This time he was waiting. When she crept through his back door, he was there, the back of his head silhouetted by the rays of sunlight filtering through the closed kitchen blinds. I have come, all my doors open. Shaking the bars at your windows like a convict begging for release. Waiting on your back step, a wolf howling for blood. You're in my blood, my marrow, my secret place. Welcome me in. He sat still and silent. A marble angel watching over the dead. Eyes fixed pale and unseeing into the distance. When she touched his shoulder, she almost expected her fingers to meet cool, hard, stone. But oh, he was warm, warm and alive and beating.

"Good morning."

His voice so real and present, she had to grab the counter to keep from falling. She was always falling.

"You're...you're here."

He shrugged.

"I'm always here."

His hand was wrapped around a coffee mug, the steam spiraling into the air.

"Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

She sank bonelessly into the chair across from him. Watched hungrily as he got up and shuffled sure-footed around the kitchen. He still moved the same. Liquid, spare, not a single flicker of his hands wasted. She drank down his vision like holy wine. Like a baby who had just discovered its mother's enfolding arms.

"Here."

"Thank you."

So formal, so formal. Sitting across from each other at this old chipped laminate table. How many times had they sat like this through the years? A hundred, a thousand? A thousand thousand? Sitting at this table eating cookies soggy from being dunked in milk. Sitting at this table, their heads bent over baseball cards or homework.

Get your grubby paws off my Jackie Robinson, Summers. That card is not for trade.

No Summers. Sheesh, weren't you paying attention at all in class today? You have to carry the three or else it's all wrong. For crying out loud, they should have a different class for stupid heads that can't do math to save their lives.

"So...how've you been?"

God, what a question. How've you been? Since yesterday. Since I left you here nineteen years ago. Since you broke my heart and stole my soul, making it your very own.

His lips turned up and all the years fell away like leaves from frost-nipped trees.

"All right. How have you been?"

Lonely. Haunted with you. Your darkest voice echoing in my shuttered mind.

"The same."

"I heard you're married."

"Was. Was married. We're...we're separated."

"I'm sorry."

Are you? Are you sorry? Perhaps it's me that is sorry.

"Don't be. It wasn't...meant to be."

His head tilted thoughtfully. Oh god. That gesture. So familiar, so aching.

"What is meant to be? Is anything really ever meant to be?"

She laughed, confused and wary. Said another stupid thing before she could close her foolish lips. Lips that didn't seem to know anything except how to worship his secret name. Lover. Love.

"Have you been reading Neitzche? You're turning into a philosopher on me."

His face tightened, that muscle in his thin cheek dancing.

"I don't read anymore. And I don't believe in philosophy."

"Oh, I didn't...I didn't mean..."

"It's alright. It doesn't matter. There are other things."

"Like what?"

"The smell of the rose garden when the buds have just opened under the sun. The...the sound of leaves brushing against each other on their branches. The feel of water slipping through my fingers. The cry of a blackbird at night, far-off in the cornfield."

She didn't realize she was choking back tears until she felt him brushing the wetness off her cheeks.

"Goodness, Summers. You really haven't changed. Still a leaky faucet."

"You have."

"What?"

"Changed. I've never heard you speak this way. You've...you've become a poet."

He laughed harshly.

"I'm never going to be a poet. Or anything. What you see is what you get."

I'll take it. Take you. Anyway I can, because no matter what happens, you're still you. And you are still me.

"I like what I see."

Oh, there was that smirk.

"It's not nice to toy with a blind man. You're a bad girl, Summers."

Then punish me. Punish me with kisses. Your hands on my body.

"And you're still a dope, William James."

*****************************************

"You're such a dope, William James. Henry the Eighth is NOT number eight for the White Sox! Can't you at least try in History?"

"Why bother? It's all about dead people. And Mr. Pryce is a wet rag."

Ooo, she could punch him. She loved him but really, she could punch him. He *knew* Mr. Pryce was her favorite teacher. He always made fun of everything she liked.

"He is not! He's...he's smart and nice and...and..." He snorted and pursed his lips dramatically as if waiting to be kissed. Oh, she was going to punch him. Or kiss him. Or do nothing.

"Oooo, Mr. Pryce! You're so smart and strong! Kiss me you big handsome brain!"

She punched him in the arm. Hard. Argh, so much for self control.

"Ow! What was that for? It's not my fault you're a stupid girl with a crush."

"I am not! He's just...nice. Angel likes him too."

"Oh, Angel likes him too. Let's just give him a sainthood now."

Why? Why did he have to be so difficult? So easy and so hard to love. He didn't know. How much Mr. Pryce meant to her. The first teacher who ever thought she could be something other than a small girl in a small town.

'Miss Summers, may I speak with you?' She had been terrified. Was she in trouble? Maybe that paper she wrote on Charlemagne was no good. Oh god! Maybe she was failing History! Maybe he would send her to Snyder's office and tell him that she was too stupid to be in his honors class. That she was too stupid to be in school and should just go work permanently down at Sal's Lunch Counter, slinging hash. She'd sat glued to her seat like a prisoner awaiting his death sentence, as all the other kids trickled out. 'Miss Summers, I'm very impressed with your report. You write very well and you obviously researched this thoroughly.' The relief and astonishment had been so great, she'd nearly slid off her chair and landed on the floor. 'Thank...thank you.' She'd grabbed her books and started to back out of his classroom, face flaming in embarrassment and delight.

'Wait, Miss Summers...' Uh, oh. 'Have you...have you ever thought about what you're going to do after you graduate this year?' Not really. She always assumed she would stay here. Maybe waitress or if she was really lucky and worked very hard, she could save up enough money to go to secretarial school. And the other darker part of her mind always thought she'd follow Will. Follow him wherever he went to college and try to find some kind of work so they could still be together. So she could still be his friend and see him from time to time. So she could still continue this one-sided love affair.

'Miss Summers. Buffy. Have you ever considered applying to college?' What? Never in all her fevered daydreams of the future had she ever thought about college. College was for people like Will and Angel, whose families had some money and wanted to see their sons leave this town. College was a dim, hazy, sun-dappled place where girls like Dru walked around green, flowered campuses dressed in twin sets and pearls. Chattering with boys about poetry and art and literature. It was another world.

'My...my mother said we don't have that kind of money.' Oh, she wanted to bite her stupid tongue off. Didn't want anyone knowing how much they struggled to make ends meet. Didn't her mother always say that it was the worst kind of shame to ask for handouts? To let anyone know how much they lacked. Mr. Pryce had looked at her very kindly, the sunlight from the classroom windows bouncing off the lens of his horn-rimmed glasses.

'They have scholarships now. For young people with bright minds. Like you.' In that moment, she fell in love with him. Oh, not the same way she loved Will. Nothing could match that feeling. But in that moment, she loved Mr. Pryce for his kindness, his generosity, his conviction. His willingness to see her. She felt so seen.

'Would you like to go to college, Buffy? I would be honored to write your recommendations.' 'Oh yes, yes. I would love to. Thank you. Thank you.' And from then on, the only thing she wanted as much as she wanted Will was to walk on one of those sun-dappled green campuses, arms full of books. Chattering with Will about poetry and art and literature.

"Well, maybe we should. He...he told me I could go to college. That he would help me if I worked very hard. He said...that I could maybe get a scholarship."

She waited, barely breathing, for his reaction. Would he laugh at her? Call her an idiot for having such uppity wishes? She'd not told anyone, not even her mother. Like her dream of him, college was a secret trinket she kept tucked in the farthest drawer of her mind. Where she would take it out when she was feeling discouraged or tired from washing dishes after school at Sal's. And she would hold it in her hands and look at it, turning it this way and that, admiring the rainbows it made as it flashed and glittered in her mind.

"Oh."

His face was unreadable. She trembled with waiting. His opinion meant everything. Because although college was one half of her dream for the future, he was the other.

"Will? What do you think?"

"I think we should get back to studying this history malarky. I'm never going to be able to show my face around town again, when you're at college and I've failed out because I couldn't remember who Henry the Eighth was. So Summers, tell me about this Henry person. Is it true he had his wife's head cut off?"

And it was just like that. He was just like that. Insulting and supporting her with one casual comment. Oh, she was his. She could never be without him.

**********************************************************************

"Summers? You're quiet."

She started out of her memories. Looked up to see him staring over her shoulder, his hand still cupped around his coffee mug.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Senior year. Mr. Pryce and how he helped me go to college."

"He was a good man. No one expected him to...to kill himself."

She felt the tears threatening again, remembering the phone call she received from her mother her junior year in college. Buffy? It's mother. I'm sorry to tell you this dear. But Mr. Pryce hung himself last night. Oh darling daughter, don't cry. He was sick and in so much pain. He wanted to end it his way.

"Yes, he was. I never would have gone to college if it weren't for him."

"What was it like? College?"

Of course, he had not been able to go.

"It was everything I dreamed."

"Good."

He reached up, his hand lingering in the air. Looking for something. For her?

"What...what is your hair like now? Did you dye it platinum? The way you always said you would?"

Sheesh, Summers. I can't believe you'd want to do that to your hair. It would just make you look like a drowned rat.

She laughed and grasped his hand, guiding it to her hair.

"Touch it. It's the same. I gave up on my Marilyn Monroe fantasy a long time ago. I've never dyed it."

He ran his fingers timidly through her hair. Fingering the strands thoughtfully.

"It's shorter."

"It's supposed to make me look more mature."

"Ah."

Turn about was fair play. She reached up to touch his hair. Still that ridiculous silvery blonde. A bit shaggier and not as short as it used to be. But still soft as a baby's downy head, albeit slightly damp with sweat.

"You're sweating."

"It's hot."

"Yes, it is. Do you...are you able to wash it by yourself?"

He chuckled and the low, vibrating sound went deep into her secret place. Lighting her from within with thick honey-gold desire.

"Yes. But I don't always do a good job of it. Sometimes, the days melt together so I forget to."

She ran her hands through that hair, imprinting herself on him.

"Would you...would you...I could wash it for you. That is...if you wanted."

You could have me if you wanted.

He nodded, eyes closed. Chest moving up and down with his breaths.

"All right. Let me just go get some things."

He returned with a towel, a bottle of Breck, and an old broken-toothed wooden comb. She had seen that comb before many times. Seen his mother using it on his tangled curls as he squirmed to get out of her grasp, when they were little. Watched him running it carelessly through his hair, as they got older.

She dragged a kitchen chair in front of the sink and led him towards it, a hand on his shoulder, prodding him gently to sit. He leaned back in the chair warily, his eyes placid but his hands twitching as he folded them in his lap. She stroked his shoulder lightly, soothingly.

"Shhh. It's okay. I wouldn't hurt you."

She rolled up the towel and set it on the lip of the sink, to cushion his neck. Helped him rest his head under the faucet. He shivered and jolted as a few leaky droplets of cold water hit his forehead. She giggled and wiped it off with the edge of her sleeve.

"Oops, sorry. Forgot your faucet is still leaky."

"It was cold."

"I know. But it'll warm up."

She moved the faucet away from his head as she ran the water, holding her hand under it until it became warm. His eyes were still closed as she ran her fingers and the water through his hair. When wet, it was thick and sun-scorched like desert sand. She squeezed a dollop of shampoo and worked it in a lather through his strands. Like this, she could stare down at leisure on his relaxed face. His lashes, thick sheaves of golden wheat against the whiteness of his skin. His smooth eyelids so translucent she could see the pale blue veins running underneath. His pink mouth slack. His long neck curved over the rolled towel. She wanted to touch her lips to his fragile Adam's apple and feel it move with his caught breath. Oh, she had never known such beauty as this. Men were so rarely this beautiful. This incandescent.

Her hands lingered in his hair, making sure every bit of soapiness was washed away. Wanting to prolong this connection of hands and touch and breath and feeling. Finally, she turned the water off and lifted his head gently, cradling it between her hands like an easily-broken robin's egg. Rubbed his hair dry with the towel and ran the comb through, parting it neatly.

"There, all done."

He reached up and tentatively touched his still slightly damp hair.

"Thank you."

Twisted a strand between his fingers, making them both laugh when it squeaked.

"Squeaky-clean. You do good work, Summers."

She had never done this for anyone else. Had never even thought about doing it for Riley, not wanting to bruise his machismo. Maybe that's what made him different. He made her want to do everything, anything.

"Perhaps, I've found my calling."

He smiled and found her still wet fingers with his. Wiped them dry with the towel.

"There. Now you're all done."

Oh, oh how she was falling.

Suddenly, his head cocked towards the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall.

"What time is it?"

"Almost five."

She couldn't believe how fast the time had passed. But then, forever wasn't enough time.

"You have to go. She comes home from work at five."

"Oh. Can I...can I come tomorrow?"

His answer made her heart leap into her throat. How could he undo her with just one word?

"Please."

She helped him set the chair back in its place. Ran her fingers one more time through his hair, watching his eyelids drift shut and his lips part on a barely audible sigh.

"I'll be back soon."

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

"Yes."

And she slipped out, with the vision of him standing in the middle of the kitchen clutching the towel, bottle of shampoo, and comb as if they were a lifeline.

When she walked back into her mother's house, the old black rotary phone was shrilling. She picked it up warily. Who could it be? Would it be someone she would have to tell? I'm sorry, she's not at home. No, it's her daughter. She's...she's dead. But of course, that was silly. Everyone her mother had known lived in town and would have heard.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Miss Summers?"

The voice was oddly familiar.

"She's...she's not here."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm calling for Miss Buffy Summers?"

"This is she."

"Buffy? It's me. It's Angel."

You were so soft and gentle today. It was all I could do not to tug you into my arms and kiss you. Kiss you until we both fainted for lack of breath. How silly I have become. You do that to me. Make me into a babbling romantic. No one has touched me the way you do. As if I were truly seen. No one touches me anymore. I think I do not want anyone touching me again except for you. Any other hand would feel cold and hollow. I wait. I wait for you to come tomorrow. And touch me into life again.

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