waiting for the miracle,
for the miracle to come
It would be easy to let things revert to old patterns and plays. Punishing grip turning possessive, shove becoming pull becoming want becoming need. Same old song and dance.
But life and death suffered in the flesh, loss and loneliness in the soul, give it new meaning, new contours.
And blue eyes of defiance remind him of another lost son, the scent of baby-soft skin and old blood threatening to unhinge him.
Easier to take Spike's hand, kiss the palm, recall the pledge of a less forbidden love.
Buffy's imprinted into him, scars invisible yet unmistakable. Tears and fire, he's been told. Holy water, a consecration fated for death.
Jealousy and hate would be easy.
Angel keeps Spike's hand intertwined in his own and waits.