I guess I could tell her that the way she smiles at me makes my heart melt. Or that I'd do anything for her to rest those amazing green eyes on me for more than a second. I could tell her that her touch makes me forget how to breathe, or that when I stand next to her, the world disappears.
But it doesn't sound right. Words like that that sound false coming from me, too alien, even to myself, to make them sound sincere. If I think about it, I know why it all seems so strange.
I've never been here before.
Sex? Yeah, pretty much my only real strength. Let's face it, while I know sex can on occasion be the most intimate of experiences, a quick fuck is just a quick fuck; skin, breathing and sweat. And that's something I'm damn good at. I've had guys pin me to a wall and fuck me until I've screamed. I've had girls crying under my touch. But making love? That's a whole new game.
Buffy Summers is something different. Hell, I never even guessed we'd get this far. Sure, I've done straight girls before, playing on that one moment of curiosity and teasing it out of them until it became a full on exploration. But it always ended the same way. Their post climactic gaze suddenly changing from interest and desire to a look of fear and disgust as I took my touch away from them. The slamming of the door an decision to leave that part of themselves behind, and to pretend that they didn't just come in my mouth.
By I didn't really care. It was easier, after all, lying on torn sheets, breathing in the scent of sex and humanity alone, and not having to ask if it was all right to smoke in bed. And there'd always be someone new. A slightly different speed to orgasm, a different strength in the bucking of their hips, a different sound as their nails tore into my back. But guys, girls, straight, gay, the final words were always the same. Those three little words:
"I'll call you."
I'd laugh as the door closed, praying that someday, someone would say something more original. But I guess it was never worth the effort. Maybe I should have been grateful for those parting words, the only real certainty in my life. Me, I didn't even bother to say anything. That wasn't what I wanted them to remember me by anyway. What I wanted was the knowledge that the next screw they had, they'd compare it to what we had just done. And they'd always remember how they screamed for me.
I liked it. Just because I'm suddenly thinking way too much about Buffy doesn't mean I'll start denying the exhilaration of fucking someone I'd never see again. And if she ever asks, I'll tell her about the exquisite pain of a brick wall digging into your back, or a stranger's nails drawing blood. I'll tell her about the sex, and I'll tell her about the power.
That kind of truth will be easy to say, because to her, it'll sound like a fantasy.
I know she likes the danger. This is a girl who fucked a vampire, after all, but it was still about love. She's got one over on me there, all right. She had Angel.
She has Angel.
And that's where the uncertainty kicks in. How can I ever compare to that? The doomed love affair to end them all, passionate, illogical, and with only one reason they're not together. Circumstance.
It's weird, right? Who would ever think that I can get insecure? I fucking ooze confidence, my very presence makes breathing irregular and conversation stop. Yet I'm scared, and I have no idea what to do.
She's lying in my bed, her body, naked and smooth, draped over mine. I can hear every breath she takes as she struggles to regulate it, and I can still feel the dampness of sweat on her skin. But I don't know what it means.
I know what I want. I figured it out a long time ago, the first time I heard her name I knew I wanted her in my life. The first time I saw her, I knew I just wanted her. I could give her crap about destiny and fate and looking all my life for someone like her. I could tell her that I'd do anything for her.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be? The warm afterglow of love making, our bodies entwined and shining with the moon's pale reflection? Well, that's how we are now, and even then, saying what I want still feels like a lie.
It's not. I dreamed about this moment and how I would keep her from leaving. How she would ask me what I wanted, and would tell her with words that sounded like fucking poetry.
But it just feels stupid, and anyway, what if she doesn't want to know?
Suddenly, I feel the absence of her skin against mine, a cool breath of air dissolving the warmth of my body. She's moving, searching for something over the side of the bed. Her clothes. She's leaving.
Maybe it's better that way. She'll go to Angel, and I'll go to sleep. And then tomorrow, we'll act like nothing happened and we'll flirt a little, and slay, and it'll be fine.
It's not like I ever expected it to get this far, anyway.
She turns back to me, rolling onto her side and staring at me in a way that makes me want to beg her to stay. But fuck that. If I ever start begging, I'll fucking kill myself.
Then she does something I don't expect. She smiles softly, and brings her hand to my lips, touching her fingers to them lightly. Amazing how gentle someone so strong can be. She puts a cigarette into my mouth, and giggling at my surprised expression, lights it for me.
I look at her for a moment, propped up on her elbows and watching me intently. "You don't mind?" I ask quietly.
She shakes her head. "You like to smoke." She smiles at me, and leaning her head on one hand, wraps her other arm around my waist.
I chuckle and take a draw, lying on my back and watching her watch me in the moonlight.
And that's how we stay.
It might not seem much, but lying in bed, watching each other quietly, the rest of the world needn't even exist.
See, I'm in love.
And whatever happens, someday I'll have to thank her for this moment.