Hard to Forget

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden

Email: vatrixsta@gmail.com

Website: http://sunnydale.jadedtrix.com

Rating: R for sexual situations (Dirty!)

Category: SRA

Pairing: B/A, B/S mentions

Spoilers: Everything aired is fair game.

Author's Notes: Written for the B/A ficathon. The elements I was given can be found at the end of the fic. This fic was written for Ducks! *SMOOCH* babe. Also: two people have already told me to put a tissue warning, so -- tissue warning!

Dedication: For Ducks, because I think she really, really needs it.

Thanks: First and foremost, to Sarea, who always makes time for me even when she has none, and does the most awesome beta ever even if I did unwittingly steal the quote at the end of the story from one of her fics; thanks to nd for the kindest words at a pivotal moment; and thanks to Ducks for innocently asking for a fic that had a happy ending.

Summary: Buffy finds that memories are funny things.

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Hard to Forget

by Vatrixsta Cruden

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It's funny to Buffy, what she remembers and what she doesn't; what she chooses to forget and what she can't recall no matter how hard she tries.

Half a century and more has passed since she took her first gasping breath in this world, and she can't remember anything about the experience, not the screams of her mother, or the calm, precise voice of the doctor who delivered her. It is strange, when she thinks of it, that she remembers every second of her daughter's birth, but is denied recollecting her own. It seems something very central to one's existence, how and when and where and why you were brought into the world. Sometimes, she thinks that she envies vampires this simple piece of their history.

The moon is hanging low in the sky and it's a chilly night in January, a week after New Year's, a week before her fifty-seventh birthday. Buffy likes this time of year now, hates growing older, but likes that she can; likes that there's a warm body in bed beside her and that she can feel him breathe.

She's even beginning to like the memories that strike her at the oddest times, like in the middle of the night when all she wants to do is sleep.

When she tries to call certain memories forth, it's almost impossible. They dance beyond her grasp like ephemeral wisps of sensation she can feel but never truly experience. Then, just as she's in that hazy contentment between consciousness and sleep, it hits her -- she used to feel this way in high school, with Giles droning on about this threat or that, Willow and Xander helping with research, Cordelia pretending she'd rather be anywhere else--

"Shut up."

"And yes, ladies and gentlemen, with that stunning comeback Cordelia Chase has put me oh-so-firmly in my place."

"Cretin," Cordelia hissed.

"Guys? Focus?" Buffy looked up from the book she didn't understand, annoyed. "Figuring out how to stop this Judge guy -- slightly more important than foreplay."

Cordelia glared, Xander looked chastised, but both went back to reading. Willow smiled reassuringly and Buffy sighed. It wasn't fair, that they all had to be in here figuring out how to stop some kind of world-in-peril threat. It sucked hard enough that it was Buffy's job. She hated pulling them down with her, but she also needed them too much to push them away.

Her gaze caught Angel and Giles, buried in books with frighteningly identical intensity, and it comforted her and creeped her out just enough to make her decide she needed to be alone.

The office was empty, and armed with her big giant book she had no hope of understanding a word of, Buffy felt well equipped to keep everyone she loved safe; after all, it was the only way to make up for keeping them around at all.

She was asleep less than five minutes later.

--she remembers patrolling, the danger, the blood, the fear, the rush: she is a Slayer before anything else, the one girl in all the world who, even when there were more of them, still felt so totally, utterly alone--

"How can you not love it out here, B? I mean, seriously, hardcore, oooh, baby, right there dig it?"

Faith was about sixty seconds away from a big O. They'd found a gaggle of vampires trolling the playground after hours and dispatched them, nearly without breaking a sweat. It was a dangerous feeling, the one that was creeping up Buffy's spine; it was like invincibility, and yet she knew from experience she was far from invincible.

"It doesn't suck," was all Buffy could think of to say. Buffy had never had a particularly difficult time coming up with words, but there were two people in her life she always felt hard pressed to converse with: Faith, and Angel. It hadn't always been true of Angel. Before things... well, before, he'd been the easiest person in her life to talk to. Now, things were so awkward and painful she always felt like she said the wrong thing around him.

With Faith, Buffy just felt like she was out of her league, in every conceivable way. Then sometimes, Faith would look at Buffy in this way she had, and it was like she was begging for something and Buffy didn't know what it was and Faith couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. Then the moment would pass, and Faith would say something sexually explicit or bitingly caustic, and Buffy would pretend she hadn't glimpsed a moment of raw need for... something.

Buffy was getting good at ignoring things people needed from her, assuming they weren't immediately life threatening.

"I need a cigarette," Faith said.

"You don't smoke," Buffy replied, though she wasn't sure that was even true.

"No time like the present to start," Faith said. "We're gonna die young anyway, might as well burn the world at both ends."

It was flippant, like most everything about Faith was, but Buffy felt it again just then while looking at the older girl; felt like there was something she should say or do that would make everything right, but she couldn't find the perfect, magical words, and so she said nothing. The moment passed.
Two months later, Alan Finch was dead and Buffy still didn't know what to say.

--and the fleeting moments when she was not alone, when she was not just the Slayer, when it felt like someone understood her, and maybe, just maybe, if she couldn't have normal, she could at least. Have. This--

They didn't use oil because it seemed too sensual; turned it into something that served as a prelude to something else, something they were not allowed to do.

Angel kept a bottle of unscented store-brand lotion at the mansion for her because her hands dried out after an especially vigorous training session and workouts were the only sweaty physical contact they were allowed together, so they tended to have them several times a week.

"It's not too bad," she said. Her muscles went into a spasm as she tried to prove it, and she winced.

He moved closer to her and gently touched the curve of her shoulder through the soft pink sweater she wore. The press of his hand conveyed his wishes and she turned her back to him and carefully lifted the material up and over her head. She couldn't reach the clasp on her bra without further stressing the muscle in her shoulder that was already in agony, and he seemed to realize it a second after she did. Rough, gentle fingers pressed against her spine for a moment before the clasp gave, and she let it fall to the ground.

"Lie down," he instructed softly, and she did, because it had been all she'd wanted to do from the moment they arrived.

This sort of touching simply wasn't allowed between them, but they both ignored the sheer insanity of their actions under the thinnest of guises: there could be nothing improper about what was, in essence, a medical necessity.

Angel knew what he was doing. It occurred to Buffy that this was probably not the first massage he had ever given, and she quickly dismissed the thought from her head. His big hands made pass after pass over her sore flesh, then detoured again and again to places that ached in far different ways. It was as if she had been denied sensation so long that everywhere he touched left behind a low hum of want that affected her in ways she hadn't anticipated.

For the next hour he went on touching her as though he didn't know how to stop, and she let him, because she didn't want him to. After awhile, their thin pretense became completely transparent, and his hands regretfully fell away from her body. They didn't speak as she rolled to her side away from him and dressed with shaking hands, but he did protest when she turned toward him again and pressed her face against his arm.

"I'd like to stay," she whispered. "Just-- we could just lay here together. Just for a little while." It was very close to begging; he was the only person in her life she felt comfortable with pleading for anything, whether because she trusted him not to take advantage of her, or because she simply needed him too much to care, she didn't know. But he nodded, though the movement was unsteady, and they moved down in bed together until they found the right positions against each other, the sorts of spots, she thought at the time, that married people spent a lifetime learning.

She fell asleep almost at once and dreamed about how it would feel to dance with him at her senior prom; how it would feel to be as normal as possible for just one night.

-- but she had never really been allowed the things she wanted most; that she always remembers, but it's old, used-up bitterness with which she recalls those old wants. She wanted Angel to stay and for it to be all right for both of them; she wanted her mom to be alive and to not remember that Dawn wasn't always real. Buffy wanted to love Riley the way he deserved and for Spike to not love her the way he did.

It's strange what she remembers now, the gaping holes in her life and in her heart that shaped the foundation she grew on. She is surprised that she's surprised at how intricate it was, at how desperately important each and every moment had to have been, because if even one thread came loose, as she had often hoped it would, the tapestry of her life would unravel and she might not be here at all.

She remembers wishing so hard that she cried for Billy Fordham to not really be sick (physically or mentally), for Xander's friend Jesse to not really be dead, for Angel's soul to not really be gone. Old age hasn't made her immune to regrets, but now, she wishes for smaller things, more attainable things; she wishes that the Cordettes hadn't been so awful, that she and Cordy hadn't wasted so much time being enemies, that she had gotten to know Tara sooner. And, she finds that the little things sting so much worse than the big hurts ever did.

She remembers all the monsters she slayed, every single one, and sometimes she wishes she could forget, but remembering is one of the burdens she carries. Buffy has always been surrounded by friends, both plastic and true, and she has always felt alone, somehow separate from them, even before she was Called and learned the true meaning of Alone. The only place she ever felt she belonged was with Angel, and she spent so much of her time with him worrying about stupid things, like why someone like him liked her, that she didn't have enough sweet memories stored up when things went--

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't kill him for you ... for her ... when I had the chance."

--bad; didn't have nearly enough when things got--

"Close your eyes."

--really bad.

The personal regrets, the things she could have done different are the ones that still haunt her. Age has taught her that she never really did have control over every person, but there are things that, given what she knows now--

From the Desk of Buffy Summers

The Big List of Things I Wish in Chronological Order as of 2003 (wish format in no way meant to conjure the presence of a vengeance demon)

I wish I'd told Mom about the Slayer thing the second we got to Sunnydale.

I wish I hadn't blamed her more than I blamed Dad for the divorce.

I wish I hadn't done that sexy dance with Xander.

I wish I'd learned to just talk to Angel when something was bothering me.

I wish I hadn't been so mad at Ms. Calendar.

I wish I'd paid more attention to Jonathan.

I wish I'd tried harder with Faith.

I wish I hadn't tried so hard with Riley.

I wish the last thing I said to my mom hadn't been "Fembot on the loose, be back in time for dinner!"

I wish Spike and I hadn't hurt each other so much.

I wish I'd been more patient with Dawn.

I wish I'd known what to do with the potentials.

I wish I'd kissed Angel just a little bit longer.

I wish we hadn't come to Italy.

I wish I had any idea what I was doing with these girls.

I wish this list was good for anything.

I wish I could list all the dead people I want to bring back, but I can't even do that much, because someone dead being alive might mean someone who's alive right now would be dead.

I wish I didn't realize that.

I wish my mom was still here.

I wish I'd never started this list.

--she would have done so very, very different. She wouldn't have been as pissed at Spike when she found out he was alive--

"I'm sorry," Buffy said, irritated to be pacing a courtyard in Italy at three a.m. with yet another formerly deceased vampire looking at her all soulfully and wounded, "run that by me again: you didn't tell me you were alive because you didn't want to disappoint me?"

Spike looked at her blankly for a moment. "Well, when you put it like that, it just sounds stupid."

She hit him. And then she hugged him as tight as she could for about five minutes.

Then, she walked away from him because she didn't know what to say to him any more than she knew what to say to Faith, and she had a whole house full of girls that needed her guidance, not her confusion.

--and living with Angel in Los Angeles. She wouldn't have held onto Dawn so tight--

"You're crazy!" Dawn yelled. "I'm not a little kid anymore--"

"You could have fooled me." Buffy was livid. There wasn't anyone who could make her angry like this but Dawn.

"And I'm not one of them," Dawn added. "I'm not one of you, and I never will be, and I shouldn't have to be trapped here with all of you in Slayer Land!"

"You wanted to be here!" Buffy stamped her foot and wished she didn't feel so immature herself. "I told you that you could go with Willow and Kennedy if you wanted to--"

"I don't want to go with someone!" Dawn gestured around the flat she and Buffy kept in Rome. "I'm eighteen years old, Buffy. I should... I don't know what I should do, but I shouldn't be watched over like I'm fragile. You ran away from home when you were seventeen--"

"Yes, witness the irrefutable proof of my maturity," Buffy muttered.

"You made your own decisions," Dawn said firmly.

"I was stupid," Buffy said flatly. "I was also the Slayer. It's different."

"You've always told me that being the Slayer doesn't make you better than everyone else," Dawn said, raising her chin. "That's what you were always telling Faith. Were you lying?"

"Of course not," Buffy said, running an irritated hand through her hair. "We're not better. Believe me, we're not better." Dawn looked smug, and Buffy held up a hand. "But we are different, Dawn. We have to consider everything, because whatever we don't think about usually means someone's life--"

"Spare me," Dawn said. "You said you were going to show me the world, but you haven't shown me anything. You spend all your time with them, showing them how to be better Slayers and toe the line and fight the good fight and you spend more time with Andrew than you do with me!"

"Please do not even tell me you're jealous of Andrew."

"Andrew isn't the point!" Dawn gestured helplessly. "You said you were going to show me the world," she said, and this time, she sounded tired.

"I know," Buffy whispered. "But I-- I can't. I have-- I have responsibilities, and there's no one -- there's no one else, at least not until later."

"How much later?" Dawn asked gently.

Buffy bit her lip. And answered honestly. "I don't know."

"I'm ready now," Dawn said. "We don't -- sometimes we don't get that much time, Buffy. You know that better than anyone. I don't -- I don't want to waste it."

Buffy felt the beginnings of a good pout coming on. "Where will you go -- assuming, of course, that you are allowed to go anywhere?"

Dawn smiled a little. "Well, Faith has this--"

"Faith," Buffy said flatly. "No. Absolutely not. She's on the run from the cops, Dawn!"

"In case you haven't noticed," Dawn pointed out, "the Los Angeles police department has a lot on their minds lately, what with everything that went on at Wolfram and Hart. No one's even looking for her. She's talking about going to Greece. I love Mediterranean food!"

"You've gotta be kidding me," Buffy said, but even as she kept up her argument, even as she tried so hard to keep Dawn close, she knew she would have to let her go.

--and held onto Giles tighter. She remembers a thousand moments with him, her mentor, her father, her rock; the way he smelled like old books and aftershave, the desperate way he held her after her mother died, the way he was the one person she never, ever wanted to disappoint--

"You must be so disappointed in me."

"No." It was an actual shock to her system, exactly what she wanted to hear, but so unbelievable that she was sure she'd imagined it. She looked at him to be sure, and he was almost shaking his head. "No, no, I'm not."

"But this is all my fault." Part of her wanted him to see it that way, too. She wanted his punishment and his disappointment and his anger because it was no less than she deserved. She wanted him to blame her and she was sure she'd die if he did. It made about as much sense to her as the idea that she'd killed Angel, but somehow, he was still here.

"No. I don't believe it is. Do you want me to wag my finger at you and tell you that you acted rashly? You did. And I can. I know that you loved him. And he has proven more than once that he loved you. You couldn't have known what would happen. The coming months are going, are going to be hard... I suspect on all of us, but... if it's guilt you're looking for, Buffy, I'm... I'm not your man. All you will get from me is, is my support. And my respect."

She'd wanted to hug him, but that hadn't been the sort of relationship they'd had at the time, and she still felt too raw from the past day's events, so she'd smiled at him gratefully and climbed out of his car. Gone inside and watched an old movie with her mom, and the next day Giles ceased to be the stuffy old man who told her what to do and became something infinitely more precious to her. He became someone who made it easier when Hank Summers started canceling plans and boffing his secretary.

Giles was the one person who would always be there for her, no matter what; the one person who would never let her down.

She'd almost convinced herself he was invincible. She should have known better. She really did know what happened to someone just when you were sure they were invincible.

--but she can't recall whether he'd smiled at her or not before he died. His last words might have been that he loved her, or that he was proud of her, but she couldn't remember them, as though his death had caused a roaring in her ears that blotted out everything else, save this: Giles was dying, and she'd thought nothing could be more painful than losing her mother, than coming back from heaven, but she was so very, very wrong.

That had been about the time Angel got his shanshu.

It had made her laugh, but not in a good way, not in a healthy way; it stung and festered in all the places that hurt, but after being numb in the wake of Giles' passing, even that hurt felt a little good; Buffy has always been familiar with things that felt good enough to make her forget--

The handcuffs bit into her flesh and she tugged sharply against the spokes of his headboard. The crypt smelt of dust and death and a thousand other scents she was more than intimately familiar with.

"Don't scream," Spike whispered into her ear, his crotch moving just so against her backside. He made tiny, almost invisible cuts along her back with a razor, then bent his head to lap at the blood he'd spilled.

Buffy never knew which of them got off on it more.

--but not good enough to make everything okay. Angel came to the funeral, she remembers that, seeing him in the sunlight dressed in his customary black suit--

"Sunshine's a good look for you," Buffy noted, because she didn't really know what else to say. Vampire Angel, she was used to dealing with, but human Angel made her palms sweat and made her long for a mirror to fix her hair. He was one of them now, the people she protected, and she had to put up an act for him, to make him think that she was okay, that everything was okay, and how could he do this today of all days, how could he become one of them when she needed him to be Angel more than ever?

"Not bursting into flames is a better one," he said, and she fleetingly wondered if he was feeling anything similar to what she was, but she couldn't deal with it, couldn't deal with anything beyond the grief that was about to choke her, so she smiled tightly and ran away from him as far and fast as she could.

--Spike apparently in tow, though she didn't see him until he came to Giles' flat late that night--

Her head hit the wall with a satisfying thud and her nails dug into the cool skin of his shoulders. She wanted him to hurt her, but he hadn't exactly been receptive to that idea since the soul, so she settled for letting him pound into her with preternaturally efficient movements, and it was exactly what she needed, the only thing that could possibly make her forget how unimaginably awful her day had been...

...except it never really worked like that at all, and she was sobbing as she came, but not in a good way, and she wondered if it was possible to hate herself for something she didn't regret doing.

-- to pay his respects. Angel never stopped by--

"He's always been remarkably good at doing what you tell him, pet," Spike told her. "Even when you don't say it out loud."

-- but Spike did, and she wonders to this day if he and Angel worked out some sort of Buffy Babysitting plan. The last time she saw Spike, he was sitting in Giles' flat as they packed away the last of her Watcher's things, a safe buffer zone between them--

"You obviously can't be trusted," he noted as he took a seat on the floor a few feet away from her. He needn't have bothered; the urge she had to destroy herself and everything around her had passed, but she left him the illusion of nobility anyway.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, because she'd been dying to know. Dawn hadn't even stayed this long, riding in with Faith on a motorcycle that made Buffy queasy just looking at it. Dawn wrote a letter a week from whatever port she and Faith had visited, and Buffy tried so hard not to be jealous that Faith was able to give Dawn the life she wanted most.

He sighed, and she thought of all the times that he and Angel both had done so in her presence, the totally unnecessary affectation that expressed annoyance, or satisfaction, or weariness. To Buffy, it spoke of their humanity clearer than anything else did.

"Figured you've spent a lot of time lashing out at people when you're hurting," he said. "And since I'm about the only person in your life not likely to take it personally, I figured it was my turn at bat." He smiled a little. "Call it personal atonement?"

It made her uncomfortable when he put it like that, because she felt like it should be the other way around, her atoning sins real and imagined to him, the souled Spike, the one who'd never done anything but love her when she couldn't love him back the way he wanted.

"Angel was going to come by," he added. "I talked him out of it. He's a bit on the raw side himself these days, as you can imagine. Shock to the system being a real boy after all. You'd do your damnedest to wreck things between you, and he's just stupid enough to let you, and then you're both in a state, and frankly, I don't have the patience to look after either of you."

"You used to look forward to destroying Angel," she pointed out, not to be spiteful, but as a simple point of curiosity. She wanted to see just how much things had changed.

A shrug was his elegant answer. Off her look, he elaborated. "Lost the taste for it," he said shortly. "Old bugger grows on you a bit, doesn't he?" He grinned. "Plus, there's hardly any sport in it at all now that he's human."

Buffy didn't answer. She really didn't see anything she could add that he didn't already know.

"I wanted to..." he said at last. "This is -- was -- you and I, we never really got--"

"Closure?" She smirked at him. "I didn't think you went in for pop psychology, Spike."

"Maybe I figure this habit I've got of knowing you so well might finally do you a bit of good, love," he said gently and she didn't answer, but she smiled at him, as real and blinding as she could manage at the time, and hoped he'd feel how grateful she was.

--and left for parts unknown. She's never seen him again and sometimes, she wonders how he is, if he's alive or not, if he's happy. She hopes. It's amazing how she's never lost that particular skill, how easy it is to pick the habit up again after years of neglect. One of Dawn's letters mentioned him once, talked about how drunk he and Faith got, how drunk Dawn got, and it was so hard thinking of her baby sister as all grown up. It still is. Dawn's happily married without children and Buffy sees her sister on holidays and whenever Buffy makes the trip to Morocco (home of some great Mediterranean food) with her husband. Dawn and Buffy visit Faith's grave together and pretend they haven't grown apart over the years. Sometimes, they don't even have to pretend.

It is one of these trips, before Buffy has a husband to call her own, that made Buffy realize: she's ready. She's cookies--

"You're not still using that stupid metaphor, are you?" Dawn wanted to know. She took a drag of her cigarette and Buffy tried very hard not to lecture about someone smoking a cancer stick calling her metaphor stupid.

"Fine, I'll ditch the metaphor," Buffy said. "I'm done. I've spent the bulk of my life fighting evil, or teaching other people how to fight evil, and I've finally realized something--"

"That you're done," Dawn said, as though it was obvious to her.

Buffy closed her mouth. "Fine. You think you know me so well -- please, educate me."

"Well -- actually, it's not me," Dawn confessed. "It's Faith."

That still had the power to make Buffy's blood boil. "So Faith thinks she knows me so well."

"She says you need to like, take a break," Dawn said, discarding her cigarette on the ground and stubbing it out with her heel. She and Faith had an apartment overlooking the ocean with a small balcony attached. Dawn smoked out there to keep from staining the furniture. Buffy didn't like to think about how they afforded it.

"So I'll break," Buffy said. "I'll cut back on the hours training the girls. I'll hire someone to help me."

"Who are you going to get to hang around some dusty old house who already knows a lot about demons and is willing to help you train a bunch of superhuman girls who's not already working with you?" Dawn asked.

It was at that point that it really sunk in for Buffy: Angel was human. Human. A two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old former vampire with a soul who spoke half a dozen languages and knew fighting styles invented before Giles was born.

"I am so dumb," Buffy said slowly.

It was kind of annoying that Dawn didn't disagree.

--and now all she needed was milk (at some point, Buffy did come to the conclusion that the cookie metaphor wasn't her finest moment).

The next time she saw Angel was at a wedding--

"Weddings and funerals," she said, walking up to him as boldly as she could manage, absurdly proud of herself for being able to work the cliché into conversation, "what are we, a romantic comedy?"

He laughed politely, though it hadn't been one of her better efforts. That was one of the things she loved about him, how he never stopped trying to be social for her sake even though he rarely had the patience for it. Or maybe that's something he'd picked up over the years being human. Did she even know him anymore?

"I suppose we should be careful, there could be a vicar lurking around here somewhere," he replied, and he was looking at her the way he used to in the beginning, back when he was trying to hide so much from her.

"Damn," she swore softly, "I guess pop culture had to catch up with you sooner or later."

"Bart Simpson waits for no man," he said sagely.

It was her turn to laugh, and some of the awkwardness melted away. They both opened their mouths to say something, and did the you go, no, you, no, I insist, you dance for a few moments before she moved her hand to grasp his wrist. It was a friendly movement meant to convey her insistence that he be the one to speak, but she'd forgotten what happened when she touched him, it had been so long she'd actually forgotten that he made her stomach drop out and her heart leap up into her throat and he was warm now, he was human and there was no reason in the world she couldn't touch him anywhere she wanted.

The realization was heady, and she belatedly wondered what the hell she'd been doing for the last six months while he'd been right here, or wherever he was (Willow had said Ireland, Buffy recalled in some far-off part of her mind), all warm-bodied and breathing and everything and how could she have possibly been this stupid.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, and she thought that maybe he'd just been thinking the same thing she had, only gender flipped and of course the locations changed and--

"The drinks are free," she said, and she could have kicked herself (which she could actually do, thanks to Slayer flexibility) but he didn't look daunted and she couldn't stop staring at him.

"Dance with me?" he asked and she didn't answer, but she took his hand and pulled him into the throng of happily paired-off people, and she figured that was better than a 'yes' anyway.

--and they managed to stay on the dance floor for three whole songs before they fled the reception--

"I forgot," she whispered after they made love for the first time in a decade, half-dressed bodies slick with perspiration and the fear of being caught in the coat room at Willow's wedding. He was always with her, a part of her, and it had been so easy to forget how much of him was missing that way. "I forgot."

"I didn't," he said, and they kept his room at the hotel for an extra day.

--and she makes sure not to forget the really important things now.

Buffy finds that memories are funny things. The older she gets, the less the tiny little clarifications she used to hinge her whole life on become blurred, almost inconsequential.

Was she in love with Spike? With Riley? She loved them. She knew that. It seemed to be all that mattered now, that she loved them and Xander and Giles and it was all so real and cut so deep in so many different ways, and the distinctions were lost to her. She's said these things to Angel before, and he's smiled and nodded in that sage way he's always had and she knows he feels the same about all the loves of his long, long life.

Buffy remembers sometimes the crazy fire in the forest that told her death was her gift, and she thought she understood it as she swan dove into inevitability; she thought she understood, and as she looks back now, she wonders if she's recalling it wrong, because she couldn't possibly have been so dense.

The memory of the First Slayer is so clear to Buffy it scares her sometimes that of all the things she can recall--

Death is your gift. Love. Give. Forgive.

--it is this that she hears whispering in her mind late at night when the house is still and her husband feigns sleep beside her in the hopes she'll stop thinking so much and drift off herself.

It was a prophecy she misread; it wasn't the first time, and she knows it probably won't be the last, even if she is better suited to research than slaying. There was no great defining moment, no close to a chapter. It wasn't the foretelling of a single event, or a dire warning of the future; it was her destiny, not as a Slayer, or a sister, or a lover, but as just Buffy.

These are just some of the things she thinks about when the house is too cold and her bones feel too restless for sleep.

"Go to sleep," he says to her, his eyes closed, the appearance of restful slumber worn easily after years of practice.

"You go to sleep," she replies, staring out the window at the garden below.

He grunts and rolls over until he's slung an arm around her hips, pulling her against him the way he has for the last twenty-five years. He's got a bad back and there's a suspicious lump on his throat; he started smoking for a couple of years after he turned human and the doctors are worried. A biopsy is scheduled for next week and she's scared because she doesn't know what she'd do without him.

"Please," he murmurs against her ear, "take pity on an old man and go to sleep."

"Girls are supposed to marry older men," she delights in telling him when he's grumbling, and he glares and she loves him so much she's afraid this is a dream, or a delusion, and she's rocking back and forth in a nuthouse somewhere with nurses clucking their tongues, saying she was such a pretty girl when they brought her in, and isn't it a shame...

Isn't it a shame.

"I’m going to sleep," she lies, and he lets out a sigh and tugs her closer until his nose is buried in her salt and pepper hair and she can feel him breathing against her neck. Nothing has ever comforted her more, and she knows that he knows it.

"I'll give you a backrub if you go to sleep," he bargains. He says whatever happens, they'll beat it, and if they can't, they'll deal. They've had twenty-seven years longer than he ever dreamed, and a girl in medical school who'll be proof they had their shot, long after they're both in the ground.

He reminds her every once in awhile how happy he is now that he knows he'll be in the ground someday. Their fifth wedding anniversary, he bought them plots, side by side, in an old cemetery in Ireland; it's a place his family would have been buried if there had been anyone left alive to bury them. It was the most meaningful present she'd ever received, and at least half of their friends had been horrified, particularly the fellow members of the PTA.

"Rain check," she counters, because the wrist he broke fifteen years ago still aches when it's cold, "and I promise to try."

"Deal," he says, and they lie quiet for a long time. Buffy closes her eyes and tries to sleep, because she promised.

"Angel," she says into the silence.

"Yeah," he answers.

I love you.

You've made me so happy.

You're the only person I don't feel alone with.

Our life makes me glad Willow brought me back.

When I can't remember anything, I can still remember you.

"My feet are cold," she says quietly, and he moves his legs so that she can tuck her toes between his calves.

"Better?"

"Yeah," she sighs. He's asleep. He does that now that he's alive, wide-awake one minute, telling secrets with her in the middle of the night, dead to the world the next. It makes her smile and banishes the tumult of memories she has to contend with to the back of her mind, at least for the next few hours.

"Totally worth it," she whispers softly into the darkness of their bedroom. She does this sometimes, too, when she's still awake. She tries to make amends for all the awful curses she'd hurled at the powers, at God, at whoever or whatever was up there for all the machinations they'd put her life through.

"Go to sleep," Angel grumbles. Suddenly awake and lucid. Freak.

"You go to sleep," she grumbles back.

But she's still smiling.

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"I was waiting for such a long time, she said. I thought you forgot. It's hard to forget I said, when there is such an empty space when you are gone." -- Hard to Forget, Storypeople

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Ducks' elements: B/A or B/Aus pairing, happy ending, a backrub, no AU, minimal Cordelia. I hope it's everything you could have wanted, babe!

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