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Innocent Bystander
Author:
Lokoa (mehlk@netzero.net)
Distribution: All you gotta do is ask
Disclaimer:
I keep asking Joss, but he hasn’t returned my calls. The song
"Bells" and its lyrics at the end do not belong to me, either.
Rating:
PG
Spoilers:
Well, nothing too specific aside from "Chosen", but let’s be safe
and say the B/A saga
Pairing:
As if this is EVEN needed – B/A
Synopsis:
Takes place about a year after the BtVS finale. Since Fred’s first moments
back in L.A., her life was again toppled by one name - "Buffy".
People don’t give Fred enough credit. She’s been displayed as one who kind
of shys away and is unaware of Angel’s history…but oh contraire. Do you
really think she never took it upon herself to ask questions? I don’t think
so.
Notes:
Written in Fred’s POV
Feedback:
It’s been a while – I’m probably rusty. So any thoughts/comments would be
mucho appreciated
Dedication:
To my wonderful DSS Karen. SMOOCH And to the B/A story as well as
for those who’ve been swept away by it. I also want to give a quick mention
to Chrislee and how much her fic has inspired me to pick up a pen a write
again. Though I’m sure she has no idea, but that’s beside the point. ;)
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It’s bizarre how life chooses to take the twists and turns it does.
You know, like one day you’re harmlessly reciting strange words from a book
because, well, they’re strange and you’re interested in the composition of
such foreign words, only to find that curiosity does kill the cat, and
consequently you live (survive) the next years of your life (this can’t be
my life) trapped in a misanthropic dimension.
Yeah, kind of like that.
Or maybe it’s for the defective amusement of the Higher Powers that
we are so convinced are the "good guys". A cat and mouse chase,
where we're always their mouse.
Sometimes I don’t know why we keep fighting (almost dying) for all
mighty beings who reward our victories with the gift of an even more
dexterous opponent whom we must put more sweat, more blood, more loss, into
defeating. But I never voice this, of course, because what would be the
point?
And then I feel guilty for these thoughts because here I am with a
rather gracious life compared to one
two-hundred-fourty-six-year-old-redemption-seeking-brooding-vampire-with-a-soul
(Whew!) who can still find someplace in his heart to compel him to keep
fighting. Well, maybe it’s not his heart that gives him the strength
precisely – maybe it’s the petite blonde standing in front of him in the
lobby.
She hasn’t been here but twenty minutes (hours?) but in those minutes,
the air around us has been effectively altered, prickling against my skin
and creating a warmth that was absent but moments ago.
This young woman has to be Buffy.
Lorne shifts beside me, his sequenced suit rubbing together,
creating a rip in our silence. We watch through the safety of the office,
not meaning to stare, but unable to tear our eyes away.
"It’s his Queen," he says in that musical way that only
Lorne can.
"Queen?" I whisper, unsure of why I do so, but knowing
that it feels appropriate.
"Of his heart, pumpkin."
I blink at his words and watch as Angel reaches (strains) for her,
grazing her arm, and resting his strong hand against her cheek. She turns
her face into him, eyes closed, and brings her hand to rest against his.
This looks like a practiced routine between them, beautiful in its
simplicity, extraordinary in its even more complex meaning.
Through the memories of Cordelia (The Buffy and Angel show? Fred,
honey, how much time do you have? Because I guarantee we’ll need more) Wesley
(No documents have ever recorded such an occurrence. Eternal love shared by
a vampire and a slayer. It’s dangerous, practically impossible. Yet theirs
is unbreakable) and even through the visits of Willow (I don’t even know if
it can be put into words, Fred. Buffy and Angel are a forever type of deal,
no matter how separate their lives run. Their hearts were given to each
other long ago) I was able to form a picture, however jumbled and distorted
it was, of two people destined to love, lose, and inescapably love again.
The rules of science, rules that I’ve studied throughout my life
and pride myself on believing, merely do not apply in love. Love cannot be
defined in dissertations and theorems, it can only be explained by stating
its state of unexplainability.
I learn this now as I watch the two of them (a single soul) and
though I know there must be so many stories between them I will never know,
it hardly matters. A back history isn’t needed to see the emotion they
share. It’s bright (blinding) and painfully obvious if you just open your
heart and look.
They’re staring at each other now, bodies a breath apart, and I’d
bet my whole study of Newton’s undiscovered laws that if the world crumbled
around them all they would see was each other.
I wish someone would look at me like that. I used to wish Angel
would be the someone to look at me like that. But to be in Buffy’s
shoes…I’m not so sure I would have made it. To have heard the late night
stories (run-for-your-life-or-fight-to-your-death-the-world-is-surely-ending-this-time
stories) Cordy and Wesley used to remember together about their long ago
lives in Sunnydale, always when Angel never seemed to be around, and
knowing that the Slayer had to have been right in the thick of it just puts
things in perspective.
And even if I could have gotten through all (all all all all all)
of that, I would have surely collapsed under the heartache of their
relationship. Even the scratchy surfacy knowledge I have of Buffy and Angel
is enough to make me stand in awe right now as I witness a meant to be
reunion that was never meant to.
The dreamer in me aches to experience even a shadow of eternal
love. Could Wesley and I have ever gotten somewhere close? We’ll never
know. But it’s just not meant to be easily attained. A simple, concise
answer for the scientist in me to comfort and soothe the thoughts of the
little girl on the other side.
Maybe.
Someday.
But for now I feel a kind of peace as lips meet in a soft sigh I
swear I hear even in the office. Her hands wrap around his neck, pulling,
molding his body into hers. One of his rests at the small of her back, and
the other is content in the act of twisting her golden locks between his
fingertips – something I am almost certain he is unconscious of.
Is it odd for me to feel this way in seeing them together, to see
the practically palpable joy surrounding them? I don’t know. Probably. It’s
not even though as if I’ve been a dear friend of theirs along this journey.
I’m just somebody who has collected facts over time, a witness to the
ability of broken rules.
I must be smiling because Lorne pats me gently on the back, one of
his own on his green, amiable face. "In the end, everything will be
okay. And if it’s not okay, it’s not the end," he reveals, offering no
further explanation.
I play the words over again in my head, chewing and digesting. No
words were ever more fitting for the couple. They’ve gone through so much
to reach their end (new beginning) and their emotion is surging through
their bodies as they link hands, two lovers, two warriors, two normal
people.
She’s leading him to the table now and I see a flat object resting
on its surface. I had forgotten she’d first brought that with her in the
maelstrom of emotion that swept through the room with her entrance. It’s
sealed in its mystery and she reaches for the lid with only one hand,
unwilling to break their contact.
She reveals the contents hidden beneath, but from my position in
the office, I cannot make out what is so secret. Maybe a symbol shared
between them, a gift, or something from their past they identify with
together.
"Hm, smells like cookies." I look at Lorne. I was just
thinking the same thing.
Whatever it is has Angel beaming like I have never seen him before
as he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers. The look is
indescribable and I wouldn’t even try to detail it.
They’re gone now, as the door leading from the lobby into the night
creaks shut behind them. I wonder where they’ll go to, and if it even
matters as long as they’re together. Angel didn’t leave a note, didn’t call
back to Lorne or I with a place to reach him should something suddenly come
up.
Maybe he’s gone off to tell her about Shanshu. How Wesley recently
discovered its much more recent approach, sooner than any of us ever
expected. Months even. On his heels at a deadly accurate pace.
But I have a feeling it's more than that. I have a feeling he’ll be
gone for a while.
I’m left with a final thought before Lorne and I make our way out
of the office. A thought on life and its bizarre (thank god they do so)
choice of twists and turns.
If the war we’ve been living
Would cease to be, let us live again
If the chains that have held us
Would break away and set us free
Then my heart like an eagle
Would fly away into the blue
Close the book, quietly disappear
My darling
If only you
Bells
End
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