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DISCLAIMER: Owned by JW, WB, Mutant Enemy, Fox, the writers and the actors who bring these amazing characters to life. No infringement intended.
COPYRIGHT: June 2003.
SYNOPSIS: What’s in a name?
RATING: G? Maybe PG.
DISTRIBUTION: Smurfy, otherwise please ask.
NOTES: Inspired by cookies.
FEEDBACK: It’s been a while and this is unbeta-ed but feel free.
DEDICATION: To those who said ‘Write!’ with thanks. It’s not much but I hope you like it.
She calls him honey. “Honey, where did I leave my keys?” It is an unconscious endearment, much like his reply of, “Check the kitchen table, sweet.” They slip into everyday conversation, chatter about laundry and work and what to watch on television. No longer a surprise, most days they are taken for granted, but the warmth they bring is unmistakable.
Their business cards read Anne and Liam Summers. Experts in the field of security, human or otherwise, they provide services unparalleled in quality and experience. In another age, someone would have said that those were good, strong names and, indeed, this is why they use them.
If he’s feeling playful he calls her cookie. The first time it made her eyes widen, first in disbelief, then in laughter before they narrowed and took on a naughty glint. “If I’m a cookie, does that make you Cookie Monster?” With a growl leftover from his vampire years, he grabbed her, tickling and nibbling, proving he is indeed. Now it is another love word, a code that only they know, and they use it to their advantage, teasing each other so no one else knows.
When the ache of little hurts and angers boils up in her, she calls him Angelus, knowing that it will sting stronger than holy water ever did. When he is angry, frustrated over her silences, she becomes Buff, a version of her name only his soulless half ever used and so, doubly painful. The blows are painful, agonizing, exact, but they are far fewer than in the beginning when there were so many things to discuss, so much hurting that, then and now, could only be healed by the other.
Eyes become dark chocolate, deep moss when one says the word lover. Night or day, place or time, standing, sitting, sweet or hard, it makes skin flush, hearts beat faster, and the world to narrow to only the two of them. It is the kiss that consumes, the hand that strokes, the heat that envelops, makes their two bodies’ one. It is hot, sweaty, passionate, and real.
They have survived the unbelievable to reach their own extraordinary and, at heart, they are still the same as they were all those years ago in that alley. He still calls her Buffy in a way that makes her heart stop, that brings a smile to her lips, a way that lets her know she is safe and loved and cherished. She calls him Angel and he sees her heart held in front of her, he hears her joy in simply saying his name, and feels the safety only she has ever provided, the love only she could offer.
Of all their names those are the most important. They are who they were, who they are, who they shall always be. They are Buffy and Angel… and they are always.