Angel/Buffy Fic
Title: Revolutions
Author: Anna (bite_or_avoid)
Pairing: Angel/Buffy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,885
Disclaimer: Not mine, to my great dismay
Spoilers: None specifically, but references episodes from both series; picks up during NFA
Summary: So, she was a little late for the first act. But it totally wasn’t her fault. It’s not like anyone called to invite her, right?
When she sees him, after hell and damnation have rained upon his head, (Really, Angel? Did you really think you could pick an Apocalypse and I wouldn’t know?) he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
Granted, she’s never seen him thirty feet in the air with a dragon impaled on his sword either, but that’s neither here nor there.
Spike, on the other hand, is exactly the same vampire she remembers. He just looks at her and smirks.
"About time you showed up. Welcome to the party, luv.”
And then he’s off again, screaming obscenities at some big lug of nasty and well, that’s Spike for you.
She leads a battalion of Slayers and witches, and they’re just early enough to make a difference but also just late enough that her two former lovers are the only ones left of Angel’s makeshift army.
So, she was a little late for the first act. But it totally wasn’t her fault. It’s not like anyone called to invite her, right?
Anyway, in comes Buffy to save the day (which he clearly needed someone to do), and the whole thing is just an obscene mess like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not exactly Sunnydale circa 2003, but it’s pretty bad, and he really is a complete idiot to have charged in with no backup whatsoever.
(Although, to be fair, what would he have said? Hey, Buffy, I know you’ve led me to believe that you think I’m completely evil and not worth the stake it would take to…well, stake me, but you wanna fly halfway around the world and lend me a hand? Yeah, she couldn’t see that conversation going down either.)
She can’t even make him out in the carnage anymore, and she’s getting more pissy by the second because, honestly, she’s jetlagged from Willow’s mass teleport thingie, not to mention the fact that she’s still on Rome time, and it’s raining demons (and rain) all over her new suede boots.
Which is just… typical.
So, she gets busy with the kick-ass scythe and slashes her frustrations out. It’s pretty much working too, until what looks like a giant ball of fire tumbles out of the sky and crashes into the ground a few feet away.
As if the day just couldn’t get any better.
Turns out, ‘fireball’ was the dragon in its death throes, with Angel still hanging onto the sword in its neck.
Show-off.
But she’s happy to see him anyway, still in one piece, and she really thought he’d feel the same about her. Apparently there is no limit to the depth of her wrongness.
He just picks himself up off the ground, cleans the dragon goo off his insanely expensive- looking leather coat, grabs his broadsword out of said dragon, and storms past her. No hey Buffy, thanks for coming. Certainly no you look good, with the flirtiness, like last time.
She turns his “Well, at least you could tell me you’re glad to see me” back on him.
And, the nerve of the guy, he says:
“You shouldn’t have come.”
She wonders who this is and what he’s done with Angel.
***
The part that’s really, just rich, is that he says the same thing to Faith.
“You shouldn’t have come, Faith.”
Except it’s tender and grateful, as if he’s only looking out for her well-being, and really what the hell has been going on around here in the last year?
(It’s just that pesky hero complex of his acting up again, B.
Shut up Faith. You’re not helping.)
By this point they’ve actually fought off most of hell’s minions. They’re crashing at that hotel Angel used to own (for such a loner guy, he always did have a flair for the extravagant) and waiting for the next onslaught.
She has always hated waiting.
So it’s only reasonable that she’d get a little stir crazy. Right?
“I know that look, pet. You’re going to pick a fight with ol’ grumpypants.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about Spike. And…. grumpypants?”
“He’s grumpy. He wears pants. It’s not rocket science…. Can I watch?”
“No. Haven’t you had enough violence for one day?”
“Spoil-sport.”
“Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to.”
Naturally, the minute Spike leaves her alone (muttering something about having clearly been a century and half ahead of his time and some people knowing good prose when they hear it), she makes a bee-line for the pants in question.
And, naturally, she picks a fight.
***
She finds him in the honeymoon suite (there’s just not enough irony in the world), regaling Faith and Willow with tales of some alternate dimension where Cordy was a queen or something. Look who’s Mr. Social Butterfly all of a sudden.
The expression on his face when talking about the former cheerleader tells her everything she never wanted to know and would have never asked about their relationship.
Then again, it’s really hard to begrudge a girl who died (for good) at 23.
She leans against the doorframe and watches them-the Vampire, the Witch, and the Slayer-and wonders at the ease with which he carries himself now. He was always a good storyteller (he and Willow were the only reason she passed World History), but he was never this comfortable in his own skin before.
He shouldn’t be able to talk to them like this. But he can, because there’s something there she wasn’t privy to, and that’s the part that makes her pick the aforementioned fight.
“You know what’s funny? You can speak a gazillion dead demon languages, but you can’t talk to me in good old fashioned American-speak.”
Three pairs of eyes regard her warily. The women, at least, are smart enough to make a hasty departure.
“What do you want, Buffy?”
Now that the others are gone, his façade falters. His shoulders aren’t hunched in that self-conscious way they were before, but there is an air of defeat about him. His eyes though, are dark and sharp.
Darker. Sharper.
“I want you to talk to me.”
He laughs mirthlessly, derisively.
“Now all of a sudden you have something to say? Are you sure you don’t want to send Andrew to impart the message?”
She flinches.
“I deserve that.”
He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe it makes no difference whether she’s cookie dough or cookies; he’s not really big with the eating anyway. She hadn’t taken that into account when she’d made her little speech a year ago.
“If you would have just called instead of lurking around Rome…”
“I would have been told to get a life. I’m on my own. I haven’t forgotten.”
She flinches again. That one really wasn’t her fault.
“Angel, I’m sorry. Giles never--”
“It doesn’t matter. Thanks for the help, but it’s really not necessary.”
“Am I getting the macho-vamp brush-off?”
“It was under control.”
“Yeah, I caught that. You and Spike really had them on the run. Only though, what exactly were you gonna do when the sun came up?”
“Who says I thought we’d last that long?”
It’s the nonchalance in his voice that pisses her off the most. Like he knew he wasn’t going to make it the whole time, and that was just fine by him. Like he was back on a hill on Christmas Eve, waiting for the sun to burn him to ash.
After everything, him being cavalier about dying (or not existing, whatever) really makes her want to stake him.
Instead, she punches him. Really punches him. She has only ever punched him on two other occasions (him him; Angelus doesn’t count, because he’s not Angelus and she has always known they are completely separate.) But the first time was to save him, and the second time was for being all gropey on the couch with Faith, and this time is nothing like either of those. This time, she wants to knock some sense into that big, stubborn head of his.
This time, he doesn’t bite her or hit her back. He just stands there, hands fisted at his sides, eyes flashing, jaw clenching. His voice is gravely when he speaks.
“I’ve lost everyone, Buffy. Don’t you get that I can’t have you here?”
Maybe they are back on that hill after all, because the desire to help him, to protect him, overwhelms her as much as it did that night.
“You haven’t lost me, you idiot. You could never lose me.”
He’s never really done what she expected, so why should now be any different?
He kisses her.
Hard.
Like she hasn’t been kissed in ages.
She’s not timid, hasn’t been timid since Spike showed her the pleasure of pain.
She kisses him back.
***
He’s asleep, finally.
Starting an Apocalypse tends to wear a guy out.
Not to mention all the stuff with the slamming and the clothes-tearing and the sex of the supernatural variety.
She watches over him the way she did when he first came back from Hell. He looks exactly the same.
But he’s not.
When she was young (God, was she ever that young?), he was sexy mysterious guy, and then he was sexy forbidden guy, and that certainly wasn’t why she fell harder than getting knocked upside the head with a troll hammer, but when you’re sixteen those things definitely don’t hurt in the appeal department. Later, he was still sexy. But he was also Angel; soulful and broken and flawed, and that kind of made him even better. It made him better than anything, really; the deep brown orbs of ancient knowledge and sorrow peering out of his ageless face. She hadn’t known, not really, the burden he carried. The sins for which absolution would never come.
Now, she knows.
But he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
In fact, if she couldn’t feel it under her skin like an itch she can’t scratch, she’d swear he’s not a vampire at all.
And it’s not like he’s had this major lifestyle change or makeover or anything, (although he kind of has).
He’s still bossy and stubborn and ferocious in battle.
He’s still all about doing the ‘good, noble deeds’, which Spike never ceases to tease him for.
He’s still King of the Major Brood.
But he’s more of a man than she’s ever known him to be.
He’s determined and courageous, and he was those things before, but it’s like he has a purpose now. A reason for being, outside of her.
He’s connected to humanity in a way he never was; almost in step with it instead of forever chasing its shadow.
He’s lost nearly everyone he’s ever loved, and he’s still fighting.
He wears the finest Italian silk and leather, (although his tailor went up in smoke with the Black Thorn), even to the battlefield.
He likes hockey, and vintage cars, and 70’s sitcoms.
Honestly? He’s kind of a dork.
As much as someone who’s pushing 300 and is a total honey can be a dork.
This Angel/human hybrid; it’s more bizarro files than anything even the Initiative could’ve cooked up.
No, he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
Can I love who he is now? she asks herself.
And something inside answers, it’s time to find out.
Fin.
Author: Anna (bite_or_avoid)
Pairing: Angel/Buffy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,885
Disclaimer: Not mine, to my great dismay
Spoilers: None specifically, but references episodes from both series; picks up during NFA
Summary: So, she was a little late for the first act. But it totally wasn’t her fault. It’s not like anyone called to invite her, right?
When she sees him, after hell and damnation have rained upon his head, (Really, Angel? Did you really think you could pick an Apocalypse and I wouldn’t know?) he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
Granted, she’s never seen him thirty feet in the air with a dragon impaled on his sword either, but that’s neither here nor there.
Spike, on the other hand, is exactly the same vampire she remembers. He just looks at her and smirks.
"About time you showed up. Welcome to the party, luv.”
And then he’s off again, screaming obscenities at some big lug of nasty and well, that’s Spike for you.
She leads a battalion of Slayers and witches, and they’re just early enough to make a difference but also just late enough that her two former lovers are the only ones left of Angel’s makeshift army.
So, she was a little late for the first act. But it totally wasn’t her fault. It’s not like anyone called to invite her, right?
Anyway, in comes Buffy to save the day (which he clearly needed someone to do), and the whole thing is just an obscene mess like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not exactly Sunnydale circa 2003, but it’s pretty bad, and he really is a complete idiot to have charged in with no backup whatsoever.
(Although, to be fair, what would he have said? Hey, Buffy, I know you’ve led me to believe that you think I’m completely evil and not worth the stake it would take to…well, stake me, but you wanna fly halfway around the world and lend me a hand? Yeah, she couldn’t see that conversation going down either.)
She can’t even make him out in the carnage anymore, and she’s getting more pissy by the second because, honestly, she’s jetlagged from Willow’s mass teleport thingie, not to mention the fact that she’s still on Rome time, and it’s raining demons (and rain) all over her new suede boots.
Which is just… typical.
So, she gets busy with the kick-ass scythe and slashes her frustrations out. It’s pretty much working too, until what looks like a giant ball of fire tumbles out of the sky and crashes into the ground a few feet away.
As if the day just couldn’t get any better.
Turns out, ‘fireball’ was the dragon in its death throes, with Angel still hanging onto the sword in its neck.
Show-off.
But she’s happy to see him anyway, still in one piece, and she really thought he’d feel the same about her. Apparently there is no limit to the depth of her wrongness.
He just picks himself up off the ground, cleans the dragon goo off his insanely expensive- looking leather coat, grabs his broadsword out of said dragon, and storms past her. No hey Buffy, thanks for coming. Certainly no you look good, with the flirtiness, like last time.
She turns his “Well, at least you could tell me you’re glad to see me” back on him.
And, the nerve of the guy, he says:
“You shouldn’t have come.”
She wonders who this is and what he’s done with Angel.
***
The part that’s really, just rich, is that he says the same thing to Faith.
“You shouldn’t have come, Faith.”
Except it’s tender and grateful, as if he’s only looking out for her well-being, and really what the hell has been going on around here in the last year?
(It’s just that pesky hero complex of his acting up again, B.
Shut up Faith. You’re not helping.)
By this point they’ve actually fought off most of hell’s minions. They’re crashing at that hotel Angel used to own (for such a loner guy, he always did have a flair for the extravagant) and waiting for the next onslaught.
She has always hated waiting.
So it’s only reasonable that she’d get a little stir crazy. Right?
“I know that look, pet. You’re going to pick a fight with ol’ grumpypants.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about Spike. And…. grumpypants?”
“He’s grumpy. He wears pants. It’s not rocket science…. Can I watch?”
“No. Haven’t you had enough violence for one day?”
“Spoil-sport.”
“Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to.”
Naturally, the minute Spike leaves her alone (muttering something about having clearly been a century and half ahead of his time and some people knowing good prose when they hear it), she makes a bee-line for the pants in question.
And, naturally, she picks a fight.
***
She finds him in the honeymoon suite (there’s just not enough irony in the world), regaling Faith and Willow with tales of some alternate dimension where Cordy was a queen or something. Look who’s Mr. Social Butterfly all of a sudden.
The expression on his face when talking about the former cheerleader tells her everything she never wanted to know and would have never asked about their relationship.
Then again, it’s really hard to begrudge a girl who died (for good) at 23.
She leans against the doorframe and watches them-the Vampire, the Witch, and the Slayer-and wonders at the ease with which he carries himself now. He was always a good storyteller (he and Willow were the only reason she passed World History), but he was never this comfortable in his own skin before.
He shouldn’t be able to talk to them like this. But he can, because there’s something there she wasn’t privy to, and that’s the part that makes her pick the aforementioned fight.
“You know what’s funny? You can speak a gazillion dead demon languages, but you can’t talk to me in good old fashioned American-speak.”
Three pairs of eyes regard her warily. The women, at least, are smart enough to make a hasty departure.
“What do you want, Buffy?”
Now that the others are gone, his façade falters. His shoulders aren’t hunched in that self-conscious way they were before, but there is an air of defeat about him. His eyes though, are dark and sharp.
Darker. Sharper.
“I want you to talk to me.”
He laughs mirthlessly, derisively.
“Now all of a sudden you have something to say? Are you sure you don’t want to send Andrew to impart the message?”
She flinches.
“I deserve that.”
He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe it makes no difference whether she’s cookie dough or cookies; he’s not really big with the eating anyway. She hadn’t taken that into account when she’d made her little speech a year ago.
“If you would have just called instead of lurking around Rome…”
“I would have been told to get a life. I’m on my own. I haven’t forgotten.”
She flinches again. That one really wasn’t her fault.
“Angel, I’m sorry. Giles never--”
“It doesn’t matter. Thanks for the help, but it’s really not necessary.”
“Am I getting the macho-vamp brush-off?”
“It was under control.”
“Yeah, I caught that. You and Spike really had them on the run. Only though, what exactly were you gonna do when the sun came up?”
“Who says I thought we’d last that long?”
It’s the nonchalance in his voice that pisses her off the most. Like he knew he wasn’t going to make it the whole time, and that was just fine by him. Like he was back on a hill on Christmas Eve, waiting for the sun to burn him to ash.
After everything, him being cavalier about dying (or not existing, whatever) really makes her want to stake him.
Instead, she punches him. Really punches him. She has only ever punched him on two other occasions (him him; Angelus doesn’t count, because he’s not Angelus and she has always known they are completely separate.) But the first time was to save him, and the second time was for being all gropey on the couch with Faith, and this time is nothing like either of those. This time, she wants to knock some sense into that big, stubborn head of his.
This time, he doesn’t bite her or hit her back. He just stands there, hands fisted at his sides, eyes flashing, jaw clenching. His voice is gravely when he speaks.
“I’ve lost everyone, Buffy. Don’t you get that I can’t have you here?”
Maybe they are back on that hill after all, because the desire to help him, to protect him, overwhelms her as much as it did that night.
“You haven’t lost me, you idiot. You could never lose me.”
He’s never really done what she expected, so why should now be any different?
He kisses her.
Hard.
Like she hasn’t been kissed in ages.
She’s not timid, hasn’t been timid since Spike showed her the pleasure of pain.
She kisses him back.
***
He’s asleep, finally.
Starting an Apocalypse tends to wear a guy out.
Not to mention all the stuff with the slamming and the clothes-tearing and the sex of the supernatural variety.
She watches over him the way she did when he first came back from Hell. He looks exactly the same.
But he’s not.
When she was young (God, was she ever that young?), he was sexy mysterious guy, and then he was sexy forbidden guy, and that certainly wasn’t why she fell harder than getting knocked upside the head with a troll hammer, but when you’re sixteen those things definitely don’t hurt in the appeal department. Later, he was still sexy. But he was also Angel; soulful and broken and flawed, and that kind of made him even better. It made him better than anything, really; the deep brown orbs of ancient knowledge and sorrow peering out of his ageless face. She hadn’t known, not really, the burden he carried. The sins for which absolution would never come.
Now, she knows.
But he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
In fact, if she couldn’t feel it under her skin like an itch she can’t scratch, she’d swear he’s not a vampire at all.
And it’s not like he’s had this major lifestyle change or makeover or anything, (although he kind of has).
He’s still bossy and stubborn and ferocious in battle.
He’s still all about doing the ‘good, noble deeds’, which Spike never ceases to tease him for.
He’s still King of the Major Brood.
But he’s more of a man than she’s ever known him to be.
He’s determined and courageous, and he was those things before, but it’s like he has a purpose now. A reason for being, outside of her.
He’s connected to humanity in a way he never was; almost in step with it instead of forever chasing its shadow.
He’s lost nearly everyone he’s ever loved, and he’s still fighting.
He wears the finest Italian silk and leather, (although his tailor went up in smoke with the Black Thorn), even to the battlefield.
He likes hockey, and vintage cars, and 70’s sitcoms.
Honestly? He’s kind of a dork.
As much as someone who’s pushing 300 and is a total honey can be a dork.
This Angel/human hybrid; it’s more bizarro files than anything even the Initiative could’ve cooked up.
No, he’s not the same vampire she remembers.
Can I love who he is now? she asks herself.
And something inside answers, it’s time to find out.
Fin.