Summary: Sometimes, every once in a while, wishes do come true.
A/N: There’s missing back story here. The reason is that I haven’t yet finished the ‘master fic’ that explains all of it. I’m hoping that will be done in the next couple of months.
A/N 2: Some of you may notice something with one of the OC’s name. There is a reason for it. I played with other names when I was deciding, but that was the one that I felt worked best. Again, another fic in this universe explains it.
Thanks to ventusliberum, my most magnificent beta!
She’s not used to this. She’s not used to him in her home, she’s not used to him in her bed, she’s not used to watching him sleep, and she’s not used to the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She is, however, ridiculously happy about it. He’s here and he’s not going to leave. She’s too happy to sleep and her mind is racing with possibilities.
She wants to teach him how to tan correctly, because she saw him in the sun today and he is so pale. She wants to introduce him to every food she can. And, if she does, she’ll have to teach him how to stay in shape. She wants to take him on picnics at noon in the park, and the bakery just down the street and the coffee shop around the corner whose ceiling is made of the most beautiful stained glass.
She wants to marry him, but she’ll wait for him to ask because she knows he wants to. She wants to learn and then take his last name. She wants to have his children. She’s only ever wanted his and now that they can she doesn’t see any reason why they should stop at two or three. When she’s gotten her house there were other people living with her, but they had all moved out, and now she has five empty bedrooms, and another one she used as an at home office. She wants at least one child in each room. Their lives will be filled with soccer games and ballet recitals and anything else their future children want to do.
She wants for them to be happy.
Her journal has a pouch attached to the inside back cover for pictures and loose pieces of paper. That night Buffy writes down her wishes for them on puts the list in that pouch. Most days she adds another item to the list:
I wish for Angel to get better.
I wish for everyone to accept that he’s here to stay.
I wish that he’d find something to occupy his time.
Some days she gets to cross things of:
I want to make love
to Angel. In the shower. On the living room
floor in a patch of sunlight. On the beach. In the back of my
car on the side of the road.
Buffy’s pretty sure Angel has a wish list, too. She sometimes finds herself being taken to the opera, or sat down to watch a TV show he likes, or being dragged around a museum with Angel’s face alight in a child-like glee.
She thinks his list has ‘be happy’ on it, too.
Sometimes she has to work for it to cross something off her list.
It’s Saturday and Angel hasn’t woken up yet, even though it is almost noon. But Buffy has a plan. So she goes into their room and yanks the blankets off him.
“Buffy,” he groans, “I was sleeping.” His words are muffled by the pillow his face is still pressed into.
“Well now you’re not,” she replies sounding, in Angel’s opinion, entirely too chipper. “Come on, get up. We have somewhere to be.” Once he’s up and dressed Buffy drapes her arm over his and walks him out of the house. It is a bright, sunny day with just the right amount of clouds. There is a pleasant breeze, but it’s not too cold. They walk arm-in-arm down the street and around the corner and up a hill to a little park where the benches are shaded by trees. After parking Angel on one of them Buffy goes to the ice cream cart and gets a cone of each of their favorite flavors. He smiles up at her when she hands him his cone.
Eat Ice Cream in
the park on a sunny summer day.
One day she pulls her list out and sets it at Angel’s place at the table.
“What’s this?” he asks before he reads it.
“My wish list,” Buffy says chipperly, “It’s everything that I’ve thought of so far that I want us to do.” Angel smiles at her, then leaves the kitchen and shortly returns clutching a couple of papers.
“I do not call this a wish list,” he says playfully, “But I think it might be one.”
“We should consolidate them,” Buffy says in a mock serious tone, “Make one list. We can put it on the fridge!”
“Buffy,” Angel’s tone is shocked, “Some of these things cannot be displayed on the fridge.” She laughed and kissed him soundly.
“Angel, it hurts,” Buffy’s voice is small and full of pain.
“I know,” he whispers soothingly, “I know. But it’s not for that much longer.” Buffy’s head is leaning against his chest and her hand is clasped lightly in his. Their bedroom is warm and comfortable, and the midwife is monitoring Buffy’s progress.
“He’s right, dear,” the woman says kindly, “it’s time for you to push.”
Delaney Starkid Summers-Donovan is born at 1:37 PM while the suns shines and the birds sing right outside the window. Her parents are filled with wonder the first time they hold her, marveling at the life they created.
Have a baby.
They both started fretting over the idea shortly after Angel had healed, and then again after the baby was born. Buffy wondered if he would do it on his own, or if she would have to give him a push. Angel was positive he would never be able to find the right time. They both couldn’t decide if a grand gesture was in order or not. In the end, it happened while they were in bed.
They’d made love that night, and for the past hour had just been dozing and talking, basking in each other’s presence while their bodies made casual contact. They had reached a lull in the conversation when Buffy felt Angel’s weight shift as he lifted his arm and reached to his bedside table. Buffy’s brow crinkled above her closed eyes and she groaned a little. She was just about to tell Angel she didn’t think she could go again when she heard the creak of a small hinge.
A few months later, all he can think is that she looks beautiful in her dress. It’s simple, but Angel is positive that she is the prettiest bride that has ever and will ever exist. The ceremony is small, just the friends they call family. They have no isle or wedding party, and Angel doesn’t wear a tux. Giles officiates, and 14-month-old Stary ends up being in the wedding because she refuses to let go of her mother’s hand.
“Are you alright?” Buffy asks him quietly.
“He’s eighteen,” Angel replies disbelievingly. “Buffy,” he says, turning to face her, “Our youngest, our baby, is graduating from high school.”
“Yeah,” she breaths, amazement lighting up her face, “Isn’t it weird?” Angel can only nod his head in agreement.
Watch our children
They start traveling. Angel wants to show her places he’s been. Buffy just wants to explore. Their friends and family get postcards from all over the world: Brazil, Egypt, China, Japan. Sometime they’ll get something more: bracelets from South Africa, Aboriginal art from Australia.
It takes two years for Angel, the planner of their trips, to take her to Ireland. Their friends don’t get anything, but they find a small piece of jewelry for each of their kids.
Make love all over
“We raised seven children,” Angel says in exasperation, “We should remember how to do this.”
“But it’s been twenty years since we had a baby to take care of,” Buffy pointed out. “And think about how Glen was. Honestly, we’re lucky she’s behaving at all.” Glen and her husband had had to go out of town and, instead of crating baby Emma cross-country, had graciously left her with her grandparents. (“Mom,” Glen had said, “Think about how many grandkids you and dad are going to have. You need the practice.”)
Later, after Emma had finally fallen asleep, Buffy poured Angel a glass of wine in an effort to calm his nerves.
“What if we do something wrong?” he asks softly.
Buffy took his face in her hands. “Angel, look at me.” She waited for him to comply before she continued. “We raised our children, and we raised them well. Now it’s time for them to raise theirs. We give them help if they need or ask for it, but otherwise we let them be.” She kissed him on the forehead, “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
A week later they watch the car carrying their daughter’s family drive away.
“Ya’ know,” Buffy says slowly, “There are perks to being a grandparent.”
“Really,” Angel asks, play creeping into his voice, “Like what?”
Spoil our grandkids
(but not too much).
As time goes by they add things to the list less and less frequently, and they cross things off more and more often. They cross off every item except the half of one they know they can’t.
Grow old together,
Their children do it for them.
And die in each