his fingers flexing as if he would reach out and brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. She felt the first cracklings of hope since they had begun this conversation, and gave him an anxious, tentative smile. It was then that the spell broke, and Angel turned from her, blocking her from his sight. She had never felt so alone.

“So, you hooked up with Oz, hit the clubs, lived it up and practically spat on seven damn years with me for no reason?” he questioned, his tone incredulous. “Please, I deserve more than that.”

His words hit her brutally, tearing at her heart. He sounded so betrayed, so hurt. Had she really done all those things he was saying? Had she really destroyed everything they had ever had? All she had wanted was to feel free for one tiny moment, to feel something beyond the drudgery and the endlessness that was her everyday life. She had never meant for it to go so far. He had to understand.

“And what about what I deserved?” she then whispered. “What about all the dreams I had?”

He faced her again, staring down upon her pityingly. She almost felt sick. “This was supposed to be our dream, Buffy. Our dream together, the thing that would make it alright after everything you went through with losing your mom and bringing up Dawn,” he told her. “Did you not get that?”

She looked down, gripping her hands into her calves, watching as the pinky skin blanched and pimpled like the wrinkled covering of a goose. A bitter chuckle then broke from her mouth, and he gaped at her, bewildered.

“That wasn’t my dream. It never was,” she rebuffed bluntly. “I wanted to be big in PR, I wanted to see Dawn graduate college, and I wanted you to stay in LA. I saw us getting married, having kids, doing Disney movie family things…”

His eyes fluttered shut, and the pained, softly anguished grimace that she only seen once before – the day he had left her at LAX, clinging onto his old sweater, weeping into it quietly – was there. She had never wanted to fall into his arms more and promise him that everything would be fine, but it was not in her power to do. It needed them both to want that. All she could do was finish what she was going to say.

“So, I need to know this… I know you told me, but I need to hear it again. I need to know the truth. Why did you leave LA?” she asked him softly.

He sighed heavily, a hard edge to the strangled breath that whistled out through gritted teeth. Then he sank down upon the bed. “Is that what all this is about?” he rasped. She merely looked at him sadly, urging him to continue. His lips snarled in annoyance. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe that you slept with some guy that blew off your best friend because you were pissed I left LA four years ago!” She gave him a sharp look, and stood, leaving the bedroom. He stalked after her, continuing to rant caustically. “Okay, so maybe it’s not that simple but right now, you’ll have to bear with me, I’m not thinking so clearly. Might be because my girl just slept with some LOSER!”

“I did NOT sleep with him!” she screeched at him. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I can’t believe anything you say anymore,” he muttered.

She went to him, pushing her hands against his chest, banging and banging in her frustration. “So, why are you still listening? Why are you still here with me?” she yelled.

He glanced down at her coldly, taking her hands from his chest and holding them loosely in his hands. “Because you haven’t left yet,” he replied.

She ripped her hands from his grasp, her anger blazing in her like a million fireworks erupting at once. She had never more than in this moment wanted to fling him across the room and smash his delicate art sculptures to fragments, as shattered and smashed as the pieces of her heart.

“Fine. I’ll go, get my ass out of here, and leave you to that bitch and all your little art chat,” she sniped. “Maybe that’s why you left LA… to cop a feel of Nina’s hot little body. Well, she’s welcome to you. She’s only getting my sloppy seconds, anyway.”

She saw his face change, the earlier coldness dissipating into something like hurt, before hardening into impermeable steel once more. “That’s not why I left and you know it,” he said, his voice strained and harsh in the unnatural stillness of the darkened cottage. “My father needed me and I had to come back. I had to, Buffy. My family had given up enough, scrimped and saved to help me pay my way through college, to help me achieve my dream. I thought you understood loyalty, what family means… but maybe not.”

It struck her then, the absurdity of the parallels between them and the distance that had grown between them as they had spiralled further and further apart. It was like the splitting of dreams, the wispy fragments that had once bound them coming apart in her hands. Families, goals, aims: a future that given them nothing but the semblance of the life they actually wanted. She understood the pull, the power his father would forever hold over him, as hers would over her, but she could no longer let that be the basis for her entire existence.

This was no longer about hurting him. She tried to let the bitterness go, like balloons of lead escaping into a crystalline sky - weighed down, never quite making it.

“I understand it more than you’ll ever know,” she responded, the emotion in her bare, stripped to its core. She thought of Dawn: the graduation that would be coming next year, the graduation to which Dawn would invite no family, except for the friends Buffy had had since high school. They were Dawn’s family now, Buffy merely a bitter aftertaste.

“That’s why I gave up my life for Dawn, that’s why I gave up our happy little bubble to make sure she had everything I could give her,” she continued. “That’s why I hated myself for leaving her and coming here to be with you, for giving up my entire life and more.”

“You didn’t have to come,” he mumbled.

“No, I didn’t. But I did, and for what? For us to drift apart, for you to treat me like some lameass accessory who has no job and is dependent on your cash handouts?” she asked him cuttingly, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes at last. “You were everything I ever wanted, Angel… We’ve blown it, haven’t we? It was the biggest mistake I ever made coming to England . I never should have left Dawn, my job, my life...”

There was a stunned silence, both of them flattened by the force of Buffy’s words. She stared blankly up at him, again a sense of unreality settling upon her: this was happening, this was really happening.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he concluded, his voice flat, the energising anger of earlier now sizzled away to nothing. “We should have ended it when I left LA. It was never going to work.”

She found her face now damp with tears at his words.

“Angel,” she murmured. “Please, I-I…”

She reached for him, but he crossed his arms, slipping away from her. There was nothing left that she could say.

“Just go. Go stay with your new boyfriend.”

After she had made the phone call, she waited at the door. Angel stood further down the hall. Neither of them spoke, neither were able to look the other in the eye. Finally, she saw the dazzling flash of Oz’s headlights and began to move her cases, one by one, out of the door.

As she hefted the last one, her holdall upon her shoulder, she turned to Angel one last time. His face was closed, his mouth set in a frowning, impenetrable wall of hurt.

“Bye, Angel,” she said, feeling herself almost choke on the words they had never before been able to say to one another.

He didn’t answer.

As she closed the door, she heard a terrific crash and glass shattering. It had been the lamp, it had to be. It was the only breakable thing that they had in the hall; the first thing that had ever been brought for the both of them.

And now it was irrecoverably broken: destroyed by Angel’s hands – hands which had been guided by her actions and words.

She looked hopelessly up at the sky, finding no answers there but the dull twinkling of the overtired stars.

What had she done? What had they both done?

~~

The room at the B&B was small, almost cramped, its overly floral wallpaper practically vile. But it was a room, somewhere Buffy could stay. Oz had managed to talk the owner, Mrs Hirst, into giving Buffy a room, no doubt charming her with his laconic wit. “Jennifer”, as the owner had insisted Oz must call her, had looked sharply at Buffy, almost shrivelling Buffy with the weight of her stare. There was no escape from anyone in this village; everybody knew everybody and they all would now know that that American girl had walked out on that lovely man, Angel. No doubt Jennifer would delight in informing the entire village of every sordid detail she could, and probably would even go to the lengths of embellishment if it proved necessary.

Buffy had quickly decided that she would give her no help whatsoever with that mission.

“Goodnight Mrs Hirst,” she had said pointedly, almost glaring at the woman.

Mrs Hirst, thankfully, had finally taken the hint and retreated back to her quarters, but not without several sour glances back at Buffy.

“If you need anything, or to talk, I’m here,” Oz had offered.

“I promise I’ll talk, but right now, I need to sleep,” she had replied, before wrapping her arms tightly around him. “Thanks for everything.”

He had nodded, and then departed, leaving her on her own as she had asked. It was only now that she was lying on the thin mattress of the bed, still fully clothed, that she realised she would not sleep. Her mind was too full of thoughts, too full of memories. So, she closed her eyes and let herself become submerged in them, letting the present time, the ugly bedsit and everything that had happened tonight ebb away. The whispers of the past were far more inviting.

She remembered a simpler time. It had been one Thanksgiving, back in 2001, and they had all been eating the almost-dessicated turkey Angel had rescued from her efforts. Strangely, she hadn’t felt inadequate, only grateful that she had had a boyfriend who understood how important this custom - that he saw as strange and just another excuse for people to stuff their faces before Christmas - was to her. It was about families and memories and making things right. It was about giving her sister a home.

So, they had sat around the table, Angel at the head, Buffy and Dawn side by side, with Willow and her partner Tara, and Xander and his on-off girlfriend Anya making up the remainder. For a few moments, there had been a kind of awkward silence as everyone had wondered what to say, whether to compliment the food or talk of other years, when it had been Buffy’s mother, Joyce, who had been hosting proceedings. Buffy had felt their uncertainty like a tear in the atmosphere, the easy laughter and jokes of a normal family Thanksgiving being sucked out, leaving them all in a mirthless, wordless prison. Yet, despite that, it was Angel’s actions that she remembered most clearly – the ones that had made the Thanksgiving of that year memorable for them all.

She didn’t even realise a wistful smile had appeared across her lips, or that she was clutching the bedcovers so tightly that the nylon material in her hand was sheathed in sweat. She only felt the comfort of the past, the emptiness of the present and the swirling blackhole of the future.

She had no idea that only half a mile across the way, a man whom she had severed from her life was sharing her thoughts, her memories and her dreams.

It was an irony that thankfully she was spared.

~~

Thanksgiving 2001, Los Angeles .

Angel watched them all, a group quiet and maudlin, and saw Buffy’s face drain of all forced festivity and light. He wanted more than anything for them to talk, for them to ask Buffy what she had used to season the turkey or how Dawnie had fared with the cranberry sauce, or for them even to just blurt out whatever they were thinking. Surely it had to be better than this slow and enforced torture?

He didn’t want another event like Dawn’s 15^th birthday, where it had all started sanguinely enough, but as the tension between the sisters had rocketed, and the friends ran out of things to say, it ended with Dawn screaming in her bedroom and Buffy locked in the bathroom, sobbing pitifully. It had taken him the best part of a night to subdue them both, and convince Dawn to allow her sister to enfold her in a huge, breath-strangling hug and make the peace again.

How Buffy at a mere 20 years of age was expected to make the transition from big sister to legal guardian and hard-ass disciplinarian so quickly was beyond Angel’s comprehension. He did not understand the junior high school’s unbelievably ruthless attitude towards Buffy as guardian, or the harsh, unsupportive approach of the social worker. All Buffy wanted was to keep her family together, to be there for her sister and to fulfil the promise she made to her mother to look after her little girl. Angel did the best he could, managing between college and his part-time job in the bookstore of the Summers’ family friend Rupert Giles, but still it never seemed enough. Buffy herself was already hard-pressed by the demands of her course and playing mother to Dawn, so much so that the shifts she pulled at the local fastfood joint left her exhausted. He honestly did not know what more anyone could expect of Buffy. She was already struggling to mesh disparate aspects of her life and build her newly changed relationship with Dawn – all whilst grieving. He thought that they forgot that she, too, had lost her mother.

He, though, hadn’t forgotten at all.  

He was the one that held her as at night she had yet another bad dream, her body shaking with emotion and terror, the tears damp on her cheeks. He didn’t need to ask what she had been dreaming about; the blank, hopeless look in her eyes was enough to answer his question. It was the same look that she had had after her mother had died, moments after she had found her dead, lifeless body and had called the ambulance, and the paramedics had confirmed that Buffy’s mother was dead. Angel had arrived soon after they had left, having broken almost every traffic law known to man to reach the house as soon as he had received Buffy’s garbled call. It was only when he walked in the door and saw Buffy’s face that he knew. He had no need to see the body. All he could do was hold her hand and wait for the coroners.

So, now he made it his mission in life to keep her smiling and happy, to inject every bit of normality and stability into her life that he, as a 21-year-old college senior, possibly could. He took her on dates, surprised her with flowers and more often than not, vegged out with she and Dawn on the sofa, watching some corny chick flick that both sisters ended up snivelling at. Except for the boredom factor, it was worth it. He would give every cent he had and more to keep his little family safe. He would make the sacrifices that no man of his age would normally make – Buffy deserved that from him and more. She was his entire world. If all it took was a little intervening, a little diplomacy, he would play the buffer between Buffy and Dawn for as long as it was needed. Things would get better. They had to.

And now, at this moment, as Dawn stared sullenly down at her turkey-laden plate and Xander twiddled with the fancy napkin which Buffy had so meticulously arranged, Angel tapped his glass, mock-formally, and smiled warmly at the others.

“As you know, this is a very special occasion and also very sad. It’s the first time Buffy’s ever hosted Thanksgiving and the first time I ever ‘helped’,” he said, ignoring Dawn’s snickers and Xander’s incredulous look towards Buffy. “Okay, it was more of a team effort, but this is Buffy’s gig and I think she’s done a terrific job.”

He paused and watched as the murmurs of agreement railed around the table, with even the normally sharp-tongued Anya confirming that Buffy’s mashed potato was the creamiest that she had ever tasted. The blush of colour to Buffy’s face, the crinkling of her eyes, was enough for Angel. He wanted to freeze the moment there, and keep her in that happy, compliment-propped mood forever.

He knew, though, there were words that could not be left unsaid. “However, we all know this is a difficult time of year. It’s our first year without Joyce,” he continued more sombrely, seeing the pain that at once crossed Buffy’s face and also Dawn’s. “Which is why I wanted to make a toast to her, remember her the way she would want to be remembered. Is that okay?”

He gazed at the other members of the table, watching as they nodded gently or gave him a tiny encouraging smile. Even Dawn looked up from her plate. It was only Buffy who remained completely silent.

“Buffy?” he prompted, a little nervously.

She sighed, a little tiredly, and he wondered if he had completely had the wrong idea and prepared himself to make the most heartfelt apology of his life. Then she had given him the most grateful, barefaced smile he had ever seen, the glow radiating from her in waves of warmth.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she murmured.

So, then he raised his glass, feeling his own throat become dry and scratchy at the poignancy of the moment. “To Joyce,” he toasted.

“To mom,” Buffy had whispered back, leaning across the table to clink glasses with him. He had held her gaze then, and given her a long and gentle kiss, not caring that the others were watching or that their meal was probably going cold.

After that, nobody remained silent. It was the first ever successful social gathering that was held in the Summers-O’Leary residence.

Buffy promised him that she would remember it always.

Angel hoped that she always would.

In his sleepless state, Angel reached for the whisky and took a violent swig from it. The brittle tang of the alcohol burned his throat, making him gasp and sputter for air, but it did not rid his brain of the ceaseless memories, or her face, or her smile. Buffy – she was in his skin, in his blood; she was the reason he woke up in the morning and went on, day after damn day. She kept him sane when everything around him was a crazy, heaving freakshow. Now she was gone.

He didn’t think he had accepted that yet. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

She said that she hadn’t been with Oz; she swore that it hadn’t been any more than what he’d seen, a kiss given in the heat of the moment. He didn’t know what to believe, didn’t even know if he cared, but he was reaching the bottom of the bottle anyway.

And at last, he felt consciousness leave him, the alcohol completely numbing his brain into a dreamless sleep. He did not think of Buffy anymore.

~~

The bright sunshine bit through the clouds, covering the entire village in a pretty, soft light. In the distance, Buffy could hear children laughing and playing, the sound of grass being mowed. She vaguely remembered that Angel had been talking about the grass in their backyard, but he had never gotten around to cutting it. It didn’t really matter now anyway. Angel and she were… over. She had left him only last night. Though the words choked her to think, let alone say, she had to repeat and repeat them until they drove into the resistant tissues of her mind. Yet the thrums of “ex”, “former boyfriend”, “estranged lover” meant nothing to her. It was almost as if the concept of she and Angel were so deeply intertwined that to cleave them apart was incomprehensible.

With time though, she reasoned, she would forget, she would move on. One day and counting, the plan had yet to kick in.

Buffy sat on the picnic table outside the Horse and Groom pub, waiting for Oz to return with their drinks. This was the same pub that just over a week earlier, she had sat in with Oz and Angel. Then that brought memories of her argument with Angel afterwards. It was hardly a pleasant memory, but she forced herself to dwell on it, to push it into the recesses of every cell that screamed Angel, that begged for her to come to her senses and return to him. This, she told herself sternly, is why we are over. This is the result of seven years of love – it ended up consuming us. We were just too damn young, anyway.

She hardly noticed as Oz placed her drink in front of her, a hardy JD that Oz had promised her would be just what she needed. Something about hair of the dog, although just what a dog had to do with a raging hangover, Buffy had no idea. But her sunglasses were helping, blotting out the unexpectedly strong sun. Now all she needed was some paracetamols.

“So,” Oz posed, snapping into her thoughts. “You gonna tell me what’s been going on with you and Angel?”

She shrugged, trying to keep it light-hearted, but the twinge of heartache in her eyes was more than a giveaway. “We’re just over,” she murmured. “There’s no going back now.”

Oz took a thoughtful sip of his pint, and glanced up at Buffy. “You say that, but I can tell you don’t really mean it,” he suggested, raising his eyebrows at her “what me?” face. “There’s history there, like a ton. And you don’t give that up easily.”

His voice seemed to thin at the end of his sentence, his look drifting inwards to some private, unshareable place. She realised then that she had more in common with Oz than she had ever thought.

“I know,” she mused, taking a long draught of her shot. “But I just think that right now, we can’t be together. Or something. Like we got into a rut and somehow just never got out, and now all we need is time to be ourselves again.”

“Is that you or Angel you’re talking about?” Oz challenged, fixing her with one of his oddly zen-like stares. Strangely, it was as effective as Willow ’s “resolve face”.

“Oh-kay,” she relented, rolling her eyes at him in mock annoyance. “I think it’s me…”

“Good call,” he allowed.

“Thanks… I think,” she replied, frowning slightly. But then she saw that he was really looking at her, leaning slightly back in readiness to listen. She relaxed instantly and allowed the things that were hidden in her to finally come out into the light of day. She found herself telling him about the pain that she had felt when her parents had divorced, and how it had torn her whole world apart. How, at only 17, she landed herself with a 12 year old sister who shadowed her every move, and a neurotic mother who would barely let either of her daughters out of her sight for fear that she would lose them, too. Their father had practically abandoned them, having more or less made it clear that he had no time for his kids now that he had his new jailbait secretary on his arm.

“So, when I escaped to college, it was like freedom. I’d never felt so… light. Meeting Angel then – it was just perfect. But then you know, you were there,” Buffy continued, catching sight of Oz’s nod of agreement, gently prodding her to continue. “And it was great. We were happy. And then mom… she was gone. And there was too much responsibility, too little time. We hardly ever went on dates after that. It was all we could do to keep Dawn in school and the social worker off our backs.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Oz murmured.

“But we got through. He was like… my rock, you know? The one I could depend on for anything,” she explained, rubbing at her eyes as the stab of headache pain she had been fighting all morning returned with a vengeance. “Then, he left.”

“To England ?” Oz guessed.

“Yeah,” Buffy murmured. “He had to take over his father’s business. They have a super-weird relationship, and it’s all like, if his dad clicks his fingers, and calls, “Liam!”, Angel comes running. Which I get and I’m not dissing, but you’d think he would have thought first of me and Dawn. He always told me we were his priority.”

“What makes you think you’re not?” Oz pressed suddenly, downing his pint in one large gulp that was more typical of Xander than Oz. She could almost feel the agitation coming off him in waves. He still feels guilty, she realised. Oh God.

She looked back at Oz carefully, her fingers sliding around a loose strand of her hair. “There’s just little things… like his work coming first, like that Nina chick who works with him. God, I hate that woman,” she bitched, imagining Nina’s face as a dartboard she had just scored a bullseye on. “But that’s not it. It’s just he doesn’t see what I’ve given up, what I’ve left. I was on the verge of making something of myself in LA, of seeing my sister become well-adjusted and happy. But I quit it all for him, because I needed him.”

“You love him,” Oz stated simply.

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed reluctantly, again the rush of regret, pain, guilt bearing down upon her. “But sometimes love just isn’t enough.”

For a moment, they were hushed, watching the slow gaggle of horses passing by, listening to the click-clack of their hooves upon the road. Then, Oz spoke.

“So, I’m leaving soon. Going out to Europe ; maybe Australia later.”

“Oh,” she murmured. She looked down, feeling a pang of anxiety. The only person who was still speaking to her, still supporting her, would be leaving her life. There was no one else here that she could depend upon. She couldn’t even go to Fred, her closest friend in the village; it would be too awkward, what with her husband being Angel’s cousin. And she knew that Fred wouldn’t understand anyway. She was too much of a starry-eyed romantic to comprehend that realistically love doesn’t conquer all, however much you really want it to…

Oz understood that.

Still, Oz’s sudden announcement was no great surprise. He was a born roamer, the call of freedom in his blood. He had understood her instinct to cut loose perfectly, and hadn’t once criticised her for it. Not even when she was out every night, drinking, laughing, dancing wildly, and blithely ignoring her problems with Angel. All he had done was gently remind her that she should talk to Angel, and then had said no more. Even now, after she had used him to make a point to Angel, he was still there for her as a friend: her completely platonic, non-judgemental friend. She had been able to share things with him that she had never told Willow or Fred for fear of their reaction. And she hadn’t really been able to communicate with Angel for a long time – the one person she should have worked harder to talk to…

Not now, she scolded herself.

That was why it would be so difficult to see Oz leave. It would have been nice for him to have been around just a little longer, but it wasn’t his job to worry about her problems; he had his own life. And just lately, she had made him feel guilty enough.

So, she looked at him with enthusiasm and asked, “How long you going for?”

“Six months, maybe a year,” he shrugged.

“Well, you’d better send me a postcard from Rome ! I’ve always wondered what it would be like there… I almost wish I could escape somewhere, too,” she mused wistfully.

“You could go home, at least for a little while,” Oz suggested, then seeing Buffy’s pained look, amended, “Okay, maybe not home.”

“I just couldn’t handle going back right now,” she admitted. “There’d be so many questions from the guys and they’d all want to know why I split with Angel. And then there’s Dawn… she already hates me for leaving. I don’t want her to know I left LA for nothing. She’d be furious.”

“The wrath of Dawn,” Oz considered. “Tough deal.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed sadly, sliding her hands around her drink. She thought about taking another sip of the bitter, tangy liquid, but remembering her drunken behaviour the night before, decided against it. Alcohol obviously did not always agree with her.

“I want to see Dawn more than anything, and make things right again. But first I need to get my head together,” Buffy clarified. “I want to make sure I don’t end up making things worse.”

“Sounds reasonable,” he replied, giving her a wry smile. “On both counts.”

She returned his smile wanly, thinking of the minefield that was her relationships with both her sister and Angel. Whether or not she was with Angel, she couldn’t pretend that he didn’t exist. She had to consider how her actions now would affect him.

“Hope so,” she said. “Other than that, what can I do? Angel doesn’t want to talk to me, neither does Dawn. Not that that’s new. It’s a mess.”

“So, take some time out,” Oz told her.

“Sounds good,” she answered, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face as she gazed up at the sky. It was turning into a perfect Sunday afternoon. “But some of us don’t have readymade trips to Europe with their bandmates.”

She saw him frown, looking at her with an uncharacteristically conflicted expression. Then almost as if it had never been there, it was replaced with his usual composure. “If you want some time to think, you’re welcome to come with,” he offered.

She gazed up at him in shock, her face twisted in disagreement between complete elation and pained refusal. “I don’t know,” she muttered, thinking of Angel and the mess that she still had to sort out with him. “How can I just leave? There’s Angel and everything…”

“I just think, maybe, you need some space. This could be it for you,” he explained. “Maybe then you’ll know what you want.”

She thought for a long time, staring into her drink. Leaving England and the life that she had created with Angel would be a huge move, and one that she could regret. What if Angel had the wrong idea and thought that something actually was going on between she and Oz? It would be an all-too easy assumption to make, especially as he was already paranoid about her friendship with Oz, but still – Oz’s offer was tempting. Everything here seemed flat and lifeless, her life just stalled. Her relationship with Angel was over; there was nothing left for her here, and she wasn’t yet ready to face the pain that going home would bring. For now, she needed something that would bridge the chasm between the tatters of her old life and the unknown blank of her future.

Going travelling could fill that gap. It was the perfect opportunity to gain the freedom that she had yearned for since her parents’ divorce – a life without pressure and expectation.

Could she honestly let this opportunity pass?

“Okay,” she said at last.

She had always wanted to travel. And now there was no better time.

~~

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Angel heard the front door of his cottage open. He looked up wearily from his time-worn spot on the sofa, where he had lain slumped for the best part of the day, wondering who the hell would disturb him. Then, as if somebody had shone a bright shining light upon his world, the thought hit him: it could be Buffy. He dragged himself up to standing, pausing for a moment to steady himself from the dizzy feeling that swept over him. He had not eaten since Buffy had left and his head throbbed from his hangover. But he could not let Buffy know what a mess he was in; he just couldn’t. He had his pride.

He quickly regained his equilibrium, and shuffled towards the door, almost tripping over the litter of beer cans that were strewn across the living room. Repressing a hissed “fuck it”, he opened his mouth to speak, a hundred, thousand, million expressions coming to mind. But as his eyes fell upon his visitor, they dissipated into dust. “Oh. It’s you.”

“You sound disappointed,” Wesley retorted, a hint of reproach in his voice. He then stepped into the living room, looking in disdain at the discarded cans and the empty bottle of whiskey. “I was going to tell you we’d saved you both a Sunday roast, but it seems a little redundant now. What on earth happened to this place?”

Angel merely shrugged, walking back to the sofa and flopping back upon it. “Short story? Buffy’s gone,” he said flatly, reaching for the last unopened can of beer that was nestled in the corner of the sofa. He pulled the can open with a satisfying clack. “And in the last few hours, I didn’t get around to hiring a cleaner.”

“She left?” Wesley spluttered. “Angel - why?”

“Pretty much we had a fight, she kissed Oz, we’re over,” he explained blandly, taking a swig of his drink. “Turns out I wasn’t what she wanted after all.”

“You’ve got to be wrong,” Wesley reasoned, staring at Angel as if had just told him that the world was secretly overrun with vampires. “I know that things haven’t been easy lately, but I just thought it was a blip. That Buffy needed to let down her hair and live it up….”

“Nope, she wanted to leave,” Angel corrected him, conveniently omitting the fact that she had really had no choice. That was an extraneous detail that Wesley did not need to hear right now. The concern currently blaring from Wesley’s features was bad enough; he didn’t need the lecture as well. “Don’t start with the pity,” Angel urged his cousin. “I’m good.”

“Hmmm, yes. Overindulgence in alcohol always did bring out your best side,” Wesley drawled, stalking to the sofa and snatching the beer from Angel before he could take another sip. Angel scowled at him but did not move. “What would Buffy think if she saw the state of you?”

Inwardly, Angel groaned. He was going to get the lecture anyway. Now he knew how Wesley’s students felt.

“None of her business, now. It’s over,” Angel said tightly, kicking the cans from beneath his feet. “So, save the sermon, Wes.”

“I’ll save my sermons when you’ve got some sense in that thick skull of yours!” Wesley snapped. “You need to speak to her; you need to sort this out. Or have you completely forgotten you love this girl?”

Wesley’s sharp words hit Angel with all the force of a Molotov cocktail, and his gaze plummeted to the floor, away from Wesley and his cutting truth. Yes, he did love her. He didn’t even need to think about it and certainly could not deny it, but right now, this wasn’t a question of love. This was about trust and he wasn’t sure that it was there for either of them anymore.

“Angel, she’s your dream,” Wesley pressed, his tone gentler. “You’ve said it yourself, many, many times, and that can’t have changed.”

Angel’s eyes were drawn to the fields outside his windows, and in the distance he could see the old oak tree under which he had found Buffy, half-drowsing, more times than he could count. He would never find her there again.

“Dreams change,” he told Wesley bleakly.

And sometimes they did. Sometimes they died.

And there was nothing left in the ashes. 

~~

“You were everything, everything that I wanted,
We were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it,
And all of the memories, so close to me, just fade away.”

Lyrics – Avril Lavigne’s “My Happy Ending”.

End of Chapter Three.

Next Part

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Just a few notes to help explain things referred to in this chapter:

1. Damien Hirst is a very famous British artist, based in London. According to Damienhirst, an unofficial fansite: “Damien Hirst is an influential young British artist whose works are known for their controversial subject matter. He won the Turner Prize in 1995 and continues to shock, entertain, and educate. Hirst works with a variety of media, but is probably best known for his series involving animals preserved in formaldehyde.”

Credit Damienhirst (http://dh.ryoshuu.com)

2. Cornwall – is an English county to the south of Devon. Cornish people are very proud of their heritage; there is a long-running campaign for independence for Cornwall from the rest of England.

(On an aside, a British TV network has announced that for its alternative to the Queen’s speech this Christmas, it is going to show a Simpson’s episode where Lisa will be campaigning for independence for Cornwall. I thought that was pretty cute. *G*)

3. Cornish Pasties – pastry filled with beef and onion. It’s a very famous produce of Cornwall.

4. Pint – read beer.

5. Haytor Rocks is an ancient site containing a number of granite rocks, situated on Dartmoor – a huge moor in South Devon, S.W England. There are photos here for those who are curious:

http://www.chycor2.co.uk/westcountryviews/dartmoor/haytor/haytor.htm

 AN: 
1. JD is Jack Daniels whiskey.
2. B&B – Bed and Breakfast accommodation, usually for tourists

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