WHAT YOU BECOME

S J Smith

Disclaimer: Not now, nor ever have been Joss Whedon.

Rating: PG

Written for the B/A ficathon for Tha Wrecka:
Pairing: just B/A
(1 or 2): kissing, mention of 'cookie dough'
Restrictions (1 or 2): no character death
P.S.: You might want to go & find that key...

* * *
The sky turns a peculiar color at sunset. After the red goes away, the light dims and before the stars come out, on nights when there aren’t any clouds to mar it, the sky is the color of the ocean. Not the greens, though there’s a hint of those but more the rich, clear shade that’s almost indescribable except by calling it coastal sky blue.

Then the stars come out and the planets and they aren’t nearly as bright as you think you remember from your childhood but you’re not quite sure. Because your childhood is so very far away from where you are now, half a world and a few hundred years and maybe what you’re remembering isn’t the truth but your imaginings; your dreams. Then again, you can factor in light pollution, because you’re currently in one of the cities that never sleeps and let’s not forget that air pollution, which sometimes causes your friends to cough when the smog is particularly thick.

But the pollution makes for spectacular sunsets or so you hear; something about the way the light refracts against everything held in the air.

You wouldn’t know that.

In the past, well, let’s just go with decade, you’ve seen exactly two sunsets. One while wearing a ring set with a stone that allowed vampires to be impervious to the sun, another when a day that doesn’t exist happened.

You try not to think much on either of them.

Of course, right now you try not to think of very much because thinking sometimes leads to badness and that’s something you’re trying oh so very hard to not think about. You’re thinking of the news that came across the t.v. this morning, of a small Southern California town that vanished entirely into a sinkhole. You’re thinking that if they were lucky, they escaped. You’re thinking that you should be able to feel it, that you should know it if anything happened to her but right now, you’re wondering how you’re even able to stand up.

Too many losses, too short of time.

Cordelia was the first; you weren’t even sure when she vanished on you. In the end, you didn’t even recognize her; your first real friend, the first woman you actually looked at after Buffy. (Never ‘after Buffy’, a part of you argues. You squash it down.) She slept with your son. She tried to kill Lorne. You remember the scent of blood on the air; you know Cordy’s the one who killed Lilah and left the body of your enemy like an offering for you to find. You don’t know if it was your granddaughter, Jasmine, who was controlling Cordelia even then but that’s what you want to think. Otherwise, she had gone bad and the idea of Cordy being evil wasn’t something you wanted to consider. Rather, under a spell; in someone’s thrall. Because your Cordy would never do anything to physically hurt someone. Without a good reason, at least.

Now she’s in a coma. Lilah was suggesting something about a manicure. You know what comas mean though; the tubal feedings, the catheters, the loss of muscle tone, the smells. Cordelia would have hated it.

You wonder if it would’ve been easier, better, to let her die.

Then Connor. The ache in your heart, in your soul, is greater than anything you’ve ever experienced. You still don’t know how you can present this front, you don’t know why you haven’t broken down, collapsed into some quivering heap for the loss of your son. You’re still turning over in your mind what happened with your son. He’s gone, almost farther away than Cordy. He’s not yours any more. Not any part of you. He now has the family he always wanted; he always deserved. He’s safe and away from the madness that is your destiny. And maybe, you tell yourself, fighting back the dogs of doubt, in a world that isn’t yours, Connor will be able to avoid all the prophecies written about him.

God, you’re hoping this doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass. You have a sneaking suspicion it will; you’re working with Wolfram and Hart, after all and no deal made with them has ever come without some sort of price. You’re just hoping that it’s taken from your hide, not from your friends. Not from your son.

And maybe the payment’s already started.

You were all but suicidal, heading into Sunnydale with the amulet Lilah’d dangled in front of you like a type of salvation. You wonder if she knew, if she had an inkling what you’d planned on doing. You feel a tightness in your forearms and force your hands to loosen from fists, though you find them tightening up again as you wonder if Lilah knew about Buffy and Spike. The growl is so low as to be inaudible to human ears but you can feel it rumble through your body. Spike and Buffy.

It doesn’t take much to bring to mind your most recent conversation with her; as if she stood before you, her scent envelopes you again; her exhaustion layered with her own triumph, her excitement at seeing you, the sweetness that is always Buffy combined with the strength of the Slayer. You tried to ignore Spike’s smell, hovering around her like an unholy halo; the lingering scent of him; oh, he was close, you knew it and you kissed Buffy that much more desperately because you knew he was there and - wrong, so wrong - you could taste him on her skin.

The sharp tang of blood interrupts your musings and you stare down at your hands, at the blood welling in your palms from the pressure of your fingernails cutting into them. This is what the idea of Spike being with Buffy does to you. Even more than Riley, more than anyone else, that Buffy could have feelings for Spike, that Spike could have a soul - a soul! - god, there are things wrong with all of that, so many things wrong that you can’t even think to go into them and the way you feel about them on top of everything else.

You stand all the rest of the night, waiting for word that never comes, wondering if no news is good news or whether you should just take that necro-tempered limo and try to find Buffy, try to find anyone to find out if she’s alive. Because a part of you thinks that even with Spike, Buffy alive is something. Maybe something you don’t understand, can’t comprehend but still, Buffy alive.

But word doesn’t come and doesn’t come and you’ve got your own crises to worry about; running an evil law firm that you know is corrupting your friends; dealing with the fact that Spike has returned to you like the proverbial bad penny - souled and vamped and possibly the one that the Shanshu prophecy actually means; trying to keep your friends as safe as you can while you know, a little more each day, that you’re losing them.

Cordelia; awakened and lost; just like that.

Fred; taken over by Illyria.

Gunn; changing into something...other. You know that magic that gave him the ability to keep up with Wolfram and Hart has to have done something to him. He’s not the Gunn you knew.

Wes; who doesn’t understand your distance.

Lorne; who might be able to figure it out if you let him get too close, so you can’t.

That leaves Spike and you still don’t trust him any farther than you could throw a Buick. And Buffy but according to her new little regime, she doesn’t trust you, either. And you almost wish you could talk to her about it but you’re thinking, it’s probably for the best you don’t talk to her.

So you withdraw a little farther, ignoring Doyle’s words ringing in your ears about helping people and connecting with them and becoming, well, some days, you aren’t sure what you’re becoming. But everything changes, you know that; even stagnant things like you have some sort of growth.

One day, the telephone rings in your office when you’re staring out the window, not admiring the view, not even really noticing that the sun’s warmth beats against your skin. You answer it absently, mumbling your name, your thoughts, if you could even call them that, so very far away from where you are at that moment until the voice jars you out of your reverie and back into the present.

“Angel?”

Breathy, lilting, warm.

Buffy.

You aren’t sure for an instant, don’t want to feel that weird shock, like your heart starting, at the surprise of hearing her voice.

“Angel, are you there?”

Your voice sounds rusty to your own ears and you suddenly wonder when the last time you actually spoke to someone was. “Buffy.”

A faint sigh; was it relief? “God, Angel, you had me worried.”

“Worried?” Why?

“I had a dream.” A soft laugh. “You’re gonna think this is dumb. I dreamed that you were in a, one of those big pot thingies.”

You frown slightly. “A vat?”

“Yeah. A vat. And you were covered in tar. Or something. It was dragging you down, kinda like Arnie at the end of T2. And,” she makes a puffing sound, “I dreamed I’d lost you.”

“I’m still here, Buffy,” you say.

“Yeah, well, that’s not what Spike says.”

Your frown deepens. “Spike?”

“He’s worried about you, Angel. I mean, it’s not like he actually says it but, you know, he is. I know what worried Spike sounds like.”

“Did he tell you to call me?”

“No. No! I - I wanted to talk to you.” Her voice lowers. Softens. You can almost picture her tilting her head down and raising her eyes to look up at you. “It’s been a long time, Angel.”

You clear your throat and say, “Three years, five months and twenty-six days. But who’s counting. Obviously not Spike, since you’re talking to him about me.” You find yourself pacing around the room. Sunlight. You find yourself avoiding sunlight automatically, even if it doesn’t burn. Habit.

Not fear.

Habit.

“I deserved that,” Buffy says firmly but her voice wavers as she goes on. “But you never tried to contact me, either.”

“I figured you didn’t want me to,” you say, “since you don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust...? What gave you that idea? Wait, damn it, I’m gonna shred his Star Wars collection.” It sounds as if she’s actually gritting her teeth. “Andrew,” she says, very succinctly, as if to make sure you’re getting this, “Andrew does not speak for me. He never has.”

Hope is something you haven’t had for a long time. It doesn’t rise at the bait dangling before it now. “Buffy,” you say and realize how you say her name, the way you used to, when you were the only vampire in the world with a soul, in love with a Slayer. Funny, now there’s two of you in the same predicament. It doesn’t sound right and it does and you don’t know what to make of it. “Buffy, you must have called for a reason.”

She sighs and you can almost imagine her slumping back. “All right, I did. I want, no, I need your help, Angel.”

“You have all the Slayers in the world, Buffy,” you remind her, almost gently. “You don’t need me.”

“All the Slayers in the world aren’t you, Angel,” she says. “I need someone I know; someone I can trust. Someone at my shoulder. Mano y mano.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“Whatever.” You can nearly see her rolling her eyes. “Angel, I need you. I need you for something really important and I need to know if you’re with me on this.”

“Buffy,” you begin to say but she cuts you off.

“Yes or no, Angel.” She waits for your answer then repeats herself, her voice gentler. “Yes or no.”

You fling your free hand in the air, a kind of a shrug that despite the fact she can’t see it, makes you feel a little better about giving in. “Fine. I’m with you. What is it, some sort of demon?”

“Dawn’s getting married.”

“Dawn’s doing what?”

“Getting married, what, can’t you hear any more? You’re not that old, are you? Wait, you probably are.”

You ignore the jibe. Not like you haven’t heard worse from Spike. “Dawn’s getting married?”

“I said that already,” she grumps, “and you’re gonna be my date.”

“In a church?”

“Outdoor ceremony, just past dusk In Wales, of all places. Don’t ask, I have no idea why. You have three days. Dawn’s not expecting you for the bachelor party but she does expect you for the bridal dinner. So dust off a tux and tie. And I’m wearing blue. This incredible color; kinda like the sky in the evening, just before the stars come out.”

“I know the color,” you say softly.

“Good.” You can almost hear her smile through the faint crackle and pop of overseas lines. “Dawn’s gonna be thrilled. Me, too.” Her voice changes again, fickle. “Three days. Spike has the four-one-one. And the invitation.”

“Spike.”

“Do you actually think Dawn would get married without him being there?” Buffy laughs at the idea. You wince. “Angel, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you in two days.”

“I thought you said,” you begin.

“Wedding, three days. Bridal dinner? Two. Be on time.”

You try again. “I’m not sure.”

“I. Am.” Slayer steel in her voice and you never really won big arguments with her; they always ended in a draw. If you were lucky. “Two days, Angel.”

“Two days.” In your head, you hear Spike’s cackle and see him miming a whip cracking. Dammit, you’re not whipped. “All right.” Yes, you are.

“Good.” Triumphant. “I’ll see you then.”

The receiver goes dead in your hand and you replace it slowly in its cradle. Two days. A wedding.

You groan, realizing you’re going to have to buy a wedding gift.

Maybe Spike has some ideas.

* * *
She’s beautiful.


You tear up.

Again.

Dammit. Why didn’t you pack any tissues?

Oh. A hanky.

You manage a smile at Angel, accepting the hanky and using it to wipe your eyes. He smiles back and turns his attention back to the wedding.

The weather cooperated, something you’re happy about. Everyone’s happy about, really. Dawn’s stunning in her gown; something wispy and fey, decked with beads and lace and sheer fabric. Instead of a veil, she’s wearing a wreath of honeysuckle, beads shimmering among the flowers. And Bleddyn, he looks so handsome in his tux. What was it Cordy’d said, about the prom and Wes? Oh, yeah, he’d look 007 in a tux. Well, Bleddyn really did. Of course, he looked a lot more Pierce Brosnan-y than Wes ever did.

Tuxes, you decide, really do make the man. Spike’s even in something nice. Spike. You’d stare at him but he’s got his eye on Dawn and Bleddyn. He’d already dragged the poor thing aside and given him a warning on keeping Dawn happy. Not like Giles, Xander and you haven’t already done that and Willow had cheerfully threatened him with toad-status. You almost felt sorry for him but Bleddyn took it all with the same easy-going way he took almost everything. He really did remind you of Oz.

Of course, it might just be because Oz is here, standing with Willow, his hair almost a natural color in deference to the wedding. You almost shake your head but it could be bad luck. After all, Dawn’s wedding is about as close to a Scooby Gang reunion as you can get. You blink tears again, wishing that Mom could be here and Anya, and Jenny and Cordelia. There’ve been too many losses, starting with Merrick and Jesse and somehow, they keep on happening. You know, in your heart of hearts, that there isn’t any way to stop it. You’re not anything like a god, you’re just a Slayer.

The ceremony is nearly over and you realize that you’re losing your little sister. She’s not just gonna be in school, she’s gonna be married. She’s not gonna be there, waiting for you to come home at nights, she’s not gonna be the first one you see in the morning. She’s all grown up and you feel as if you hadn’t even seen it coming. You choke back a sob, biting your lip to keep it from quivering.

And you thought you’d caught it and no one had noticed but you feel his finger, rubbing lightly against the heel of your hand. You open your palm and grasp his hand, holding tight. You need it, you tell yourself, you need this, this contact, familiar/unfamiliar touch of his.

Then the words fall into the sweet night air, “You may kiss the bride,” and you watch as Bleddyn bends his neck and Dawn stands on her toes and they meet and you lose whatever composure you’d had and start crying in earnest because she really is beautiful and she really, really isn’t just yours any more. And you press your face against Angel’s arm, hanging on so tight that if he was alive, he’d probably be in pain but he’s Angel and he’s okay with it, because he gives you that little half-smile that used to make you melt.

Somehow, you manage to get through the reception though you’re not quite sure how you made it through the toast you gave without bawling. And then there was the food and the dancing and sometime, during it, you wound up dancing with Dawn, the way girls always seem to wind up dancing together.

“So,” Dawn says, her smile all mischievous, “Angel’s here.”

“He came for you,” you say, tucking a strand of dark hair back behind Dawn’s ear.

“Sure he did,” Dawn says, rolling her eyes in the way only younger sisters can. “He came because you told him to.” She glances around, catching sight of your date, talking with Willow and Oz. “So, are you gonna tell him you’re baked or whatever that stupid cookie dough thing was?”

“Dawn!” You’d glare at her but it’s probably wrong to glare at the bride on her wedding day.

“Well, it was stupid,” Dawn said, ignoring your wrath breezily.

“How did you know?”

She shrugs. “You, Faith and Willow were talking about worst break-up lines ever over Buttershots, remember?” Her smile is wicked as she adds, “You won that round.”

“Oh, god.” You do have a foggy memory of drinking butterscotch schnapps and Will and Faith laughing and Dawn smirking in the corner. “Oh god!”

“You’re attracting attention,” Dawn says through her teeth, a smile plastered in place.

“I can’t believe you’d bring that up.”

“Yeah, well, just wanted to remind you of what you could be missing out on.” Dawn eyes Angel appreciatively. “He looks yummy in a tux.”

You spin her around, making her dress swoop out behind her. “You’re not supposed to be looking.”

“I’m married, not dead.” The music ends and Dawn keeps an arm around your waist, guiding you back to Angel. “You know,” she says brightly as you get close enough for Oz, Willow and Angel to hear, “we were just talking about our favorite cookies.”

Oh, god, you are gonna have to kill her. How to make it look like an accident on her wedding night? Maybe just let her have the wedding night; Bleddyn would be so disappointed. Then again, you have the sneaking suspicion that Bleddyn and Dawn have done some horizontal-type stuff and ewwww, did your brain have to take you there?

“Cookies?” Oz quirks an eyebrow.

Willow giggles, hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Dammit, she remembers, too. So it’ll be a mass murder. “Cookies,” you say.

“I’m partial to animal crackers, myself,” Oz says.

“Oh, me, too,” Willow says and they share a Moment. It’s sweet and you think how cute they still are together before Dawn opens her mouth and asks Angel what kind of cookies he likes. ‘Cause Spike eats cookies, so probably Angel does, too, right?

He doesn’t look as confused as you’d hoped he would. “I, um, don’t eat. Much.” His eyes meet yours and you think, bittersweet chocolate before your catch yourself.

“You never have,” you say, gently teasing.

“Have you ever even had a cookie?” Dawn is persistent, you’ll give her that.

“I,” Angel says, his expression vaguely uncomfortable, “um.”

“Is she bothering you, Angel? Just say the word, I’ll do the caveman thing and drag her off.” Bleddyn appears, nearly as quiet as a vampire, his dark eyes sparkling in amusement as he wraps his arms around Dawn’s waist and drops a kiss on her neck.

You find your hand touching your own neck and you drag your hand down. Willow and Oz see the movement and smile. Sometimes, your friends know too much about you, you think and notice Angel shuffling his feet, that, I’m-gonna-run vibe coming off him in waves. You snag his arm as some old song starts up. “We haven’t danced,” you announce, pulling him with you onto the dance floor.

He comes, not quite willingly but you keep hold of him so he can’t scurry off. “I’m sorry about that,” you say, not exactly sure what you’re apologizing for.

Angel shrugs slightly, his hands falling into place on your waist. “It’s okay,” he says. “You get used to friends embarrassing you after a while.”

“Yours, too?” you ask, grimacing. “Oh yeah, Spike.”

“Yeah, Spike.”

You sway together to the music and it feels familiar. Good. “Is he your friend?” you ask, because maybe it feels too good. “I mean, really.”

“We’ve been through a lot together,” he says but the way he says it makes you think it isn’t necessarily of the good together.

Your mouth opens and asks, “Kinda like us?”

He doesn’t really react, not that you could notice if you weren’t you, that is but he kinda stiffens and you know you’ve engaged the mouth without any input from the brain. “I didn’t mean that, Angel,” you say, “not, I mean, not that way.” You want to kick yourself.

“I think I need to,” Angel pulls away from you and you know there’s no way to stop him from bolting this time so you let him go. The voice in your head is yelling at you and you stare after him for a few seconds before you take off after him.

It doesn’t take long to find him, tucked in under a tree, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. You don’t get real close, just enough to be able to talk to him, not touch because right now, you think he’d probably yell or something worse and you aren’t sure if you could take that, tonight. “This probably wasn’t a good idea, Buffy,” he says, without turning around. “Me, at Dawn’s wedding.”

“She wanted you here.” You say, “I wanted you here.”

“Things have changed, Buffy. Between us. We’ve changed.” He turns, still in the shadow. You can’t make out any of his features but somehow, his eyes glitter in the lack of light. “Neither of us is the same person we once were.” He runs a hand over his hair and you wonder when he’d stopped putting it in spikes. That same hand gestures at you. “I mean, look at you. You’re...different.”

“Different how?” You’re prepared to get angry but you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

His eyebrows lift. “You’re comfortable with yourself now, Buffy. And I know it’s a cliche but what you’ve become is a beautiful young woman. Not,” he adds smoothly, “that you weren’t beautiful before.”

“Good save,” you tell him, folding your arms.

“But who you are now, you’re breathtaking.”

You feel your heart rate go up and you nod in appreciation, barely able to hold the sixteen-year-old girl you used to be back. “Better than a save. An actual complement. A good complement.” God, he looks good in a tux. Mmm. Tux. Maybe you should just jump Angel, save the talking and explanations and all the words for later.

“Buffy,” he says, in that absolutely heart-breaking way he has.

You hold up your hand, fingers curling in on your palm. “Shh. Can’t we,” you close your eyes and let out a slow breath before you say anything else. “Can’t we reach some sort of understanding? I mean, yeah, there’s all this time and all this stuff between us but,” you have to take a breath, “there’s all this other stuff, too and you know what I mean.” You risk a step closer to him. “Angel,” you say, realizing you said it the way you had in high school, as if his name was your lifeline, knowing he heard it, too, “I’ve missed you. Not all the time, not every day but it’s kinda like you’re there, in the back of my head and all it takes is one little thing and you’re here again.”

He opens his mouth and you reach across, laying your fingers on his lips to shush him. “Angel,” you say, “God, I’m not good at this. It used to be easier, you know? To tell you that, no matter what, I still cared. I care, Angel.” He’s taking your hand away from his mouth, holding it in both of his. “I’m still looking for me, Angel, but I don’t know if I wanna do it alone any more.”

He’s very still and you’re reminded of mountains until his fingers shift around your hand. “When I said I’ve changed, Buffy, it isn’t,” he hesitates, “it’s not something that I was just saying to be making conversation. I’m not the person you knew back in high school.”

“I’m not that girl either, Angel,” you say. “She’s been gone a long time.” You tug his hands, pulling them up to press against your chest. “But she’s inside of me, she’s a part of me. And she...I still love you.”

Angel’s head lowers, even more hidden in shadow now and your heart speeds up again, feeling like a wounded bunny thumping in your chest. You realize your mouth is moving, even though you’re not saying anything and you’re not even sure what you’re saying. Maybe ‘please’. Maybe ‘no’. But he raises his head and you can tell he’s looking past you and you catch a flicker of movement of his eyes. He says, “Look,” pulling his hands free, laying them on your shoulders and turning you around.

You blink furiously; you don’t want to cry, god, you’ve cried enough these past two days to last another one of your lifetimes. His hands still rest on your shoulders, cool thumbs pressed against the bare skin of your neck.

“Do you see?” He’s leaned in close to you, the breath of his words ruffling the strands of hair next to your ear.

“See?” You want to wipe your eyes. All you can see right now is a blur.

“Right there.” He releases one of your shoulders, pointing past your cheek. “At two o’clock.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head, your cheek rubs against his arm and you freeze.

“The first star of the evening, Buffy,” Angel says to you softly. His lips brush against your ear and you shiver involuntarily. “Make a wish.”

“I wish,” you say, feeling as if someone rammed a stake through your heart, “I wish Mom was here. I wish Cordelia hadn’t died.” You feel him stiffen slightly at that. “I wish you still loved me.”

His hands slide slowly down your bare arms and you can’t stop trembling. His mouth grazes across your skin, a slow study of your cheek and up your hairline, pausing there. You can feel him breathing even though he doesn’t need to, his chest rising and falling against your back, the exhalations stirring the wisps of hair at your temple. His lips are cool and dry when they actually touch your skin.

A jolt like electricity sizzles through you and you hear a gasp escape your throat. Angel doesn’t make a sound, his mouth pressing lightly against the corner of your eye, the top of your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, trying to capture his mouth with your own but he pulls back just a little, dark eyes serious and studying you. “Angel? What is it?”

“I do love you, Buffy.” He cups your cheek with one of his big hands and you nestle into his touch. You turn to be able to face him, to be able to touch him. You want to touch him so much. He keeps you slightly at bay. “I just had to put it aside. There were things I had to do, things I didn’t want to do.”

You wrap your hands around his wrists. “I know. I do. And we should talk about those things. And my things, too, ‘cause I’ve done, well,” you sigh, “stuff. But right now, could you just kiss me?”

Angel’s smile is the one you always recognize, even in your dreams, past death, you’d know that smile. It’s probably branded on your soul with a little sign that says ‘property of Buffy’. Or you’d like to think that. Sweet and bittersweet, he reminds you, “I wasn’t able to stay last time.”

“And I know, you probably can’t stay this time, either.” His fingers are stroking your neck. If you were a cat, you’d purr. “But maybe I could go with you. If that’s, you know, okay. I mean, surely an evil law firm with two souled vampires could use a Slayer to help with the bad guys.”

“I think,” Angel says, gently tugging so you sway closer to him, “that can be arranged.”

“Oh, good,” you say, “because,” and you forget what you were gonna say next because Angel’s kissing you, a soft, gentle kiss that still manages to take your breath away. When he pulls back just a little, meeting your eyes, you smile up at him, that special smile, his smile and you’re somehow not surprised your mouth still knows how to make it.

“Did you say something?” Angel asks, almost innocently.

“It wasn’t that important,” you tell him and rise on your toes for another kiss. Mmm. Angel. Kissing.

“I told you they’d be outside snogging.” Spike’s voice, ringing out into the night. “Pay up, Harris.”

“Why is he right?” Xander sounds irritated. “Why is he always right?”

“‘Cause it’s these two,” Spike says, “and where else would they be? Oy. You two gonna stay out here all night or you gonna join the party?”

You exchange a long look with Angel while rubbing your thumb across his lower lip, trying to remove your pale coral lipstick from his mouth. “We’ll be there,” you shout over your shoulder. “Right?”

Angel kisses you again over your protest that you’d just gotten the lipstick off his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says to you. “But,” he adds, serious again, “we still need to talk.”

“I know.” You touch his cheek, you can’t help it. “About who we are now. And who we want to be when we grow up.” You hug his offered arm, snuggling in close. “But that’s for tomorrow, ‘kay? It can wait ‘til then.”

Angel kisses the top of your head as he leads you back to the others. You pull him to a stop, tugging at his lapels to bring his face down closer to yours for another kiss. “Dawn’s waiting,” he says, his cool mouth moving over your heated lips.

“Let her,” you tell him as he kisses you back.

Tomorrow, when you and Angel can find out about each other again. You’ll find out who he’s become. He’ll learn who you are, when the sky turns that indescribable blue, like the ocean but full of stars instead of fishes.

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