Guess Now Who Holds Thee

Disclaimer: Yes, even after all this time Joss and Co. still own the characters in a legal Wolfram & Hart contract-y way.

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Dedication: To the birthday boy! Happy Birthday Blade! I finished this yesterday but alas, yesterday’s eye exam means my eyes were dilated and thus unable to see much of anything. Still, enjoy!

Distribution: Sure! Just let me know where its posted and I can bake some yummy blueberry muffins for when I visit.

Rating: I’m going to say R because of hints of adult sexual situations. This is me we’re talking about.

Background: This takes place after the finales- after Angel Season Five’s Not Fade Away and naturally after Buffy Season Seven’s Chosen. This was a mini-challenge to myself, essentially a free association kind of thing. A character study, if you will. A bit of a departure from what I’ve written in the past, but I hope you’ll all enjoy. Took me in some strange and unexpected places, let me tell you!

The title and the first sentence of this fic comes from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s SONNETS OF THE PORTUGUESE. More specifically, the very first featured poem- “I Thought Once How Theocritus Had Sung..."

Not death, but love. Perhaps she meant la petite morte. Who can say? That was the form and she was the guide. Vagueness was so completely the given. She reads through the book again, remembering the words groaned aloud from the night before. It was something unexpected, catching her unawares. She never expected to hear those words again. Never, as Andrew would have modestly phrased it, during the nights they never left the house. Never when they were just curling up on the couch and snuggling. And certainly not in his sweaty embrace, as they nakedly tumbled into ecstasy. When she can feel him groaning inside her, just the sound of his pleasure brings about her own. Life with him was perfect and she knew in the marrow of her bones she could never be without him. She was spellbound by his love, together they would have eternity. Her musings take her back to the events of last night and her thoughts bring her back to Angel. The owner of the jacket she currently inhabited. A memento of the past, an old reminder of what once was. The rising sun shone its rays on the city of Rome and she thinks that right about now it’s bedtime for Angel. Definitely bedtime right now. She takes another sip of her espresso and wonders how he would take his morning coffee. Her immortal lover kisses those thoughts from her brain and has her shed the old coat in favor of morning seduction…

Not death, but love. It’s his daily reminder as he sweats in the concrete jungles of Africa. He is the heart. He is not death, he is love. He will not let her eyes haunt him, her smile distract him. He’s the Mbuna fish, it’s his new trademark. He sends it out to anybody. It’s what he does now. Well technically he finds and helps train slayers. But the Mbuna fish shop is the front. A lot of things are a front. He explains to one customer who is eyeing the Zebra variety that the males need two caves, their instinct is to hide. And to have threesomes with two women, er- females… fish! He doesn’t want to fumble up his undercover assignment. Maybe in that area he can beat Buffy. She never really did undercover well, just look at what happened in Rome. He does not want death to consume him as it did Buffy. He does not want immortal death as a lover, as Buffy has so clearly chosen for herself. But her smile is still there. He can feel her fingers as he pushes the necessary keys for the register to open. A terse, “Please go” is all the customer gets while being shoved out the door. He can hear his own voice now: “The Shopkeeper's Union of America called. They wanted me to tell you that ‘please go’ just got replaced with ‘Have a nice day.’”

Not death, but love. Yes, because “amor” fits into the internet crossword puzzle posted daily by O Globo. Unless the answer is “obito.” This is why she didn’t take Spanish in high school and why Portuguese bores her so now. She thinks her own Latin was good but she never seemed to do right by it. She spoke French with ease instead, as comfortable as an old friend. What was it that attracted her so much to one and not the other? Maybe with French, she felt like she learned more about the world and herself. She’d remember times at the Bronze with French and Buffy. The cow should touch me from Thursday. Maybe French makes her feel special, an inherent part of who she is. She used to think of Portuguese as a chance to continue on with how her life should be. Portuguese is practical. If she’s going to live the lifestyle of an honest-to-goodness Brazilian, then you’d be crazy not to take Portuguese. It reminds her of Latin. She misses Latin, but can’t speak Latin because it leads to magic. Latin is a dead language. It’s dead and it can’t ever be alive again. We’ve all taken different paths than we started out with. Just like Buffy took one road, Angel took another. Who thought they’d each be where they are now? Still, she finds herself trying to wrap her tongue around Portuguese and finds herself crying out for French. Je stink.

Not death, but love. He did this for love. Not death. Somewhere he hears the faint chimes of Ben, reminding him of the death of the night. Time is up. But not for him. He is left with a lifetime. He could make a trunk call to Willow. Possibly, her end of their latest translating project is done but he doesn’t think now would be a good idea. Or ever. Trunk calls got him into this unfortunate mess to begin with. He did it for love. He’s always done this for love. He didn’t expect to see the hurt and anger in Willow’s eyes. Or the detached calm and coldness Buffy received him in, usually a talent cultivated by his countrymen. Buffy never tolerated being lied to. She might have been able to do something. Help in anyway, but the time for helping has long since past for Miss Burkle. He hopes the passage of time will prevail over that. So much time had passed, Buffy so involved in her underground reconnaissance. Time can’t make him ever stop worrying about her. He stayed away because he thought time had decreed it. Yet nothing but the end of his time would ever keep him away from standing with her again. He had hoped to make up that lost time to her. But he always finds out he’s just standing in the way. There’s blood on his hands. And time can’t wash it away.

Not death, but love. She was certain of it: Cheesecake Love verses Death by Chocolate was the way to go for ice cream. She had enough of the bitter taste of death, she’s ready for the sweetness of love. Will she ever love? Can she? She doesn’t know. She wonders if she has her house key with her as she stands at the checkout. And then desperately tries not to snort. Key. Hee. Even if she did, Buffy and her immortal loverboy are probably playing naked-thrust-the-stake-harder! anyway. Maybe they’d gone clubbing tonight, though he never enjoyed public appearances- too humble for that. Still, he was a powerful guy and didn’t hesitate to shower those privileges all over Buffy. Because of love. Would she ever find a boyfriend like that to really love and not like, just… like? Would it ever be like that for her? She’d love it to be. She’d love to be loved. Unabashedly. Like everyday was the end of the world, only in a GOOD way. They always say the key is finding something you love, then finding a guy that loves what you love, then he could totally love you too. But what boys her age loved demon research? Hmm… That sounded like a very tall, handsome and formerly-Head-Boy-soon-to-be-actual-tenth-generation-Watcher she knew. If Buffy loves ice cream so much, she can get it herself. Bradley said he always did love watching late-night telly with something to eat…

Not death, but love. He is death. Has been even before he started drinking blood. He killed parties. He was the slayer of social gatherings well before he was the slayer of slayers. That is his rasion d’etre, you know. His life, unlife, whatever you buggers want to call it- is persistence. Being persistent about this type of thing always worked. Well, except for Cecily. And Dru. And yes even after damnable Harmony. Still, a fellow’s got to try. It’s his rasion d’etre. He likes the pain. Very much. Almost as much as the love, if you buggers call it that. He’s tried so many times but never seems to get it right. Stun gun. Chloroform. Ropes. Stakes. He even dramatically brought out some holy water, a confirmation of the demon within- as a scare tactic, for each time. His favorite was handcuffs with witch’s spells. But it never seems to work out. He doesn’t know what she sees in him- the big shot in Italy or wherever they go. This time is just the latest of the many failed attempts… maybe. There’s some glimmer of hope. This time, he knows he’s not going to fall. Ooh, gaw- a spike, by his own hand. Classic. Still, all he can see is his dirty and gritty love for giving her pain when he lets it RIP into his heart. That’s what did him in the end finally. Death doesn’t kill him. Love does.

Not death, but love. She paints her lips with the shade of Love, not Death tonight. Normally a Friday night at the cemetery means her victims get the dark red lips of Death. But tonight, she’s got a date. And just as he always does, he gets her to replace death with love. Death lures her, sometimes even taking on the shape of a kindly face with promises of Love. Promises of afternoons of moon pies in the office and surprises. The choice of Death or Love always confuses her, Death always masquerading as Love. The choice. She had to choose. Death and Love are not the same, no matter how much Death says he’ll treat you just like Love does. She realizes all too soon that Death can never live with Love in her life. Robin would do it himself. The decision was hers. Without Angel, she’d have never made it. She owed him everything. He tells her she acted purely in self-defense. It was him or her, but she knows the real choice. She can feel the stake stick into his chest, sliding into him and oozing the same dark red of Death as the lipstick she could wear at anytime. He flashes that red Deputy-Mayor-Allan-Finch-smile. She had to make a choice, she reminds herself once she reaches her date with Robin at the cemetery. She says hello to him by placing a kiss on his headstone.

Not death, but love. It’s what keeps Angel up and kickin’. If it’s good enough for Angel, then it’s good for him. He’s as guilty (and just as much a horse’s ass) as Ixion for wanting to be… dead. He survived. He has life. But he squanders it. He wants death now. He wishes he could stop wanting death. When death rolled into his streets, he pushed it back. He never realized until it was too late. Death didn’t stop when it turned to dust. Death invades from within- steals a bit of you each time it comes. Alonna. George. Fred. Wes. Until there’s nothing. And all you have left is you soul and your truck, and you sell out both just for 30 silver pieces and a brain-full of legalese. He doesn’t have anybody to fight for anymore. Not like Angel does. Although, if a brother had that blonde young thang keepin’ him busy 24/7, then it’d for sure give him somethin’ to live for. Mmm-hmm-mmm. Forget the dark-demon-ness inside her or that she could kill you where you stand by moonlight. The woman’s fine as hell and twice as hot. And… It’s an empty thought. He’s playin’. No real fire is in him. He’s dead, he’s been dead before. The electric touch of a woman fixed him. But it’s too late. He wonders if he has a heart to jumpstart anymore.

Not death, but love. Curious. This shell leaks with salt water. Tears. Cannot this shell unlearn its diminutive ways and adapt to the splendid glory of its new inhabitant? Ilyria caused tears. Ilyria did not shed them. Death is her choice. Ilyria does not choose love, Ilyria has never known it. The shell recoils at that. It bathes itself in love, sweats in it. Unacceptable. Grief floods this brain, drowning- its grasping fist shoving her deep in its wet suffocating severity. Death of one so insignificant, should not affect her so. Yet he does. His death does. The eliminated possibility of love does. Merely tricks of electricity. Electricity lies. Vestiges of the creature, the lullaby screams of the ocean in a broken shell. Now disjointed, sad whimpering whispers. Phantasms. He is nothing but a ghost. To accept otherwise is a lie, an illusion. But Angel is master illusionist. Conjurer. He lives in a world of illusions now, to be so affected by love. During his reign of the Black Thorn, Death was his only ally. Wreathing in lust with Nina… An illusion, all of it. He was stalking subjects, not in league with love- as any good warrior would. Still, the little blonde with violence in her bones makes for an excellent consort. They forge Death together. Yet, she sees Angel bandage her wounds with love. Suddenly, Wesley is conjured- and this shell leaks with tears. Curious…

Not death, but love. It’s the battle between the two that engages him now. As he dies, he’s surprised it’s not the dear and wished for years that flash before him instead. Straggling between death and love, he’s finally come to an earth-shattering conclusion: he’s just the right age for himself. And he loves that. He loves that suddenly, he’s not too young to walk forward and claim the wise man’s hat entitled: Watcher, Figher, Rogue Demon Hunter. And yet now his death means, he’s not too old to travel backward and shed the chains engraved: Torturer, Murderer, Betrayer. The innocent and the guilty, the ideal and the cynical all meet up in him now- at this very moment. As the years of life bleed out of him, it startles him to realize all he sees now is love and not death. The face of love looks upon him, his siren beckoning him to bask in the warmth of love. Gone is the decayed face of death, as he lies unconscious on the floor. Death to the tragic past he so easily manipulated. Their love slays the darkness. He loves the death of all his doubt, his worry, his heartbreak and anxiety of what he’s made of himself. He loves to exist in the spirit of the moment, dead to anything else but her. He’s in love with life, even as death comes to take him away.

Not death, but love. Can you blame a girl for just wanting love? It’s not her fault she just ends up getting death caught in her lovely, pretty teeth. Ever since she’s been dead, there’s been no love for her. No friends, no boyfriend, no anything- they’re all dead. Or undead, which is still a lovely shade of dead. She can feel the blood rushing around inside of her deadly body, but her heart doesn’t throb from this kiss and no love warms her heart. Bummer too, the last one seemed like such a choice catch for love. She couldn’t help it, she only wanted his love. You can’t blame her because he died-died. But there was just so much blood, pumping away. He was never really THAT good looking in high school anyway. And really, she was probably the most exciting thing that would have happened to him on his fall break in Cancun. Ted’s a young, hot guy and all he does is yap his flap about stupid Ginger Bates-Chervin. Who actually marries their high-school sweetheart anymore? Stupid Ginger. Stupid Ted. After she showed him her unicorn tattoo too! She hides the body behind a dumpster with a sigh. God, you’d think he’d be over her by now or whatever, they aren’t in high school anymore. At least there’s Ginger for desert. Death to high school love, totally.

Not death, but love. That’s what he wants for her, and why he ever had any strength to leave her. It’s the reminder that makes him a little less cold on those nights without her. He hopes this is not the death of their love. Then come her letters. Locked away in the most secretive part of the Wolfram and Hart, exposed after the death. Letters of love. Of how she misses him, details of her new assignment, her sadness at his silence. He hardly notices the company contracts, written in blood about blood. It barely registers when Gunn explains. Hamilton’s blood, his death, has empowered him the most precious gift- love. Still he persists, once he completes the frantic rush to her door- this was not the death of all of love’s obstacles, merely one. He’s always and will always love her. But he is immortal, she is not. She cries at that, at the loneliness he felt without her words, at his recounts of the illusions he’d put on using Nina. At how after the inside attack against the Immortal- that’s no longer true. Frustration, pain, isolation- it’s all dead. Suddenly, it’s love, evening love, their love- naked love, dictating his love letters by stamping kisses on her bare back. Browning makes her smile and whisper, “I love you too” as they both fall into sated-but-not-for-long-sleep. He’s perfectly happy. And that’s when he realized he could only offer her love, not death. And it was fine by him.

THE END

"I thought once how Theocritus had sung..."

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,/o:p>

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,<

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, ---

'Guess now who holds thee?' --- 'Death,' I said. But, there,

The silver answer rang, --- 'Not Death, but Love.'

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

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