Sometimes I watch them sleep. When I was younger, I would get scared at
night and toddle to their room, hoping to be allowed in the bed, where nothing
bad could get me. Papa would always end up wrapped around Dad, no matter how
Dad moved around. It's always vaguely comforting watching them: they have
this awareness of each other, whether awake or not.
Willow says that if I had lived the lives they did, I would cling to love
that tightly, too. She says I'll understand soon, because I'll probably grow
up too fast, just like all the adults around me. I'm pretty sure I know what
she means. About three years ago, I got the lecture: why we all wear crosses,
why we never see Angel during the day, the whole nine yards. Far before that,
I had to decide if I wanted to call Willow Mom; I dealt with the fact that my
parents were quite possibly the only "out" couple in Sunnydale; and I found
out why Dad never wanted to visit his mom, even after Grandpa died, regardless
of her being a five-minute drive away.
I notice Dad roll to the side; sometimes I think he'll fall off the bed, but
he never does. Papa follows him in his sleep, as usual. Dad rolls back and
throws an arm over him. It's one of the things I've come to count on. Just
watching them need each other that way.
I smile at them, and close the door softly. If I stay too long, they usually
wake up. Years of watching your back does that. But now, they're too
comfortable to worry. I hope it stays that way.
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