The weird juxstaposition of metaphysics with vacuuming: “It matters,” Angel says again. “What we do.” The cushions feel soft in his hands as he positions them back on the couch."
The fact that they can't navigate sharing the bathroom- his lack of reflection suddenly an issue, the way he squeezes the toothpaste.
The ghost of old lovers and want-to-be-lovers: She scowls and says, "Not everything's about you you know."
He knows. When she catches the scent of cigarette smoke she still tilts her head and looks, looks for someone. Not him.
The laundry scene really resonated with me; the clean, white sheets; sullied by a misplaced word and her blood and the reminder of what he is.
The passion that sustains them. “Not like bed’s that comfortable. You never make it; it’s a rag heap.”
“Maybe because you kick in your sleep.”
“Vampire don’t kick. You snore.”
“I hate the sheets you picked out.”
“God,” Angel says again, “I can’t wait to make love to you.”
In some ways I found this fic remote- or not easily accessible. On another level, though, it was perfectly elliptical- slices of the ordinary lives that can't be lead by two extraordinary people because it's hard enough to navigate the crap when you're just an average person. I guess that's what makes it so poignant, in the end: could Buffy and Angel ever come to this place- doing laundry and dusting? And I guess we like our heroes to be just that and it's hard to imagine them having to 'live' with the details.
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The weird juxstaposition of metaphysics with vacuuming:
“It matters,” Angel says again. “What we do.” The cushions feel soft in his hands as he positions them back on the couch."
The fact that they can't navigate sharing the bathroom- his lack of reflection suddenly an issue, the way he squeezes the toothpaste.
The ghost of old lovers and want-to-be-lovers:
She scowls and says, "Not everything's about you you know."
He knows. When she catches the scent of cigarette smoke she still tilts her head and looks, looks for someone. Not him.
The laundry scene really resonated with me; the clean, white sheets; sullied by a misplaced word and her blood and the reminder of what he is.
The passion that sustains them.
“Not like bed’s that comfortable. You never make it; it’s a rag heap.”
“Maybe because you kick in your sleep.”
“Vampire don’t kick. You snore.”
“I hate the sheets you picked out.”
“God,” Angel says again, “I can’t wait to make love to you.”
In some ways I found this fic remote- or not easily accessible. On another level, though, it was perfectly elliptical- slices of the ordinary lives that can't be lead by two extraordinary people because it's hard enough to navigate the crap when you're just an average person. I guess that's what makes it so poignant, in the end: could Buffy and Angel ever come to this place- doing laundry and dusting? And I guess we like our heroes to be just that and it's hard to imagine them having to 'live' with the details.
So, lovely, this.