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1860
“Whatever is the matter Stephan? You look as if someone died!” Alyssa
exclaimed, entering the room where her Watcher sat, looking extremely grim.
“I found the date,” he said quietly.
“About time! I thought that book was supposed to help,” she said, waving a hand at a thick, musty tome that sat on the corner of his desk.
“It did. Only not as well as I thought it would,” he replied. She sighed and wrinkled her nose, perching on the table.
“Distinctions. All right, out with it. What is the date? It’s not my birthday is it? That would be simply too much!” Alyssa exclaimed.
“Don’t sit on the table Alyssa. It’s unladylike. And no, it’s not your birthday,” Stephan said. Alyssa obligingly got off the table and sat properly in a chair.
“Good, that’s all right then. I don’t see why you look so grim. Now, about the ball, the invitations are all out and we have the orchestra, but we really ought to finalize the dinner menu,” Alyssa said, her mind going straight to her favorite topic—her coming out.
“You can’t have a coming out ball,” Stephan said. Alyssa was out of her chair in a second.
“What?” she shrieked.
“It’s the same night. Drusilla’s ‘party’ is to be the same night as your coming out ball. And Slaying comes first.”
“It can’t be! Are you absolutely sure? We already sent out the invitations Stephan! We have to have it! And I do not intend to let that-that-vampire steal my night!” Alyssa cried.
“She already has. There’s nothing we can do about it Alyssa. And you must be there, or at least be ready. You can depend on the fact that Angelus and William are not planning on music and dancing. They will go for blood and they will go for it that night. You must be ready. You cannot have a ball,” Stephan said firmly.
“I’m having it! I don’t care about Angelus or William or Drusilla or any of them! I want a life and I intend to have it! Starting with my ball! I won’t let them win!” Alyssa cried. She turned and ran out of the room before Stephan could reply. She ran up the stairs and into her room, not pausing for anything. Inside she threw herself on her bed to sob. They couldn’t do this to her . . . She wouldn’t let them. She would have a ball and she would dance to her hearts content. And then she would kill them all for trying to take that away from her.
Back in the library Stephan sighed closed his book, wishing there was something he could do. Anything. He knew Alyssa and once she had made up her mind she would not change it. And she had made up her mind to have that ball. Stupid, pointless frivolity. And yet it meant so much to her . . . Stephan didn’t understand it. But he often didn’t understand Alyssa. She was a mystery, to him, to everyone that knew her. She was the Slayer and she did not act like a Slayer should. But she was also the strongest Slayer he had ever heard of.
When he first met her he thought she was as empty-headed and annoying as most of the young ladies of the ton. And then he had seen her weep for her parents. And stop weeping, and take up a stake instead. He had seen her kill vampires without a qualm and worry over whether her hair had been mussed. And he had seen her risk her life to help one person she had never met. She was unlike anyone he had ever known. She was Alyssa. The Vampire Slayer. And herself.
And he loved her.
With that revelation in his heart Stephan began to make plans. Alyssa would have her party, if he had to die to give it to her.
1998
Buffy went to the Treehouse (it was called that because the upper stories
were supported and built around a huge log carved into the shape of a tree)
for two weeks and Mark came every night. On the way she usually met a
vampire or two, but they weren’t used to fighting a Slayer and they were
easy to take care of. With Mark she would sit and talk, and they danced a
few times, and Buffy started laughing a little more and stopped falling into
brooding silences so much. And then one night, there was a voice and
everything changed.
“Are you together?” it asked. Buffy stiffened and stopped breathing, afraid to move in case it was a dream, afraid to turn in case it wasn’t really him. Mark opened his mouth to answer but Buffy cut in.
“No,” she said.
“I hoped not,” the voice said. Buffy began to tremble.
“I’m sorry Angel. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.
“Forgiven,” he whispered. Forgiven. He had forgiven her. Mark looked from Buffy—who was crying and still could not turn—to this stranger, who stood there without expression in his face.
“Wait a second,” he interrupted. “She comes here every night for two weeks to wait for you, and then when you do show up, you not only make her cry, but she says she’s sorry?” Angel didn’t even look at Mark. His whole behind was focused on Buffy.
“I wanted to come before. I tried. But it takes a while to recover from Hell,” Angel said softly. There was a soft cry from Buffy and then she had turned and was off her seat, in his arms. She reached up and traced the line of his jaw, his mouth.
“I’m so sorry. How can you forgive me?” she asked.
“I remembered,” he answered.
“Oh,” she breathed. That explained everything. He remembered what he had done, and he remembered why she had done what she had done. “I’m sorry. Not that you know why I did it—I’m glad of that, because you don’t hate me—but that you have to know what happened. That you have to know everything. Because it wasn’t you, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Wait a second, what wasn’t his fault? And what did he remember?” Mark asked, breaking in. Angel looked at him for the first time.
“Angel, this is Mark Goodman. Mark, this is Angel. Mark’s been keeping me company while I waited,” Buffy explained, reaching up to wipe away her last tears.
“Thank you,” Angel said softly. Mark looked suprised.
“It wasn’t for you,” he said.
“I know,” Angel replied. “Thank you anyway.”
“Mark, we have to go and talk. You wouldn’t understand what we’re talking about anyway—sometimes I don’t even understand it. Thank you for everything,” Buffy said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. He shrugged.
“I knew you’d leave sooner or later. It was my pleasure though. I’m glad he came. Finally.” Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes at him, then smiled a little again.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good bye,” Mark said. Buffy nodded, accepting the truth of the statement, and then took Angel’s hand and led him out of the club, into the dark night outside. They stepped past a few people standing outside smoking and turned the corner into the alley. There she stopped and turned to him.
“How did you get out?” Buffy asked. Angel smiled—his wry, half-smile that she loved.
“They didn’t really like me there,” he said. Buffy smiled slightly. His expression became serious suddenly. “Buffy, I have to tell you something. Even before I remembered, when I was in Hell . . . everything I saw, everything that happened to me—it was losing you. For me, Hell was killing you, or having you hate me, or seeing you die . . . or never forgiving you and living without you forever. I knew then that no matter what had happened, I had to tell you how much I still love you and ask you to take me back.”
“How could I not? Angel, you’re everything to me. You didn’t do any of those horrible things . . . it was the demon. Angelus. It wasn’t you. And even if it had been . . . I think sending you to Hell was punishment enough. I was so afraid that you’d hate me. When I did it—the look in your eyes when you knew I had betrayed you . . . if you can forget, how can I not?” Buffy asked, close to tears again. Angel cupped her cheek, stroking away the moisture from her eyes. She took a deep, ragged breath, and then turned her face into his hand, kissing it. And then he was kissing her, really, and for a moment everything was all right again. Everything was just as it should be. She was in Angel’s arms again and it was all right. He had forgiven her. If she could forgive herself.
Buffy felt like she would explode. The feel of his mouth on hers again . . .
There could never be anything like kissing Angel. This was where she was
meant to be, forever. She was home. Angel had forgiven her, and she was
home.