The Birthday Dinner
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Ats Season 1 finale
Disclaimer: No, all right, they're Joss Whedon's and not mine .
Distribution: Ask me, and you can have as many fics as you like .
Salmon fillets, and creme fraīche, eggs, a lemon . what else? I want this night to be perfect. Oh, chocolate. I love supermarkets, so full of delicious things, light, people, colour. I seize a packet of candles just in case and head to the checkout.
Tonight marks five years to the day since Buffy's seventeenth birthday. She's twenty-two. I'm no longer very sure how old I am. Two, if you count from the day I breathed again; or twenty-nine if you count my age when I died plus the past months; or two hundred and fifty if you take it from the night I met Darla. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I am alive. I love thinking that. I am alive. I breathe, and my heart beats, and I eat proper food, and tonight I'm cooking proper food for the woman I love.
Back in our sunny apartment, I lay the table for the evening. A pure white cloth and red serviettes, golden candles everywhere, flowers scattered over the cloth and the floor and the chairs. From the kitchen the sweet smells of cooking are coming, and that's a joy too, to just be able to smell them. No longer for me the craving for thick warm blood, the knowledge always that it was there under people's skin, waiting to be taking. Only now the strong, normal scents of life, and loud noises, like the pan of water boiling for new potatoes, and the Mozart in the background.
I put the potatoes in to cook and go to change. A pale blue shirt and cream trousers, a quick glance in the mirror to check the collar's straight and my hair's all right. And then another quick glance, because even after two years I cannot get used to having a reflection, to knowing what I look like. Buffy says I'm fussy and paranoid about my appearance, but she's only teasing. We do that now, we tease each other about little things and laugh and joke.
Salmon in the oven, wrapped in neat parcels with the lemon, champagne chilling in the fridge. She's out patrolling now, doing a sweep before the night sets in, and she'll get back later. I hurry to the main room and check her present is where it's supposed to be, ready for after dinner. I hope I haven't overplanned the evening. She deserves a perfect birthday, one with no pain, no death (save, of course, that of the vampires she's out Slaying now), just me and her together.
Over the chopping of the baby sweetcorn I remember Buffy's face, the day after the Apocalypse, the day I drove up to Sunnydale. Bright blue sky, the sun so strong it hurt my eyes and burnt my skin through my shirt and the sunblock I had put on. I had the roof down on the car and music playing as I sped up the highway, every five minutes glancing in the rear view mirror at the reflection of my sunglasses. I felt the adrenaline in my body, my heart beating slightly faster than it should, the scratches from the night before just being, not healing. North to Sunnydale I went as fast as I could, squealing to a stop outside her mother's house and leaping out of the car.
She opened the door still in her pyjamas, her eyes grey-ringed with tiredness, her face battered and bruised. The Apocalypse had scarred us all. And she stood and stared, unable to speak, and I looked back at my love in the daytime. The sun streaming down from behind me lit her face and her hair and I realised how truly beautiful she was. Finally, she swallowed back the same tears rolling down my own cheeks, and in that voice I love so much, soft, tender, loving, she said my name. Wondering, not believing her own eyes. I took her hand and led her outside and placed the hand on my heart.
"I'm alive, Buffy," I said, "I'm alive."
"I forgot," she murmured. "Oh, Angel, I forgot, and I said I never would."
I knew, of course, she was referring to that Day, long ago, the one the Oracles turned back for me. I touched her cheek gently and wiped away the tears.
"This is for good," I told her, "this is permanent. It was in a prophecy, and it's true, it's real. I'm alive."
"I can feel your heart beating," Buffy said, amazement in her every word. "How did I forget?"
"It doesn't matter. What matters is that we can be together, now."
It took her a while to sort Sunnydale out and move to Los Angeles, but what with the Hellmouth being closed now her Slayer talents are best used here. This is the first realcelebration we've had in the new apartment, sunny, high over the city, bright from morning to night. A celebration of many things, in fact; her birthday, and my humanity, and her general survival . I drop the sweetcorn into the steamer as I hear the door open; Buffy's home, right on time. She calls a greeting to me and shortly the shower starts up. I check the potatoes and go and light the candles, their scent filling the air, and as I put the matches away she comes in.
She is breathtaking tonight, her hair brushed and shining, just a touch of makeup, and a dress of the palest pink clinging to her body. She comes up to me, her eyes taking in the candles, and she smiles and we kiss. These days we both need to stop for air, but our passion is no less, nor our need for each other diminished. As the oven buzzer goes we detach ourselves and I sit her down and go to fetch the meal.
With champagne poured we eat slowly, our eyes never leaving each other's faces. With laughter Buffy feeds me forkfuls of salmon and I return the gesture with potato. A normal couple, enjoying each other's company. It is at times like this that we really forget what we are, or what we were. I clear the plates and return with her favourite, chocolate mousse, and pour the rest of the champagne.
"You cook so well," she says through a mouthful, giving me that smile that melts me inside. "I don't understand."
"Don't try and understand," I reply, returning her smile. "Just eat."
"Mmm." She eats, her eyes fixed on me, her tongue flicking out to remove chocolate from her lips. I want to sweep her up now this minute, but we have time. All night, all the day; years to come. To think we have that now is intoxicating.
As we finish eating I get up and bring her present to her. She takes it and carefully opens it, astonishing me that those same small delicate fingers could be the same that two hours earlier were doubtlessly pummelling some hapless demon. The paper lies open on her lap, and she lifts the vase gently in both hands and raises it to the light, where the flickering candles shine through the translucent pottery.
"It's perfect," she murmurs, lowering it and examining the pattern. There is silence. Then, Buffy looks up at me. "But, Angel, you forgot to take off the price sticker."
She peels it off the bottom of the vase and holds in up for my inspection. I take it and look at it, and sink down on the floor. The worst of all things to happen. I feel so stupid. I bury my face in my hands so I don't have to look at her. There is a slight clink as the vase is put down on the table.
"I'm so sorry," I apologise. Buffy laughs, and comes and puts her arms around my shoulders.
"It doesn't matter, you idiot," she says into my ear. "It makes the evening . well, not perfect, not in the way I think you wanted it to be."
"Not at all," I murmur.
"Not entirely," she replies, "but I like it. It makes me realise this is not a dream. You really are here, and you really did cook a wonderful dinner, and bought me that beautiful vase, and you are human. It shows you're human. Nobody's perfect, not even you, my love."
She leans down and kisses me, and I return the kiss.
"Leave the washing up till later?" suggests Buffy, and I nod and stand up, and lifting her we go into the bedroom. So the evening wasn't entirely perfect, but it was amazing. And it isn't over yet.
END.