Angel felt like an interloper, watching them together. She had never moved so fluidly with him; never fought so well. They’d never been a matched pair in the moonlight but a study of opposites. He tried to quash the jealous flare behind his breastbone--as fervent as a heavy heartbeat--but he was never good at keeping his desires in check. That’s what landed him in trouble. But a pair of lips against his neck; a pair of lips sliding across his--he stopped caring so much that he was on the outside. They were gracious about letting him in.
Buffy felt herself swirling like a hurricane, completed at every turn. It helped her breathe. She was who she had become, but also who she thought she would be. All possibilities reflected in their eyes, and she kissed them stupid. Passion, idealism, bull-headed teenage optimism; practicality, hard duty, strength. She kept both. So very satisfied in every way, every need, every desire, every foible and folly. They ran their fingers over the cracks in her shell--pointing out who was responsible for each like children on the playground. But every shard had been mended. They held her together like gold.
Spike didn’t give a good god damn what they blathered on about. Jealous rages, childhood crushes--how could he care when they were both in his arms, against his lips, in his bed? They helped people, no denying. That was alright. But they helped each other which was better. Buffy beside him in the night--in a graveyard, between the sheets--it was immaterial where. Angel against him, hard and heavy--dark as ever but a softer darkness. That was what mattered. They were here, now, in this moment, this place, this stolen scrap of bliss, and that was enough.