Victor, so. fucking. fabulous.

But you give the dateline as:

Part Nine: Memory

China, 2003:

...shouldn't it be 2023?

Either he's doing it to avoid having sex with us, or to avoid us killing him.

(not really here, just popping in to say mmmmm more, please!) and g'night.

heheheheheheh.

Too much good stuff out here tonight. So damned good.

The section that will follow this message is continued from starts here and finishes here. Previous sections can be found here. I hit 18000 words tonight. Go me.

from her sunrise to clockwise (cont'd)

Making lists of what she missed was a lot more fun when safety and sex weren't heading it up. Well, in her altered and admittedly somewhat loose definition of the word, which had less to do with enjoyment and more to do with acceptable ways to pass the time. Buffy closed her eyes and tried to find the punching bag by instinct. Slayer reflexes were added to the list as her knuckles skimmed the edge of the bag, barely grazing the leather. Opening her eyes and focusing on the bag, she added one item per punch until her arms grew tired around the sense-of-purpose punch. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging her eyes and reminding her that she needed water.

"I miss endurance, too," she muttered as she uncapped the sports bottle with shaking fingers. There was definitely sleep in her future. Probably a shower as well. She glanced at the clock, startled to realize she'd been hitting inanimate objects for two and a half hours. Maybe the endurance was coming back after all.

She took her time cooling down, stretching carefully, torn between satisfaction at her returning flexibility and frustration at how weak she felt post-workout. With a soft grunt, she leaned against the wall and gave into the urge to collapse, letting her body slide slowly down until she was seated. Sipping her water, she watched the hands of the clock tick off the minutes until she felt ready to move again.

Wesley was asleep on the couch when she entered the living room. Buffy felt a brief stab of guilt as she noticed the book still clutched in his hands and the frown that hadn't been erased by slumber. She'd thought he spent a lot of time researching before, but over the last two weeks, she hadn't seen him do anything but research. He'd also been sleeping less than she did--which was no small feat--and refusing to talk about anything he'd found. She knew him well enough by now to know the implications.

The book was one he'd consulted frequently when she'd first shown up in L.A.; its almost flesh-colored leather binding with the stylized and gilded demons on the front was unmistakable. Research had never been her number one skill, but she'd done enough of it to understand that you didn't go back to the books you'd already looked at unless you were running out of options and hoping you'd missed something the first time.

There was still just enough money in her bank account to get her out of the city if it came to that, and it wasn't like she had a lot to pack, just her limited wardrobe, a photo album or two, and a handful of CDs. He might think he was safe, he might even be safe, but if there wasn't anything he could do, there was no sense in risking him. She'd give it another month, maybe two, then she'd go.

Trying to ignore the sick feeling that rose in her gut at the thought, she took the book from his hands, setting it aside before waking him.

"What time is it?" His voice was rough with fatigue, and for a second, she wished she'd just left him to sleep. But if she'd done that, she'd have sentenced herself to a night spent alone and staring at the ceiling. She'd have plenty of those soon enough, and she wasn't in any hurry to reacquaint herself with them.

"Almost midnight." Buffy tugged at him until he stood up. "Which is early for you, granted, but somehow? I think you'd be more comfortable in a bed."

He smiled slightly, something bleak flashing in his eyes so quickly that she was almost able to convince herself it wasn't there at all. "In all likelihood, yes."

They didn't move. Her breathing sounded abnormally loud in the silence, and she fidgeted, waiting for him to say or do something, anything, but he just looked at her, his face showing her nothing. Finally, she turned and started walking up the stairs, not caring if he followed or not. She was almost to the top before she heard his footsteps. When they stopped, she turned again to find him staring with the same lack of expression. Even with him standing two steps below her, their eyes were almost on a level.

He took another step, hands reaching out as if by habit alone to grip her shirt before tugging it over her head and discarding it, grabbing her shoulders, and pushing her backwards towards the bedroom. She felt herself start to tense up; whatever had gotten into him, Wesley was starting to scare her.

She hadn't imagined the bleakness; it slid back over his features, shadowing his eyes and tightening his mouth. Hard hands pulled down her pants and pushed her towards the bed. Wesley's mouth covered hers, needy and bruising. Buffy fought panic as his body did the same, his knee pushing between her legs to part them.

She didn't realize was struggling until he rolled off of her. When she reached out to touch him, he jerked away, but not before she felt him shaking uncontrollably.

"Wes?" When she reached out again, he flinched slightly, but other than that, didn't move. Her hand rested against his arm while she waited for him to answer, and she found herself shaking almost as hard as he was as the silence stretched.

"There's nothing I can do, again." When they came, the words were flat. "I can't save you, anymore than I could save Faith or Lilah."

The reason for both the bleakness and the desperation clicked into place, leaving her oddly relieved. He was admitting defeat sooner than she had thought he would. Another stab of guilt hit her; she shouldn't have come here, or she should have left when she realized they were tilting at windmills. And either way, she shouldn't be so selfishly glad that someone else cared if she lived or died, not that it stopped her. Buffy kissed him gently, curling up against him and offering what little comfort she could. "I know."

"You do?" He sounded so startled, she almost laughed. Almost. If she wasn't so thrown, she probably would have.

"I probably realized it before you did. But I don't want to think about that right now." Buffy paused, meeting his eyes. She'd be leaving soon enough, sooner than she'd expected, and she didn't want to think about that, either. "Actually, I don't think I want to think about anything right now." The laugh that had been threatening bubbled out, uneven and mirthless.

His own laugh was a little shaky as he pulled her closer. "Lord knows, that can be arranged."

She closed her eyes, trying to memorize the feel of his hands skimming her sides, firm and warm, the skin on his palms slightly rough where they rested on her belly. Blindly, she reached for him, wanting to feel more of his skin against hers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and her arms around his neck, tightening their grip until there wasn't a gap between them.

Tangled together, they slid and shifted as if joined until they were, her thighs gripping his hips hard enough that she was pretty certain she'd have bruises on them in the morning. Dimly, she realized she was panicking again, just not in the same way. Even a month was going to be too long; she should be thinking in days or weeks. She clung to him, focusing on the harsh sound of his breathing, and willed herself not to fall apart.

The effort seemed to take an eternity in a moment that was over too quickly. Which probably made her greedy as well as selfish. Buffy pulled the sheets over them, watching as he settled in and let exhaustion start to take its course. Half asleep, he looked younger somehow, less hardened. She ran her fingers along the back of his arm, studying the texture of his skin while she tried to adjust to the idea of his personhood. Not that she hadn't thought of him as a person before, she'd just tried not to care about it. Maybe she should have tried harder.

She got up to turn out the light, where her hand hovered frozen over the switch until she was willing to take her eyes off of him. Which she wasn't. Which was not a good sign. Angry with herself, she turned her gaze to the floor and flipped the switch before making her way back to the bed.

His arms wrapped around her in the dark, tugging her closer until she felt his chin rest on her shoulder. "You smell like heliotrope," he murmured, the words coming out in drowsy breaths that tickled her neck.

Weaving her fingers between his, she brought his hand up to kiss it. "I smell like sweat."

Buffy felt him smile as his thumb brushed across her lips. "Then your sweat smells like heliotrope." He made the nonsensical statement sound like he was explaining the obvious.

"Fine, what does heliotrope smell like?" It sounded like a flower, though this was Wesley she was talking to, so it could just as easily be a demon.

"You," he said, yawning.

"This is getting kind of circular."

"Mmm. I suppose you're right. There's some on the patio if you're curious." Wesley's voice trailed off as sleep finally overtook him.

Not a demon, then. One of however many flowers he had growing on the patio, so "not a demon" didn't do much to narrow the field. She stared blankly into the dark, more bothered by the whimsical words than she'd been by his earlier upset.

***

"Wes, crumpet, long time no see! Which, as we work in the same building, takes some effort on your part." Lorne got up from his desk and crossed to his wet bar. "Seabreeze?"

Wesley shook his head. "No, but thank you."

"You all right, kiddo? I'm getting a weird kind of vibe off of you. Everything a-okay upstairs?" Lorne sipped his drink and looked at Wesley expectantly.

"Everything's well. A prophecy about a shimmering bank revealed after torrential rains and devastating floods turned out to be a rather spectacular gemstone find, which, thanks to our quick translation turnaround, allowed for an even more spectacular return on land investment."

"That's not quite the upstairs I meant, pumpkin--although I'd been meaning to congratulate you on the Sri Lanka discovery. So what is it? Girl trouble?"

Lorne was watching him carefully, reminding Wesley yet again why he tended to avoid interaction with psychics when he had things on his mind. Particularily the talkative ones. He kept his face schooled into a polite, almost open expression, and chose the easiest way to avoid an awkward conversation.

"Nothing I can't handle. How is business?"

"Business is, as they say, booming. I just single-handedly arranged the coup of the century--NSync reunion show, you wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get Justin to agree to it, the little diva. I didn't even know Britney could bend like that, but she's a trooper, gotta hand it to her."

The danger of interrogation over, Wesley propped himself on the edge of Lorne's ornate and frightfully antique desk. This month, Lorne had decorated with a baroque chamber theme. He and Angel were fairly certain it would be Deco or Stickley for the next round of changes; Lorne never kept one theme for very long.

"Dare I ask?" he said, a slight lift to his brow.

Lorne refilled his glass and took a healthy swig. "Suffice it to say, Mr. Timberlake is probably cured for life of flip requests, and he's on better terms with La Brit than he's been since their Mickey Mouse Club days."

"I take it the actual details remain highly confidential?"

"Au contrare, mon petit. Though, I'm going to have to ask that you not breathe a word of it until after next month's strategic tabloid leaks, convieniently scheduled for the day before her comeback attempt is released. "America's Sweet Tart" needs all the free publicity it can get." He set the drink down and focused his attention on Wesley again. Perhaps the assumption of safety had been premature. "Enough trying to change the subject. What's troubling you?"

Wesley smiled, well aware of the slightly bitter twist of his lips, but unable to entirely eradicate it. "It's nothing, really. Just my periodic belief in the possibilty of redemption proving to be unfounded."

The dead-serious look on Lorne's face should have been comical against the maribou and satin of his ensemble. It was anything but. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt here, Wes, and assume you're not talking about the brain-sucking bitch from hell who can't seem to stay put?"

"That's right. Lilah mentioned she had to meet with you about contracts last week. But no, I'm afraid the redemption I'm referring to is my own." He met Lorne's eyes, enjoying the discomfort that flashed across the demon's face as he took in Wesley's casual acceptance of his own damnation.

Lorne looked away first, making a show of stirring his drink. "So, why don't I tell you every dirty little secret of the tour negotiations, up to and including how much J.C. demanded for hairstylists; that one would put even Angel to the blush."

The third draft of her letter wasn't going any better than the first two. Leaving goodbye notes was another thing she was seriously out of practice with, especially when she knew it would be read as a suicide note by the recipient. Impatiently, she blew a strand of hair out of her face and crumpled the paper into a ball.

There were a number of things she didn't want the note to do, including sending Wesley off on a wild goose chase, adding to whatever guilt he felt, and leaving any hint of where she was heading. The last one was the easiest; if she prepared the note a week or two in advance, before she had any idea which direction she was going to set out in, there was no way to hint at anything. Simple. The first two, on the other hand, were decidedly not simple.

An almost hysterical bubble of laughter escaped her as she stared at blank page number four. Immediately post-trauma, it had seemed like such a simple plan. Even when he'd taken matters into his own hands and moved her in with him, she hadn't foreseen any complications. This was Wesley, after all. Effete, irritating, pompous, life-ruining Wesley. Who was the only reason Giles hadn't killed her, who turned out to be nothing like she'd imagined he'd be, who liked plants, who was almost as likely to get absorbed in a video game as he was to get absorbed in arcane research, who thought she smelled like some exotically-named flower, and who was the first person she'd dared to connect with since leaving Sunnydale. Sometimes, Buffy marvelled at her own stupidity.

It wouldn't happen again. This time, she'd stick to her self-imposed rules--maybe in a decade or two, she wouldn't make such an appealling trophy and could ease up a little, but not until then. And this time, she'd be armed with Council phone numbers in case of emergency. Glancing at the clock told her she still had plenty of time before Wesley got home from work. With a small sigh, Buffy gathered the crumpled pages and shoved them into the back of a drawer.

Wesley's bedroom still smelled liked they'd spent the better part of the night and most of the morning in an effort to rid the world of sexual tension. Which, she figured, was mainly her fault. After all, she was the one who'd been trying to glut herself on sensation in preparation for a coming drought. Burying her head in his pillow, Buffy tried to steel herself for the coming separation while wondering how the hell things had wound up at this point. Nothing to lose wasn't supposed to be a temporary state.

Tired of feeling maudlin indoors, she collected the notebook and pen from her room, and wandered out to the patio. The blaze of color that had shocked her when she'd first seen it was now comfortingly familiar, the vined-in walls and wrought iron benches making it seem less a part of a recently-constructed townhouse and more like something out of a child's fairytale. That was, she figured, the point: for Wesley to have somewhere he could retreat to, somewhere where he wouldn't be reminded of glass buildings and responsibilities. She understood the sentiment well enough to feel almost uncomfortable about invading his sanctuary with her physical evidence of the latter.

Instead of writing her letter to Wesley, she drafted two long-overdue missives to old friends, reassuring them that she was fine, apologizing for leaving the way she did, and telling Xander and Willow in turn how much she loved them and missed them. She didn't bother to ask any of the things she'd wondered for years, if Xander had ever gotten back together with Anya, or if Willow was still with Kennedy, if Xander had ever forgiven her for the loss of his eye and the loss of his faith in her. Nor did she ask the new questions, like asking Willow if she'd known of Giles' plan. Even if she'd wanted to know the answers, she wasn't likely to ever learn them.

Buffy sealed the envelopes that marked the close of yet another part of her life and stared blankly at the various pots and planters. The light midday breeze ruffled the leaves and flowers. To her left, a bright yellow lemon bobbed on its slender branch, each movement threatening to send it toppling to the ground. Blinking away the fog that had overtaken her mind, she gathered her things and went back inside.

She'd leave both the letters in Wesley's care when she left, with instructions on when to send them. He could take care of the where. Opening the drawer, she took the balled-up drafts from the back and smoothed them out. She re-read each one carefully, looking for things she could reuse, and finally managed a short note of explanation cribbed together from the bits and pieces of what she'd been trying to say.

(I didn't spellcheck, because I'm a freak, and it's 2:10 in the AM here.)

Edited to add: have now spellchecked. Please ignore spelling errors.

(And yes, I do have more, but I haven't polished it at all, so it's still in the doc, not here. It's only 919 words more so far. You have most of it.)

I really love this story.