Title: Memories
Author: Drusilla
Email: Drus1lla@cs.com
Rating: PG, but not really.  There's no bad parts.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used within this story, probably with the 
exception of Iain and Brighid, cuz I made them up.  But Buffy and Angel don't belong to 
me, they belong to the evil Joss monster, the WB, FOX, and whoever else owns a piece 
of them.
Author's Notes: Someone asked me if I was going to write a sequel to I Don't Know You 
Anymore, and it finally popped into my head.  Probably not what people were thinking 
of, but I think I like it.
Dedication: For Callie, because without her suggesting a sequel, I never would've written 
it. 
Summary: Sequel to I Don't Know You Anymore


Pictures.  Photographs.  Small squares of paper with an image imprinted on them for an 
eternity.  People take pictures every day.  I remember when I first got my hands on my 
mother's camera.  I'd waste the film, take pictures of anything I saw.  Like most people 
once the film was developed, and the desirable photographs separated out, the rest would 
get thrown into a box.  Forgotten.  Packed away as if they meant nothing.  Even the 
desirable ones, if they were placed into a book, would eventually be forgotten.  The 
books would be packed into a box, and new picture albums would take their places on the 
shelf.

I never understood my father's love of pictures.  He cherished each photograph he ever 
took. Maybe it's because of him that I've become a photographer, I honestly don't know.  
I always teased him about the way he could look at the worn photos of my mother, my 
brother, and me.
I would tell him I looked stupid, or that moment hadn't been as important as he'd 
thought. My brother always understood him, I never did.

I remember the look that would come over my father's eyes whenever we fought.  He 
never fought though, he just took what I'd dish out.  I'd come home past curfew, or sneak 
out, and he'd always be waiting.  He never said anything, that was what was strange.  He 
never punished me.  I'd start yelling that I was growing up, not a baby anymore, probably 
say something cruel.  And then his eyes would take on that look, that look that told me 
I'd gone too far, and he'd walk away.  Afterwards Iain would always glare at me.  He 
always told me I should appreciate every moment I had with my parents.

I know that now.  That's the thing about hindsight.  Maybe Iain appreciated them more, 
my father especially, because they hadn't always had each other.  I've always had my 
father in my life, I know that much.  I always assumed that he was never in any of Iain's 
baby pictures because he was the one taking them.  I know that's not true.  And maybe 
that's why my father cherished the pictures so much.  Because he hadn't been there.

None of them ever told me why they'd been apart, why our family hadn't really started 
until Iain was five.  Going through these old photo albums and letters has told me why. 
Told me why my parents had been apart, why they hadn't always been the loving couple 
I had known.

Their affection always embarrassed me.  They held hands all the time, kissed constantly, 
relishing every touch.  Now I know why they did it.  Because there had been a time when 
they couldn't.  I've always known my family wasn't like other families.  It wasn't until I 
was in kindergarten that I discovered that every other kid didn't have their own vampire. 
That the other kids didn't have uncles who turned into werewolves three nights a month. 
That the other kids didn't have moms who went out at night to keep the world safe.

My brother knew, Iain always knew things I didn't.  Maybe I resented how close he and 
my father were.  Iain never left the house angry.  He told my parents he loved them, even 
when he got older and his friends gave him strange looks for it.  Iain didn't care.  He 
would sit with my father by the fireplace and they would talk over an open photo album. 
It all comes back to the pictures.

I remember the way my father used to take me in his lap, the way we'd look through the 
photo albums.  My father never replaced any, he just added to his collection.  As I got 
older I'd ask him why he liked them so much, they were just paper.  He'd look at me and 
he'd say, "Peanut, they're more than that.  They're memories.  They're moments.  
They're things you never want to forget."  I sure didn't want to remember the three years 
I spent
in braces, but for some reason he did.

I love pictures now.  The feeling I get before going into a darkroom to develop a roll of 
film is indescribable.  Black and white are my favorite kind, I didn't bother to learn color. 
It's complicated.  With black and white film you can watch as the image you've burned 
onto the paper comes into being.  Film isn't just paper and silver, and strips of plastic to 
me anymore.  In a way, it's the only part of my father I have left.

When I found out they were gone, everything Iain had ever told me about appreciating 
them came rushing back.  He knew how important they were, he had always told them.  
For some reason I never had.  I still don't know why.  I was probably too busy being the 
rebellious teenager.

For some reason I'm forgetting the purpose of this journal.  It's my memory book now.  
It's where I will say everything to my parents that I always should have when they were 
alive. And somehow I know they will read it, or know what I've written.  I can't explain 
it, it's what my mother would call a Hellmouth vibe.  Everything is different here in 
Sunnydale, that's for sure.

The first thing to say to you is I love you, both of you.  And I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for only 
realizing now what Iain always knew.  That our time together is precious.  The two of 
you realized that early on.  Being in the house again, going through your old things.  I 
found Mom's journals and Dad's letters.  I think Mom knew I would eventually find the 
diaries, and some pages are ripped out.  Even though I haven't read them, I almost know 
what those pages might have said.

There are spots on the pages of her diaries where my tears have blurred the ink.  But 
aside from my tears, hers are there too.  Tears for Dad, tears for the time he lost his soul 
and they were torn apart.  There are tears for a time when he left.  I had always wondered 
how you got that scar on your neck, but you never told me.  There are tears for a 
forgotten day. And then the tears stop, and you're both happy.  And every few pages 
now, there's a picture. It's of me, or of Iain, or of all of us.

My favorite pictures are the ones of the two of you together.  If there's one thing I've 
noticed about every picture of the two of you, even if Iain and I are in them too, you're 
always looking at each other.  I never understood why until I read Mom's journals.  And 
Dad's letters.  They were his journal, but they were all letters to you.  I love to read of the 
beginning between you two, of the time when you first met.  I love the way Dad's letters
always begin, 'My darling Buffy, I love you.........'

I know why you two said it so much, because there were those months when it hurt too 
much to say it at all.  So as I close this first letter to you, I will say again what I never 
said enough.  I love you.

Love,
Brighid