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Disclaimer: I don't own them. Joss does, and if he doesn't start being nicer to them, my friends and I are planning a *massive* barbacue. Ever seen Fried Green Tomatoes? Let's put it this way. I *love* the way they get rid of the evidence. The point of this is that I'm not connected with the show in any way, and I'm not making money off of this. Oh, I took the titles to the parts from the song Full of Grace, by Sarah McLachlan, except for the last one, which is from You're Still the One by Shania Twain. I don't own those either.
Author's Notes: I wrote this over the summer. Before you read this, you must know one thing: I was *extremely* bitter about last season's finale. That basically explains this whole story. One more thing: if you don't like Buffy/Angel-centric fanfic, do not read this. You will not like it. Enjoy!!!
Letting Go
Part 1
About a mile outside of Sunnydale, the bus screeched to a stop. A young girl got out. She was wearing baggy overalls and she clutched her coat tightly around her. There was a leather duffel bag on her shoulder. She stood and watched the bus as it drove away, her eyes red. It looked as if she had been crying for a long time, and had only stopped because there were no tears left. Slowly, Buffy Summers turned back in the direction she had come from. She was headed for the last place she could remember feeling happy. She hadn’t been back there since that night, but it was safe now. The dangers of that place were gone, along with Angelus, and Angel. She was going to his apartment.
When Angel came to, he was lying on the floor in a small room. There was one door, heavy wood with a lock that looked like it was made out of iron, and no windows. The floor was rocky and uneven, and spikes stuck out of the walls. Slowly, he became aware of an excruciating pain in his stomach. He looked down, and saw the sword that ran completely through his body.
And then the memories hit.
Buffy’s face, twisted in pain as he mocked their night together. Willow’s eyes wide with fear as he threatened to sink his fangs into her neck. Jenny, running from him just before he snapped her neck. The hatred on Giles’ face as he tried to gain revenge for her. The mixed fear and hate as Xander watched him try to destroy his friends. Buffy again, cowering against the wall as he prepared to kill her. Finally, the set, blank, expression on her face, the expression that meant that she was trying not to scream, or cry, or even feel, as she watched Acathala suck him into.....wherever he had been sucked into.
He lived months in minutes. As he struggled to sit up, he remembered where the vortex of Acathala led to. < So > he thought < this is what my hell is. Trapped with a sword through my gut remembering every single torture that I ever visited upon my friends. Not so different from the *first* time they gave me my soul back. > A wave of pain left him writhing on the floor. < Except for the sword. >
Buffy reached the apartment a little after nightfall. She’d waited on the outskirts of town until the sun went down, trying to dodge the cops. She didn’t know whether or not she was cleared of killing Kendra. Not that it would matter soon.
She let herself in and dropped her bag and her coat on the floor. It looked the same as the last time she’d been there. Buffy sighed in relief. She’d been afraid that Angelus might have “redecorated” in his spare time, but it looked like he hadn’t come back since the day after.....since she’d been there.
< All right, Angel, > she thought as she looked around the apartment. < At *some* point in your life you must have had a knife, and you’re not exactly the type of person who throws things away. Where would you keep it? > Buffy closed her eyes for a moment when she realized that she’d been talking to him in her head as if he were still there. She shook her head to clear it, and tried to think.
The apartment had one big main room, an alcove for the bed, and a door which she thought led to a bathroom, although she’d never looked. There were....*things* everywhere. Artifacts. Objects he must have thought worth keeping. She didn’t bother to look at them. She’d seen most of them before, and they weren’t what she was looking for anyway. There was a desk against one wall, near a bunch of pictures. < Maybe there... > she thought.
As she moved towards the desk, she couldn’t help but look more closely at the pictures on the wall. No, wait. They weren’t pictures, they were *drawings*. She sometimes forgot that Angel was - she swallowed hard - had been an artist. The drawings were all of people, most of them contorted with terrible fear in their eyes. < Why did he draw these? > she asked herself. They were horrible to look at, these terrified people. As she stood staring in fascinated horror, she noticed two pictures that were different. One was the largest picture on the wall. It hung to the left of the others, and it was a portrait, the head and shoulders of a girl. She didn’t look afraid. He had drawn her looking off to the right, a small smile on her face. She had dark hair and dark, laughing eyes, and she was dressed like the pictures of gypsies that Buffy had seen. < Who is she? > There was something strangely familiar about the girl. < She looks like Ms. Calendar > Buffy thought suddenly. It was true. Shorter hair, and more modern clothes, and the girl could have passed as the computer teacher. Once again, Buffy wondered who she was.
Her eyes wandered over the other drawings. The second picture that caught her attention was little more than a sketch. It was unframed, and had been tacked to the wall above the desk. She spread the curling edges flat and examined it. It showed a young man dressed in old fashioned clothes, with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail at the back of his neck. He was tall, and although he wasn’t smiling, his eyes looked as if he wanted to. They were full of laughter. He looked like the sort of person who would play practical jokes on people, and then apologize - and mean it - while he laughed. There was a dark handsomeness about him, the kind that would attract every girl for miles.
It was Angel. Angel as he must have been two hundred years ago, before he was changed. A lump rose in Buffy’s throat. < He has the same expression on his face that Xander gets sometimes > she thought. < When he’s about to laugh, but trying not to > The picture blurred before her eyes. She wished that she had known him then, before all the years of brooding and solitude. < Oh, God, I miss him so much. Why are you doing this to me? > She brushed the tears from her cheeks and began to search through the piles of paper on the desk. < Damnit, Angel, > she thought in desperation. < Don’t you even have a *letter opener*?!? >
“Second drawer down. On the left,” Angel muttered sleepily. He jerked himself away from his nightmares with a start. < I heard Buffy > he thought dazedly. < Why is she looking for my letter opener? >
< Second drawer down. On the left. >
Buffy stood stock-still. < I heard him. I heard Angel > she thought wildly. She took a deep breath and shook her head. < I haven’t slept in a while.....I must be hallucinating.....oh well, it wouldn’t hurt to look > She opened the drawer. A long knife with a jeweled handle lay on top. Buffy stared at it, eyes wide in disbelief. < Well, at least I’m having *accurate* hallucinations >
“NO!!!” Angel sat straight up, ignoring the pain from the sword. Somehow he knew what Buffy was trying to do. It was as if he could see into her thoughts. < I can’t let her. She can’t.... > Wincing, he reached down and grasped the hilt of the sword. Just touching it sent fresh waves of agony all over his body. < Think of Buffy > he reminded himself as he gritted his teeth against the pain. Taking a deep breath, he yanked the sword out. Blood began to pour from the wound. He was gasping, his eyes wide. < Buffy... > he thought. < Just keep thinking of Buffy.... > Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled to the door. < This is true hell. Knowing what she’s going to do, and not being able to stop her..... > Frantically, he searched for a weakness in the door.
< .....stop her..... >
Buffy’s head snapped up. “Angel!” she cried. < It’s only in my head. I haven’t slept in two days, I’m tired, *it’s just in my head*.... >
Shaking, she grasped the handle of the knife and took it out of the drawer. Testing the blade against her thumb, she drew blood. < Some letter opener... > She started to walk away from the desk, then turned back, pulled the tack that was holding the sketch of Angel up out of the wall, and took the picture with her.
Buffy sat down on the bed. She thought of her mother, and wished that things could have been different. < She should have tried to understand.....but maybe I should have tried harder to explain. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference.....I wonder if she misses me > She thought of school, and finals, and realized that she wouldn’t have to worry about *that* ever again. She thought of her friends. < Did Giles make it out ok? > Willow must have tried the spell again. < I hope she didn’t hurt herself worse.... > Had Xander known? He must have. Would it have made a difference if he had warned her? She wished he had, and felt angry with him for not letting her decide for herself.
She thought of Angel. His eyes, watching her while she did just about everything, waiting in the wings to make sure she was all right. Hunting with her, kissing her in the graveyard, kissing her as they sat on his bed..... She’d felt safe that night, lying in his arms. Safer than she’d felt anywhere else. She remembered the sound of the rain outside.
The knife felt heavy in her hand. She picked up the drawing to study it one last time.
Black spots were appearing in Angel’s vision. He dropped to his knees in
front of the door. “Buffy, don’t....*please*....” He touched the wound in
his stomach, and his hands became covered in his own blood. As he lapsed into
unconsciousness, he reached for the heavy, iron doorknob. He touched it, felt
his blood-covered hands slip, and then, to his amazement, he felt it
turning.....