Title: Playing with Fire

Pairing: BA

Summary: That infamous Season 6 meeting we never saw. Angel’s POV

A/N: This was originally supposed to be a drabble for SJ Smith and it sort of ran away. I really don’t think you can call 450 words a drabble, more of a ficlet. Sharon wanted the title, the pairing and the phrase There’s something to be said about that moths to flame thingy. It was an LJ thingy.

 

 

 

 

            My throat closes at the sight of her standing at the edge of the ocean, waves lapping over her bare feet.  She’s got her pants rolled up to mid calf and her arms are wrapped around her, classic Buffy defense posture. She’s always on the defensive. Sometimes I think it’s because she’s the slayer, most times I know it’s because I broke her. I didn’t mean too, but you know what they say about good intentions, only with Buffy and me it’s literal.

 

            I walk to her, drawn to her like a moth to flame. I wrap my arms around her from behind and she relaxes against me.

 

            “Buffy-“ I start.

 

            She turns in my arms and places her fingers against my lips, silencing me. “Don’t, just hold me.”

 

            She buries her nose in the crook of her neck and I bury mine in the crown of her hair. It’s our place, our position, our home. We stand like that forever. We don’t talk because there’s nothing to say that hasn’t been said a thousand times before.  She cries, scalding hot anguish against the cool of my skin. I cry, cold rivers of guilt tracking down my cheeks, pooling in her scalp.

 

            “It’ll be light soon” I say breaking the hours old silence.

 

            “Stay with me, Angel. Come back to Sunnydale with me, let me go to LA with you” she pleads, her voice and her soul broken.

 

            “Buffy, I can’t. You and I-you’re my flame. As long as everything around is dark, I’m okay but if I get close enough to see the flame, I’m like a moth. I can’t not go to it and it will burn me and you both to ash” I say trying to explain something I don’t even understand and yet I know it regardless.

 

            She swallows hard, nods and then tiptoes, pressing her mouth against mine, lips igniting, tongues probing, begging, pleading. She tastes like salt and heaven.  We are both breathless when we break apart. She manages a weak, shaky smile.

 

            “There’s something to be said about that moths to flame thingy” she says.

 

            I nod, my heart breaking because I know quipping and punning are other classic Buffy defense mechanisms.  We walk to our cars, hands entwined and then separate. I have to drive off first because the sun is coming and there’s not much time but I know she sat there in her car and watched me drive away until long after the tail lights had disappeared. Maybe someday the moth will be able to withstand the flames of the fire.