the world was at my feet
Type; Fanfic
Fandom; Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Angel
Title; World At My Feet
Characters; Angel, Buffy
Pairing; Buffy/Angel
Rating; PG-13
Words; 1,200
Disclaimer; I own nothing. Unfortunately.
Summary; Years in the future, Angel stands at Buffy's grave. ( This fanfic takes place in Rome, and does not follow the comics/novels. Just FYI. )
Notes; Comments are adored!
Buffy Summers
1980 - 2016
Friend, Sister, Hero
Cool fingertips traced the indentations of letters in the marble tombstone gently, as if afraid that the slightest pressure would shatter it to pieces. They changed the words from the last one, Angel mused to himself. He would know, after all. He’d visited her first grave only once. It had been enough, because the image had forever been burned into his memory. The sigh that passed between pale lips was entirely unnecessary, just a way to expel some of the rising pressure in his chest. Kneeling in front of the headstone, Angel studied it even further. Just above the inscription was her picture. It was recent, maybe a year or so before she had died. She looked older, but no less beautiful. In the picture, Buffy was smiling, deepening the small lines around her eyes. If one looked hard enough, they could see the sprinkling of stray grey hairs here and there. ( He could just imagine Buffy’s voice complaining that she was greying too early, and that she had ‘mom’ hair. ) Radiant was the only word he could think of to describe her. His throat tightened painfully, and Angel attempted to swallow the lump of growing emotion there.
“Hi, Buffy.” Voice was hoarse, and nearly broke off at her name. Any other time, Angel might have felt borderline ridiculous, speaking to someone that could never reply. This time, he felt like he had to. Had to, or he would explode. The flowers, a large bouquet of lilies, was laid atop the headstone among the various other arrangements left by others. Chocolate-colored eyes gravitated to three stones atop of it, no doubt Willow’s doing. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have come sooner.” The funeral had been three days prior. Angel had only caught word of the Slayer’s demise two days before, and had booked the first Red Eye flight to Rome. When he arrived, Angel had managed to find Willow. He had avoided the others, wanting to let them grieve. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to bother the Wicca, but he needed answers. Through misted eyes and stumbled words, Willow had told him what had happened. It had been like a punch to the gut then, and the pain had yet to ebb away.
Angel had always known Buffy Summers would die an early death. There was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about that. But Buffy had more than passed everyone’s expectations. Even at eighteen, she had surpassed most of the Slayers’ life spans. At thirty-six? She was the oldest Slayer to ever live. When he had gotten word of her death, he had assumed the natural thing in that situation. He’d assumed that vampires, or demons, maybe even a hell god had gotten the best of her. Maybe she’d dropped her guard for a mere second, or maybe her emotions had lessened her defenses. Buffy always had been one to let her emotions come alone with her on patrol. She wasn’t just a hardened shell of a woman, like many Slayers had become. It was one of the many reasons Angel loved her. When he had spoken to Willow, what she revealed was so much worse than any of that. Worse than Buffy losing in the line of duty.
It had been an aneurism of all things.
His beautiful, strong Slayer hadn’t gone out in some big bang, no apocalyptic battle. Instead, she had died in the middle of a grocery store. There had been no signs, no kinds of precursors -- just the limp body of a thirty six year-old Slayer, and the rolling fruits that had fallen out of her hand basket. Angel shouldn’t have been so utterly shocked. Buffy’s mother had died the same way. Still, knowing that Buffy hadn’t died an honorable death, hadn’t gone out saving the world -- it hurt like hell. Maybe it was more merciful this way. The doctors had said there hadn’t been any pain. Not for Buffy, anyway. But for the people that had been left behind, it was more pain than they knew how to handle.
“I remembered,” His voice broke off in a soft sound of agony. The familiar, sharp sting of tears was felt just at his eyes, and he quickly blinked, one hand lifting to rub his eyes. “I remembered your birthday. I wanted to call. I’m sorry that I didn’t.” Fingers smoothed across her picture. “It’s hard to believe that you would be thirty seven next year.” He supposed for a Slayer, that was old. A record breaking age. But in the grand scheme of things, it was so young. Too young to die. “It seems just yesterday that you were seventeen years old.” A pained, small laugh passed between pale lips. “You were so damn stubborn. I doubt that changed.” If he knew Buffy as well as he thought he did, Angel figured she was just as stubborn until the moment her body crashed to the floor. She had always been so full of spirit. Now, she was buried beneath six feet of unforgiving dirt. And this time, she wouldn’t be clawing her way out of it. “You used to piss me off so righteously sometimes. You just wouldn’t give up, no matter the circumstances. That’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.” The tear that managed to make the slow journey down his cheek was left untouched. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” In over two hundred years, Angel had met many, many people. He had never loved any like this woman. And he was positive that he never would again.
Angel remained kneeled in front of her grave, speaking to a woman who would never be able to speak again. He stayed like that until he could smell the oncoming sunrise. Part of him didn’t want to move. He wanted to let the sun rise and turn his body to ash. Instead, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against the top of the cool marble. “I love you, Buffy Summers.” Angel stood on unsteady legs, and made his way out of the cemetery, making sure not to look back. He promised himself that he would never come back.
He did.
Every year, even long after Buffy’s circle of friends had headstones much like her own, he went to the same spot, with a fresh bouquet of white lilies. “It’s me again.” Angel kneeled, and stared at the picture of Buffy. She would have been ninety nine the final time that Angel visited. Final, because that was the time that Angel let the sun come up. As the first rays of light peeked above the horizon, he was floored by the sheer beauty of it. It was the first sunrise he had seen in centuries.
And as he felt his body begin to turn to ash, he was relieved that it would be his last.
Fandom; Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Angel
Title; World At My Feet
Characters; Angel, Buffy
Pairing; Buffy/Angel
Rating; PG-13
Words; 1,200
Disclaimer; I own nothing. Unfortunately.
Summary; Years in the future, Angel stands at Buffy's grave. ( This fanfic takes place in Rome, and does not follow the comics/novels. Just FYI. )
Notes; Comments are adored!
Buffy Summers
1980 - 2016
Friend, Sister, Hero
Cool fingertips traced the indentations of letters in the marble tombstone gently, as if afraid that the slightest pressure would shatter it to pieces. They changed the words from the last one, Angel mused to himself. He would know, after all. He’d visited her first grave only once. It had been enough, because the image had forever been burned into his memory. The sigh that passed between pale lips was entirely unnecessary, just a way to expel some of the rising pressure in his chest. Kneeling in front of the headstone, Angel studied it even further. Just above the inscription was her picture. It was recent, maybe a year or so before she had died. She looked older, but no less beautiful. In the picture, Buffy was smiling, deepening the small lines around her eyes. If one looked hard enough, they could see the sprinkling of stray grey hairs here and there. ( He could just imagine Buffy’s voice complaining that she was greying too early, and that she had ‘mom’ hair. ) Radiant was the only word he could think of to describe her. His throat tightened painfully, and Angel attempted to swallow the lump of growing emotion there.
“Hi, Buffy.” Voice was hoarse, and nearly broke off at her name. Any other time, Angel might have felt borderline ridiculous, speaking to someone that could never reply. This time, he felt like he had to. Had to, or he would explode. The flowers, a large bouquet of lilies, was laid atop the headstone among the various other arrangements left by others. Chocolate-colored eyes gravitated to three stones atop of it, no doubt Willow’s doing. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have come sooner.” The funeral had been three days prior. Angel had only caught word of the Slayer’s demise two days before, and had booked the first Red Eye flight to Rome. When he arrived, Angel had managed to find Willow. He had avoided the others, wanting to let them grieve. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to bother the Wicca, but he needed answers. Through misted eyes and stumbled words, Willow had told him what had happened. It had been like a punch to the gut then, and the pain had yet to ebb away.
Angel had always known Buffy Summers would die an early death. There was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about that. But Buffy had more than passed everyone’s expectations. Even at eighteen, she had surpassed most of the Slayers’ life spans. At thirty-six? She was the oldest Slayer to ever live. When he had gotten word of her death, he had assumed the natural thing in that situation. He’d assumed that vampires, or demons, maybe even a hell god had gotten the best of her. Maybe she’d dropped her guard for a mere second, or maybe her emotions had lessened her defenses. Buffy always had been one to let her emotions come alone with her on patrol. She wasn’t just a hardened shell of a woman, like many Slayers had become. It was one of the many reasons Angel loved her. When he had spoken to Willow, what she revealed was so much worse than any of that. Worse than Buffy losing in the line of duty.
It had been an aneurism of all things.
His beautiful, strong Slayer hadn’t gone out in some big bang, no apocalyptic battle. Instead, she had died in the middle of a grocery store. There had been no signs, no kinds of precursors -- just the limp body of a thirty six year-old Slayer, and the rolling fruits that had fallen out of her hand basket. Angel shouldn’t have been so utterly shocked. Buffy’s mother had died the same way. Still, knowing that Buffy hadn’t died an honorable death, hadn’t gone out saving the world -- it hurt like hell. Maybe it was more merciful this way. The doctors had said there hadn’t been any pain. Not for Buffy, anyway. But for the people that had been left behind, it was more pain than they knew how to handle.
“I remembered,” His voice broke off in a soft sound of agony. The familiar, sharp sting of tears was felt just at his eyes, and he quickly blinked, one hand lifting to rub his eyes. “I remembered your birthday. I wanted to call. I’m sorry that I didn’t.” Fingers smoothed across her picture. “It’s hard to believe that you would be thirty seven next year.” He supposed for a Slayer, that was old. A record breaking age. But in the grand scheme of things, it was so young. Too young to die. “It seems just yesterday that you were seventeen years old.” A pained, small laugh passed between pale lips. “You were so damn stubborn. I doubt that changed.” If he knew Buffy as well as he thought he did, Angel figured she was just as stubborn until the moment her body crashed to the floor. She had always been so full of spirit. Now, she was buried beneath six feet of unforgiving dirt. And this time, she wouldn’t be clawing her way out of it. “You used to piss me off so righteously sometimes. You just wouldn’t give up, no matter the circumstances. That’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.” The tear that managed to make the slow journey down his cheek was left untouched. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” In over two hundred years, Angel had met many, many people. He had never loved any like this woman. And he was positive that he never would again.
Angel remained kneeled in front of her grave, speaking to a woman who would never be able to speak again. He stayed like that until he could smell the oncoming sunrise. Part of him didn’t want to move. He wanted to let the sun rise and turn his body to ash. Instead, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against the top of the cool marble. “I love you, Buffy Summers.” Angel stood on unsteady legs, and made his way out of the cemetery, making sure not to look back. He promised himself that he would never come back.
He did.
Every year, even long after Buffy’s circle of friends had headstones much like her own, he went to the same spot, with a fresh bouquet of white lilies. “It’s me again.” Angel kneeled, and stared at the picture of Buffy. She would have been ninety nine the final time that Angel visited. Final, because that was the time that Angel let the sun come up. As the first rays of light peeked above the horizon, he was floored by the sheer beauty of it. It was the first sunrise he had seen in centuries.
And as he felt his body begin to turn to ash, he was relieved that it would be his last.