He's sleeping now, despite the damn sunlight streaming in the window. I don't mean damn at all though. Not really. I take a quick glance at the bedside clock. 5:20. The sun is just peaking over the horizon and I find it hard to stop staring.
In the zebra stripes of natural light, it's obvious that his skin is beyond pale. It's as if he's a newborn that hasn't been exposed to the world yet. I wonder if his hair will lighten at all once he's outside on a regular basis. Maybe some reddish highlights, thinking of his background. His mouth is open and there's the tiniest bit of drool in the corner. I almost touch it but I don't want to wake him. I feel a little guilt about tiring him out so thoroughly, but at the same time I'm happy he's sleeping so peacefully. His last year in Sunnydale, he didn't. I would sneak into the mansion during the day sometimes and he would be thrashing and moaning in his sleep. I never tried to help because I suspected the only thing that might soothe him was comfort I wasn't allowed to give.
He's more fully bathed in natural light now and I stare at his chest for a moment, the way it moves up and down because it has to. The top sheet is pushed down to his hips and my eyes trace the line of his body, the way his flank curves, the sprinkle of hair under his bellybutton, the foot that's just peeking out. He's a big man and I grin a little to myself. I'm not exactly experienced, but I suspect that big all over is not a misnomer.
My smile gets a little wider. I think about the hours we've spent or, more accurately, how we've spent them and I think calling myself inexperienced might be a lie at this point. And then my smile fades as I think about the damn sunlight again. It was all so easy yesterday as we spent the night learning each other's bodies. But now I'm forced to wonder.
He can't watch my back any more; it would be way too dangerous. It's the reason I don't take Will and Xander on patrol with me anymore. But I can't imagine Angel sitting idly by. Then again, he's already proficient with a sword. Maybe he could become a crack shot with a crossbow. My mind drifts to more practical matters. Birth certificate. Social security card. A last name. Does Angel even remember what it was? I wonder what it could be, even as I wonder what kind of parent names their son Angel, although I shy away from that train of thought for obvious reasons.
Buffy Flannery. Ugh. That doesn't go well at all. I can't fathom why he'd be interested in marrying me in any case. Six months ago he left me so I could have a white house and a picket fence and kids and a dog. But that's not why he really left me since those aren't in my future; it's just that neither of us could bring ourselves to ever talk about the demon in the room. Now he's just a regular guy. A regular guy who's good looking and kind and smart and great in bed and who could easily find a normal girl to share a normal life. Why would he want a girl who spends her evenings getting her jollies murdering monsters? And right at that exact moment, his arm snakes around my belly and pulls my body hard against his and he murmurs something incoherent against my hair.
Just like that, my doubts leave me again. When I first found out I was chosen, I used to wonder what kind of cruel god ruled the world that could force this kind of responsibility on a young girl, knowing it would result in her early death. Now I know it will all be fine. Whatever problems arise, we'll work it out. I close my eyes and as the warmth of his body lulls me back to sleep, I silently thank the fates.