[ Even if that hasn’t always been the case, by now, Rafael is an open book for her. Watching the pieces finally click into place causes her heart to skip, jump, tighten in her chest painfully, wondering what his expression will finally settle onto. Now that the words lie between them for judgment, for reaction, she can’t hide under any easy misinterpretation.
Now, everything could change.
Except that it won’t, and it can’t. This changes—them. Being together, being able to touch and confide and—For the foreseeable future, that ends. Buffy can’t see beyond the dark shadow of Andres on the horizon. They only have this moment.
For the first time, seeing his surprise, watching him recognize what she really means, it hits her. He never knew because he could never imagine knowing. All of his gratitude, his warmth, his awe at her care and affection, even believing her to be his friend felt like too much, like more than he deserved.
The small moments come back in a rush. It never occurred to him to look for more, to believe that it could be more, because he could hardly believe himself deserving of her friendship. How could he think that she might love him, having seen what he is? Every dark and dirty part of him—that she would even choose his friendship had stunned him, that she might choose to love him not in spite of those things, but in part because of them must have been—
The single word draws her attention down, and for a moment, her gaze lingers on his lips. When she leans forward, the movement only happens above her shoulders, and she stops herself after mere millimeters, drawing in a sharp, fluttering breath and blinking rapidly. Her gaze leaps back to meet his, searching his eyes as if she hopes to find some reassurance in them. Instead, the cool sting of his doubt and fear hold her back. ]
I’m not asking you for anything.
[ She reads into that fear, that doubt, and draws her own conclusions about how he plans to meet her admission. Rather than suffer any discouragement, she preempts the very same. Raising one hand to cover his, she squeezes it, raises his palm to cup her face, taking the comfort that she needs from it. Slowly, she shakes her head, gaze dropping for only a moment before it returns to his face. ]
That wouldn’t be fair.
[ None of this, though, has been fair to either of them. Tongue darting out to wet her lips, she seems to hesitate on whatever more she might mean to say. There can be no follow-up if they have no future, and Buffy makes no guarantees of that. Instead, she begins to turn from him, releasing his hand: his flight won't wait for them to stare into each other's eyes. Won't wait for them to give last words and final yearning looks. ]
no subject
Now, everything could change.
Except that it won’t, and it can’t. This changes—them. Being together, being able to touch and confide and—For the foreseeable future, that ends. Buffy can’t see beyond the dark shadow of Andres on the horizon. They only have this moment.
For the first time, seeing his surprise, watching him recognize what she really means, it hits her. He never knew because he could never imagine knowing. All of his gratitude, his warmth, his awe at her care and affection, even believing her to be his friend felt like too much, like more than he deserved.
The small moments come back in a rush. It never occurred to him to look for more, to believe that it could be more, because he could hardly believe himself deserving of her friendship. How could he think that she might love him, having seen what he is? Every dark and dirty part of him—that she would even choose his friendship had stunned him, that she might choose to love him not in spite of those things, but in part because of them must have been—
The single word draws her attention down, and for a moment, her gaze lingers on his lips. When she leans forward, the movement only happens above her shoulders, and she stops herself after mere millimeters, drawing in a sharp, fluttering breath and blinking rapidly. Her gaze leaps back to meet his, searching his eyes as if she hopes to find some reassurance in them. Instead, the cool sting of his doubt and fear hold her back. ]
I’m not asking you for anything.
[ She reads into that fear, that doubt, and draws her own conclusions about how he plans to meet her admission. Rather than suffer any discouragement, she preempts the very same. Raising one hand to cover his, she squeezes it, raises his palm to cup her face, taking the comfort that she needs from it. Slowly, she shakes her head, gaze dropping for only a moment before it returns to his face. ]
That wouldn’t be fair.
[ None of this, though, has been fair to either of them. Tongue darting out to wet her lips, she seems to hesitate on whatever more she might mean to say. There can be no follow-up if they have no future, and Buffy makes no guarantees of that. Instead, she begins to turn from him, releasing his hand: his flight won't wait for them to stare into each other's eyes. Won't wait for them to give last words and final yearning looks. ]