Title: Treasured
Fandom: BtVS
Author: badly_knitted 
Characters: Buffy, Angel.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 400
Spoilers: Helpless.
Summary: On Buffy’s eighteenth birthday, Angel had given her a book…
Content Notes: None needed.
Written For: Challenge 375: Amnesty 62 at fan_flashworks, using Challenge 248: Book.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BtVS, or the characters.




Sitting on her bed, Buffy carefully unwrapped the cloth from around the slim volume, holding it in her hands almost reverentially, remembering the night Angel had given it to her, so long ago now. She felt a pang of guilt as she remembered her reaction to the gift. She knew Angel had been disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm, but she’d been eighteen, more interested in makeup and clothes than poetry, no matter how romantic.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese; it had always seemed an odd title. The book was so old, probably quite valuable although she still didn’t know a great deal about antiquarian books of the literary persuasion. Books on the occult and related subjects, sure; they’d been part of her life since she became the Slayer, but their value was in the knowledge they contained. This little book was different. The poems had no doubt been published in countless editions over the years, but this was a very early one, she could tell that much just by looking at it.

She gently flipped open the front cover, to where Angel had written on the title page. Always. Just that one single word, no name and no date. Neither were needed, because how could she ever forget?

Angel had been trying to tell her something with this book, but she’d been too young and too foolish to understand. He’d been offering her his love and his heart, for as long as the two of them might live, which admittedly might not have been all that long in Buffy’s case. She’d beaten the odds, which was awesome, but… Looking back, she could only imagine how hurt Angel must have felt. He’d offered his heart, and she’d been underwhelmed by his generosity. She hadn’t even read the book at the time, just tucked it away and all but forgotten about it.

That was then, when she’d been too shallow to appreciate what she now held so lovingly. She’d read the book from cover to cover over the years, tucking scraps of paper between the pages to mark her favourite poems. It had become a sort of comfort blanket, minus the warm woolliness, something she turned to when life got her down.

Angel would probably never know how much his long-ago gift meant to her now; it was among her most treasured possessions. Settling comfortably, she began to read.


The End