the stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
In her dreams, it's always light out. It's been that way since she was sixteen and has yet to change.
She used to dream of him at Sunnydale High, in the courtyard, or at The Bronze. Once, she dreamed that they were together on a beach. It was sunset, his arms were around her, the tide rushing forward to soak their feet to the ankles, then drawing back. Back then, it had strictly been a one time dream thing - one of many surreal fantasies her mind cooked up the summer after junior year - that allowed her a blissful, peaceful slumber, and left her shattered the moment her eyes opened.
But that dream was quick to return here on the island. Her heart had jumped the moment she had heard it, that everyone became human here, without exception. But even she had to admit it was a dangerous line of thought; foolish, even. The thought was forced away as quickly as it had occurred to her, and Buffy made a conscious effort from then on not to consider the possibilities. It wasn't easy not to wonder, but she could manage, as long as she stayed awake. The simple fact that she tried to ignore it gave the idea power over her, and as soon as her eyes were closed and her breath slowed, she was back on that beach with Angel.
The pieces fall in place effortlessly, the truth she tries so hard to avoid nagging at her - they could be happy, if only Angel were human. Angel would be human, if only he were here. It figures that she would find herself alone in the one place they could be together without consequences.
Most days, her hopeless dreams of Angel set up camp at the back of her mind, her thoughts occupied with more current events, like disappearances and... appearances. Never his. But it's not like she hangs around the beach waiting, hoping with every glance to catch sight of his tall, dark, trench-coated outline. As hard as it is to accept things as they stand, Buffy can manage not to think about Angel all the time. She's good at it, out of necessity and years of practice.
She's good at it, up until something like this happens. It falls from the bookshelf innocently enough, previously pinned in place by two books, one of which Buffy had removed and returned just as quickly. She kneels down, then, to check on what she knocked over. Angel's voice answers in her head: It's a Claddagh ring. The hands represent friendship, the crown represents loyalty, and the heart... You know. Wear it with the heart pointing towards you. It means you belong to somebody.
Rising, slowly, to her feet, Buffy turns the ring over in her hands and slips it on over her ring finger, the heart pointed towards herself, just like Angel said. Then she claps a hand over her mouth, exhales hard, and feels the first few tears spill over.
She used to dream of him at Sunnydale High, in the courtyard, or at The Bronze. Once, she dreamed that they were together on a beach. It was sunset, his arms were around her, the tide rushing forward to soak their feet to the ankles, then drawing back. Back then, it had strictly been a one time dream thing - one of many surreal fantasies her mind cooked up the summer after junior year - that allowed her a blissful, peaceful slumber, and left her shattered the moment her eyes opened.
But that dream was quick to return here on the island. Her heart had jumped the moment she had heard it, that everyone became human here, without exception. But even she had to admit it was a dangerous line of thought; foolish, even. The thought was forced away as quickly as it had occurred to her, and Buffy made a conscious effort from then on not to consider the possibilities. It wasn't easy not to wonder, but she could manage, as long as she stayed awake. The simple fact that she tried to ignore it gave the idea power over her, and as soon as her eyes were closed and her breath slowed, she was back on that beach with Angel.
The pieces fall in place effortlessly, the truth she tries so hard to avoid nagging at her - they could be happy, if only Angel were human. Angel would be human, if only he were here. It figures that she would find herself alone in the one place they could be together without consequences.
Most days, her hopeless dreams of Angel set up camp at the back of her mind, her thoughts occupied with more current events, like disappearances and... appearances. Never his. But it's not like she hangs around the beach waiting, hoping with every glance to catch sight of his tall, dark, trench-coated outline. As hard as it is to accept things as they stand, Buffy can manage not to think about Angel all the time. She's good at it, out of necessity and years of practice.
She's good at it, up until something like this happens. It falls from the bookshelf innocently enough, previously pinned in place by two books, one of which Buffy had removed and returned just as quickly. She kneels down, then, to check on what she knocked over. Angel's voice answers in her head: It's a Claddagh ring. The hands represent friendship, the crown represents loyalty, and the heart... You know. Wear it with the heart pointing towards you. It means you belong to somebody.
Rising, slowly, to her feet, Buffy turns the ring over in her hands and slips it on over her ring finger, the heart pointed towards herself, just like Angel said. Then she claps a hand over her mouth, exhales hard, and feels the first few tears spill over.