Title: Weight of Life
Author: Maren
Pairing: B/A
Rating: Adult (sex & language)
Summary: Post NFA, Angel turns to the only person who can help.
Author Note: Written for theantijoss for fickledame's B/A Angstathon. Many thanks to a2zmom, stephanierb, and southernbangel for their invaluable beta help and encouragement.

Weight of Life

The box is dark, hot, and stuffy and he has to force himself to remain calm. He hasn’t had to travel this way in a very long time and for a moment he wishes he still had access to the Wolfram & Hart jet. But he doesn’t, and he had to get to Italy quickly, so he’s shut inside an airtight box in the cargo hold of a commercial plane.

He doesn’t want to think about how much money it cost him to get this box on board and through customs. He has precious few resources these days and he had been forced to call in every favor he was owed to get him this far.

Only one more person left he can ask for help.

He hopes he can still count on her.

*********
It’s close to midnight when he gets to her apartment. He hides in the shadows of a doorway across the street and watches, waiting for her to come home. He knows she isn’t there. Even if the windows weren’t dark, he would know. So he waits, and while he waits, he thinks.

A few months ago he hadn’t imagined that he’d still be alive. He expected to die back there in that alley as he lay broken and bleeding beneath the rubble of the decimated hotel. He watched the leering demon standing over him with a sword, his vision narrowing as the oblivion of unconsciousness encroached on his peripheral sight until the only thing he could see was the sword swinging toward his neck. It never made it. Instead, the sky above split open and a portal appeared.

The Hyperion had saved him in the end—kept him trapped underneath its heavy bones as the vortex pulled the other demons in the vicinity into the portal. After, he knew it had been meant for him as much as the demon hoard that disappeared in what was described by the reporters as a freak tornado. It took everything demonic in the area that wasn’t held down—the army, but also Illyria and Spike. Gunn was left behind, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t lived long enough to see the show.

Angel had been alone and severely hurt. When Connor showed up among the hotel ruins shortly before dawn, Angel might have been angry or even relieved if he hadn’t been so numb. Then Connor tried to pull him free of the rubble and he found out he was anything but numb. The agony of broken bones grating against one another and lacerating his skin was excruciating and then he didn’t remember anything for days. . .

His head snaps up, his eyes breaking contact with the pavement and his thoughts trailing off as he senses her approach. Sensitive ears pick up the clickclick of her high heels on the cobblestone, sensitive nose picks up the unique scent of her, and finally, sensitive eyes see her even in the pitch black of the sliver-mooned sky. Angel thinks he would see her, know her, even without these senses. He is aware of her in a way not completely explained by science and physiology, aware of her in a way not completely explained by slayervampire. It is this awareness, a hum at the edge of his consciousness and independent of any tangible sign of her, that has made it impossible to let her go.

Angel knows this. He has tried. He has a girlfriend and a thousand regrets to prove it.

She stalks closer, her gait brisk and stiff, and he can see that she is distracted. Then she stops, her head whipping up and around, and she is staring into the shadows where he resides. His throat closes, a lifetime of emotions lived in the short decade he has known her threatening to spill out of him in a rush of words and tears. Angel pushes it back, hasn’t allowed himself to cry in years and doesn’t want to open those gates. He’s lost too much, feels too much sorrow to think he could ever stop once he started.

“Angel?” she breathes, and he sees the hope flicker across her face.

Stepping out of the deep shadows of the building, he closes the distance between them. When she sees him, her eyes flash with joy, her face lights up with the smile of hundred suns. Then, just as quickly, it is gone, replaced by a wary watchfulness that wasn’t entirely unexpected but devastating nonetheless. He freezes, realizing that he is reaching for her only when he sees his hand extended between them. Angel lets it drop back to his side and nods instead.

“It’s me, Buffy. I need to. . .”

“You need to hurry and come inside before anyone sees you,” she interrupts, glancing around the dark abandoned street before turning toward the door to her building and pulling out a key. He follows her in the door with its chipped blue paint and up a narrow flight of stairs. Angel can feel her agitation following in a wake behind her, hear the fast and hard thumpthump of her strong heart and he feels momentarily elated that he can still affect her. Then she is unlocking her door and turning on a lamp.

“Come in,” she says, gesturing nervously with her hand before wrapping her arms around her waist in a move that is both self-protective and well practiced.

Angel steps inside her apartment and gives it a cursory look. It is the same cozy but impersonal space he saw before. The air carries the scent of Buffy, candles, and fading traces of Dawn. He cannot smell the annoying boy here any longer. There is another scent that he does not want to name.

Now that they are here, in this closed-in space without the flicker and rustle of the cool night air tickling their skin and offering them escape, he feels trapped, the sensations of her almost over stimulating.

She moves to the window, unlocks it, and pushes it open. He allows himself to wonder if she can read his mind.

“Buffy. . .” he begins again, breaking the silence that threatens to extend indefinitely. He is suddenly reminded of their meeting after her resurrection, and the tense silence that settled around them after she’d pulled away from his kiss.

She spins away from the window, not quite hiding the tears that glisten and threaten to fall, before interrupting him again.

“Are you hungry? Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you something?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just sweeps past him with a tight, fake smile. Her heart is still pounding too quickly and he resists the urge to grab her upper arm and pull her close so that he can rest his lips on her pulse.

It seems that he has been fighting this impulse from the moment he first met her face-to-face in that alley in Sunnydale.

Instead, he tracks her progress into the kitchen with his eyes. Angel hears the mechanical hum of the old refrigerator as she pulls it open and hopes that she gets something for herself as well. She doesn’t look like he expected—still so thin that her skin looks almost painfully stretched over her bones, her features too large on her gaunt face. Still beautiful to him, but he had thought she would have filled out again, taken better care of herself now that she wasn’t exhausted with fighting The First. He’d thought, after glimpsing the way she danced with . . . well, he’d thought she would be happy and healthy here in Rome.

Instead she looks thin and tired and almost . . . defeated. Empty.

The beep of the microwave sounds loud and intrusive in the quiet oppressiveness of the apartment. Angel waits for her to reappear, caught between impatience and reluctance. Suddenly he is not sure what he should say to her about why he is here. He’d had plenty of time to plan his words in the cargo box, time that he spent carefully considering all of the words he could use to destroy her anticipated happiness. Now that he sees she is anything but happy, he is at a loss. It should be easier now. Somehow it isn’t.

He shifts his weight from one foot to another, restless movement that is foreign to him, and then she appears carrying two mugs. She avoids eye contact, staring at the mugs in her hands as though they contain something much more dangerous and unpredictable than the blood and coffee he can smell. Angel briefly wonders why she keeps blood in her apartment, and then he remembers. He tries to suppress a scowl. Fails.

It doesn’t matter. Buffy isn’t looking at him anyway—just stares at the cups and then sinks onto the corner cushion of her couch. She sets the cups on the table in front of her, takes a deep breath that he can hear as well as see, and finally looks up at him.

“It’s human,” she says quietly as she gestures toward one of the large white mugs. He thinks that by now she should know that vampires don’t need to be told such things, then is briefly glad that she has maintained some level of naiveté about the monsters she hunts.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, sitting on the other end of the sofa and reaching out for the mug. Buffy watches the movement of his hand like a hawk, her heart beating even faster and he smells the anxiety that surges through her blood. A frown settles on his face even as his hand grasps the handle and he begins to lift it to his lips.

A short, gasping sound rasps from her throat as her head snaps up and her eyes fly to his. Then she is closing the distance between them and her hand is hovering over his face for a second before she reaches out and brushes the tips of her fingers over his cheek. Angel forgets the mug, forgets the pain, forgets the scent of the vampire that is thick in the air, and leans in to her touch. When her fingers move to his eyes he closes them, letting her digits dance lightly over the lids before they smooth over his forehead and then back down his cheek to caress and cup his chin. He opens his eyes as her thumb sweeps up and traces the outline of his lips, a whisper of a touch, tentative and teasing. His eyes meet hers, a unique shade of gray-green that is the color of home, and he sees the wonder and the moisture that teeters on her long lashes and threatens to fall. Unthinking, he slowly parts his lips and touches the pad of her thumb with the tip of his tongue, savors the taste of her briefly before slowly catching the flesh between his lips and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue never loses contact with her thumb, his eyes burn into hers with forbidden feeling long-suppressed.

“Angel,” she breathes, her voice catching slightly on the second syllable, and then her eyes close and the tear that was caught in her lashes breaks free and spills down her cheek. He releases her thumb and his lips move to her cheek to catch it before it falls. Then her lips are on his, desperate and hungry in the way that they always are . . . eventually. But now it is instant and he loses himself in the taste of her, moves his arms to wrap around her and draw her closer.

Forgets the mug of blood. Drops it on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter that makes her jump and pull away. She stares at the deep red blood pooling around his black booted foot and the white shards of the broken mug. Some of the blood has splattered on the white material of her couch, tiny droplets of red that will be impossible to get out, even with her extensive stain-fighting experience.

“I’m sorry.” Angel’s voice mingles with Buffy’s and they smile, breaking the spell. She moves further back, putting a distance between them that is magnified by the schooled, emotionless expression that settles over her face in the wake of the fading smile.

“Don’t apologize. It’s no big. Hell, I’m used to blood stains. I was just thinking the other day that this place would feel homier if I just . . .”

“That’s not what I meant.” It is his turn to interrupt.

“Oh. Of course.” Her eyes are hard, the small smile she flashes almost grim. It is clear that she thinks he is sorry for kissing her. Angel groans inside, briefly chastises himself for his seeming complete inability to communicate with this woman in words, and opens his mouth to explain. Buffy cuts him off with a wave of her hand and stands; pacing back to the open window with its gauzy white curtains blowing in the breeze and looks out at the dark street. He wants to follow, wants to pull her back into his arms and feel her again, but he sees the stiffness of her body, the rigidity of her shoulders and he knows that she will only push him away. He tries not to think about just how much that would hurt him.

He’s still trying to get over her. Still has a girlfriend. Still lies to himself about not wanting her. Still lies to himself about believing his own lies.

“I thought you were dead,” she starts, and then lets out a breath of a laugh. “I mean, gone, poof, ashes. We heard about the battle and your law firm and the destruction, but we never heard from you. I never heard from you.”

Buffy turns toward him then, and he watches the twist of her thin hips in the jeans that should have hugged her curves tightly but instead gap at the waist.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I just. . . I was so afraid. I thought you might be the First and part of me didn’t want to know if you were.”

“So the blood was a test,” he says with a glance at the puddle on the floor. She follows his gaze and gives him a brittle smile.

“And you passed with flying colors. And also flying blood.”

He feels his lips lift in a smile but he feels no mirth. Her wit is still quick, but there is something missing. Something integral to her character, an innate capacity for joy that has only been missing one other time since he’s known her. Angel stands and walks toward her, the heavy thump of his boots on the floor reverberating in the near silence. He stops when he feels her body tense in preparation for retreat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you Buffy.” His voice is quiet in its sincerity. He hadn’t called because he hadn’t known what to say, still doesn’t really but he needs her help now even as he doesn’t want it.

“Why, Angel?”

As she asks the question, her eyes burning into his, searching for some truth that he isn’t sure exists even in his own rationalizations, his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it—only two people have the number and he doesn’t want to talk to either his son or his lover in her presence. Not yet.

His hands reach into his pockets and he turns off the phone. “I was hurt in the battle, pretty bad actually. It took a long time to heal and then I was busy trying to stay alive while I gathered information about the Senior Partners. I’m sorry but I didn’t know. . .”

”No, I mean why didn’t you call me before, ask for my help? I have resources now, and besides, I’m still the slayer. I still. . .” she trails off, her eyes burning into his with a mixture of anger and something softer, more vulnerable. Her hands run loosely up and down her bare arms, taming the goose bumps that have risen on her flesh and she looks away. “I’m still Buffy,” she finishes quietly, clearly changing her mind about whatever she had been ready to say.

He sighs, raises one hand and rakes it through his hair. He knows she won’t like the answer.

“I didn’t call you because it wasn’t your fight, Buffy. It was my fight and Wes’s and Gunn’s, among others, but it wasn’t yours.”

The snort of disbelief rips through the space between them and she is suddenly in front of him, her finger planted in his chest. She is seething with anger, her chest rising erratically with her quick breaths. “What the hell are you talking about, Angel? It’s always my fight, always my destiny. It’s not about us and it’s not about some childish turf war. Don’t you get that?”

Now his anger matches hers and he strikes back, no longer able to stifle the residual hurt over her rejection, no longer able to ignore the stench of the Immortal that sticks to the surfaces in her apartment and serves as tangible proof of her continued relationship with him. His hand snakes up and grabs her wrist, pulling her finger slightly away from where it is digging into his chest. When he speaks, it is through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing darkly.

“Don’t you get that not everything is about you? You were here, running around Rome with your newest vampire boy toy and I had a serious job to do with people who trusted me and whom I could trust in return. That’s what I get, Buffy.”

Her gasp is pained and she steps back as though he has slapped her, pulling her wrist out of his grip. Hurt, anger (always more anger), and something else (shame?) color her features, the red rush of blood to her face causing her to flush hotly.

“How . . . who told you about him?” she stutters, one hand fluttering to her neck to touch her faded scar before suddenly dropping as she realizes what she’s doing.

His own rage fades in the face of her distress, leaving the hollow ache that has throbbed in him since his last visit to this place. He regrets the harshness of his words, wishes that he could take them back even though he meant them. Wishes that he could step closer and kiss the raised flesh on her neck that she has so recently touched as he murmurs soft words of comfort and. . .

Impossible, he reminds himself. He is here to finish what he started, not to daydream about something he can never have.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says instead, the words soft and resigned. “I’m here for your help now, Buffy. What matters is that I need your help now.”

Her mouth opens in reply as just as her phone rings. The noise seems shrill in the small space and he sees her jump a little at the sound. Buffy’s eyes slant toward the phone and he can tell she is debating about whether to answer it. She moves and reaches for it just as the machine beeps and a woman’s voice floods the room.

“Angel, it’s Nina. I know you said that this number was for emergencies only but I’ve been trying to call your cell phone and you’re not answering and I’m worried, baby. I just want to make sure you got there all right and I thought you’d have called by now. Please call me. I need to hear your voice, o.k.? Just call when you get this. Love you.”

The machine beeps again as Nina hangs up. Buffy’s hand is still hovering over the phone, her body tense with what he imagines is shock. Then she lowers her hand to her side and lifts her face to look at him.

Angel cringes inside and watches all of the light in Buffy’s eyes disintegrates as her face hardens into an impersonal mask, the red flush draining until she is almost unnaturally pale. Knows in that instant, as he sees the flash of pain that she is not quick enough to hide from him, that whatever he had with Nina is over. The lies are too empty now, in her presence, and he is sure that he can no longer pretend that what he has with Nina is anything worth having.

“Buffy…”

Buffy makes a low noise in her throat, turns her back on him, and walks stiffly from the room. Angel sighs in frustration, wishing that just once this night he could say what he meant to say without screwing it up or having her interrupt him. He can hear a door open, and then the rustle of her movements as she gathers something together. Then she is back, arms full of sheets and a blanket.

“It’s almost dawn and I’m tired. You can stay here tonight, and we’ll talk about what you need from me tomorrow. If it can wait,” she intones, pretending that their conversation wasn’t interrupted by the voice of Angel’s lover. Her head tilts, questioning, and he fights the urge to tell her that no, it can’t wait. He can see how tired she is in the sag of her shoulders and in the dark circles under her eyes.

Nodding, he takes the linens from her arms, the tingle of energy caused by his hands brushing against her bare skin electric and just as powerful as always.

He can wait. Tomorrow is another day and he hadn’t lied when he told her he wasn’t getting any older.

*********

When his eyes open it is early evening and he is disoriented. For a moment he forgets where he is and why he slept so long and so well. Then he smells her and all of his questions are answered with one name. Buffy.

Angel sits up quickly, the last vestiges of sleep dissipating in the knowledge of what has to be done. He can hear her moving in the bathroom, the sounds and smells of grooming floating in the air that escapes from beneath the closed door. A bare hint of her blood reaches his nose and the bloodlust surges forward, his need and desire to lickbitesuckherdry driving into his gut until his hands are shaking and his mouth is watering. Angel growls, soft and low, as he moves quickly across the living room and into the kitchen. He hasn’t fed well in days and he is suddenly ravenous—hungry enough to drink human blood. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to savor the taste of human as it gushes down his throat, but he doesn’t have anything else and his skin is crawling with the need to feed.

She finds him there, standing in the kitchen drinking his second bag of blood as the hunger slowly fades into his recesses and he is less of a danger to her. He hates that there is never a time when he is no danger to her -- he is always a menace measured in degrees and he remembers that this is one of the reasons he kept leaving her. Angel wishes he could leave now, wishes that he didn’t have to see her looking fragile and lost and so damned comfortable in the skin of both. He wants to see her strong and defiant and full of light and life so that when she refuses to help him he can leave on his journey to hell knowing that she will be all right.

“You looked so peaceful, so I let you sleep. I hope that’s o.k.,” she speaks, her eyes barely lighting on him before skipping away to glance at the clock on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it there before, but now the ticktick is loud and intrusive.

“Thanks.” Angel glances at the empty bag in his hand, and then inclines his head toward it. “For the food, too. I hope it won’t be missed.” He doesn’t mention that it tasted a little off—it was fresh enough and even better than he anticipated, but it tasted not-quite-human and he wonders if she cares what her boyfriend is eating.

Her eyes cloud, but she shakes her head. “No problem.”

A jealous part of him wants her to lose the cool façade and respond to his jab. But she doesn’t and it’s just as well.

His hunger abated for the moment, he looks around the small kitchen and notices its bareness. It doesn’t look like this is the home of two young women and then he remembers that he hasn’t seen Dawn, can in fact barely detect her lingering presence in the apartment as though it has been weeks since she was last here.

“Where’s Dawn?”

“She’s. . . Giles and I thought it would be safer for her to be with him in England,” Buffy stammers, one hand reaching up to smooth through her hair. It shimmers in the light and he is tempted to reach forward and catch a strand between his fingers, test to see if it is as soft as it looks. . as soft as he remembers. Then he refocuses on her words, and their possible meaning. He wonders what could possibly be threatening enough to make living with the Slayer unsafe.

Angel shoots her a questioning look. She ignores him and walks to the cupboard, the click of her heels on the tiled floor drawing his attention to her attire. As she pulls a glass from the shelf, her arm stretching over her head, he catches a glimpse of the bare skin of her too-thin back over the waist of the black pants that gently flow over her curves until they fall over black boots. Her shirt is dark silver and long-sleeved, and he sees through the sheer fabric to see a silky silver camisole covering her skin underneath. Her jewelry is silver and onyx and looks delicate, like her. She isn’t dressed for a quiet night in her apartment, catching up with old friends. Angel shakes his head.

They were never just friends.

Buffy opens the refrigerator, takes out the orange juice, and pours it into the glass. She takes a sip before closing the refrigerator and turning back to face him. He looks pointedly back at the refrigerator.

“You should eat something.” There is more possessive command in his voice than he intends, as though he has a right to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do.

Her eyebrows raise and she meets his gaze for the first time since entering the room, eyes steely as she visibly bristles at his tone. “No thanks, not hungry.” Then she is looking at the clock again, a slight frown creasing her mouth. “Besides, I have a dinner . . . appointment tonight”

Anger surges forward, making his eyes darken as he clenches his fists at his sides. When he speaks, it is through teeth that he cannot stop from gritting. “With him? With the Immortal?” Angel hears the jealousy in his own voice, doesn’t care. He has spent the last several weeks fighting the thoughts of her with him, each new sliver of information another cut into his heart. He can’t believe that she is this blind to the extent of the Immortal’s evil, but there is no other explanation. The scent of the other vampire lingers in her apartment, stale and musty like the ancient books that used to line the shelves of Wesley’s bookcases.

Buffy takes an involuntary step back, her hip bumping into the counter, as a rush of air leaves her lips. “How . . . how do you know about that?” Shock colors her breathless voice as she clumsily sets the glass of juice down on the counter beside her, dangerously close to the edge. Angel sees her hand shaking, the pulse jumping in her neck, and something inside him thrills at the visible signs of her fear. But there is something that laces the fear, something he can’t quite place even though it feels so familiar to him.

He steps closer to her, refusing to allow her to escape this. It’s time.

“I saw you with him once, here. I was in Rome to . . .,” he stops, not wanting her to know that she was the real reason he had come all those months ago. Raising a hand to grab the back of his neck and dropping his head, he tries to relieve the tension there with a quick rub. Then he looks back up at her, to where she still stands shaking in front of him with wide eyes. “I was here on business and I stopped by to see you. That boy who was staying here told me . . . and then I saw you out with him, later.”

“Oh,” she says, fear slowly fading as anger replaces it in her eyes, in the returning rigidity of her stance. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—typical Angel m.o. to show up, lurk around behind my back, and then disappear without a word. You’ve really grown as a person since you left Sunnydale, Angel.” Her sarcasm is sharp and biting and just as quickly as his anger faded in the face of her fear, it returns.

Another step closer, but she doesn’t flinch. This is the slayer he knows, the one he hasn’t seen until now. “You looked like you were having a great time. I didn’t want to interrupt the fun,” he growls.

For a moment she looks stunned, and then she snorts lightly and shakes her head. “You’ve always been an expert on seeing what you want to see.”

“You think I want to see you with that . . . that thing?” His voice is a near shout. Angel wants to reach out and take her by the shoulders, shake her until she comes to her senses. But he knows that he doesn’t need to touch her to hurt her, knows that what he is about to say, what he has come here to say, will do it without the help of his hands. Swallowing harshly, he forces his voice lower before he continues. “Buffy, when I saw you with him, I was . . . jealous . . . hurt. I knew him as Angelus and I thought he was a vampire playboy, toying with you. I couldn’t understand why you would debase yourself to be with him.”

He stops, closing his eyes against the imagined visions of her looking flushed and tousled, sated and glowing the way Darla and Drusilla had appeared after being with him. Angel had spent too much time answering the question of why Buffy would ever want to be with the Immortal in his own imagination.

Angel opens his eyes again and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Buffy stands perfectly still, silently waiting for him to continue. The fact that she says nothing to defend herself registers in his mind and fuels his tumultuous emotions. He had planned to be gentle, careful with her. Instead he finds himself speaking with a brisk, hard authority that leaves no room for shielding her feelings.

“I left without saying anything because I didn’t have the right to say any of the things I wanted to and I didn’t think you’d want to hear them anyway. But now I don’t have that luxury, and neither do you. Since the battle, I’ve been gathering information on the major operatives of the Senior Partners that are left in the world. I came here because I have information that points to your boyfriend being one of them. Buffy, I realize this must be hard for you to hear and I’m sorry, but the Immortal is evil and he is working for the Senior Partners. I need your help to take him out.”

As he speaks, Angel watches the play of emotions over her face and finally recognizes the shame that combined with the fear when he first mentioned the Immortal. Then he is done speaking and she is whirling around to face the counter, her shoulders shaking as a harsh, guttural sound tears out of her throat. The quick force of her motion nudges the glass of orange juice that was teetering on the counter and he moves forward, unthinking, to catch it before it shatters at her feet. He feels her back press against him, shaking, as he returns the glass to the counter. Shame fills him as he sees the impact of his harsh words on this woman that he loves in spite of himself. The salty-fresh scent of her tears hits his nose and he gently places his hands on her shoulders, spinning her around so that he can take her into his arms and soothe away whatever pain he caused.

“Shhh, Buffy, I’m so sorry.” Soft, almost a whisper.

As she spins in his arms, the sight that meets his eyes is unexpected. Her shoulders are shaking and tears are streaming down her face, but it is with laughter. Angel takes a step back from her, then another, wanting to put distance between himself and this woman who is laughing in great gulping gasps, the sound joyless when accompanied by her twisted features and pain-filled eyes.

“Oh Angel, you’re so wrong. The Immortal isn’t working for the Senior Partners,” she says, the laughter fading as she takes a deep, wracking breath. He opens his mouth to argue, but what she says next makes the words die in his throat.

“He is a Senior Partner.”

The laughter has stopped, but her tears haven’t. They stream down her cheeks, unchecked.

***********

He feels numb, a slow dull buzz humming along just under his skin the only feeling he can comprehend, and really, it’s as much a silent noise as a feeling.

Seconds, or maybe hours pass before he hears her voice calling his name. He looks up to see her standing across the room, and he realizes it must have been him who moved because she is still standing in the same spot. Buffy’s eyes are dry now, shuttered as she carefully approaches him, slow, as though she is afraid any sudden movements on her part might result in violence. In some way he is aware that he should feel something about that . . . maybe hurt, maybe guilt, perhaps anger. But all he can do is stand there as her words repeat over and over in his mind.

He is a Senior Partner. The Immortal is a Senior Partner.

She is fucking a Senior Partner.

Finally, Angel feels something. It is dark and violent and something that he hasn’t felt in quite some time. It is past human rage into the realm of his demon emotions, and it is laced with something he has never felt toward this woman before.

Contempt.

The recognition flashes for a second before he pushes it away, letting the safety and comfort of the numbness return. He concentrates instead on the ticking of the clock, on the low buzz of the light, the soft ring of cashmere that circles his neck, strangely confining.

When he feels her hand close over one wrist he is startled. His eyes fly to her face. She is looking at him impassively, her features perfectly controlled for the first time since he had shown up at her apartment. It is as if a switch has been thrown and the fragile, sad woman Buffy has become is replaced by someone stronger and untouched by emotion. In that moment, Angel knows he is speaking to the slayer general.

“Come sit down,” she says, releasing his wrist as she walks to the small glass and iron café table and pulls out an uncomfortable-looking chair. Angel stays where he is, his buttocks pressed tightly against the edge of the counter that has stopped his unconscious movement backwards. Only his eyes move as he tracks her across the small space. A sigh pushes through her lips, and he watches as her shoulders slump. He can still see the tension in her neck and in the drawn lines of her face.

“Angel, please sit and we can talk. There’s a lot of stuff that’s been happening since I came here and I don’t have much time before I have to leave. There are things I need to tell you that I wish . . . that I have been praying that you’d never have to know.”

“What, that you’ve been fucking evil incarnate . . . again?” The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes that he planned to speak. As he sees the light in her eyes flicker and die, flinching as though he has physically struck her, he is almost sorry for having said them.

Buffy straightens her shoulders as her mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn’t defend herself. He wishes she would scream at him, tell him he’s assuming too much, tell him that he’s wrong, tell him anything that will erase the images of her being touched by something so unworthy. Instead, he gets stiff silence.

In the wake of that silence, Angel studies her closely, comparing this woman to the girl who captured his heart and soul. The girl was a living light; bright and sparkling even with all the weight of the world squarely on her shoulders. The girl would never look this hard—determined, yes . . . certainly strong and tough. But not like this, not this paradox of brittle invulnerability, adamantine and unbreakable because all of the innocent and fragile parts have already been fractured. Yet there are moments when he catches sight of her vulnerability, pieces that are cracked and delicate and closely guarded in secret places where he isn’t invited. It is jarring to see her this way, partly because her hardness stands in sharp contrast to last night’s vulnerability but also because when he imagines the life he wants for her, there is no place for this.

He realizes he loves her more than ever. It is apropos to his life that in the moment he wants to hate her most, he only wants her more. Before, she was a mystery to him—an innocent who represented all of the things he didn’t deserve all wrapped up in a beautiful dream. Now she is more familiar, like him in ways that he’s sure neither of them would like to fully explore, and instead of being tainted . . . less desirable in some way . . . she is more beautiful, more of a dream wrapped in reality because this is a woman he can understand.

If she will only let him. If she can only explain.

All of these things run through his mind as he watches Buffy absorb the sting of his cruel words, her posture rigid. She has averted her gaze to stare out the small window, eyes trained blankly on the fading light of dusk and he can feel how shallowly she is breathing. When the last of the light disappears, it will be time for her to go to him and Angel wants to know, needs to know why before that happens. It takes two of his long strides to reach the empty chair at her table. He sits, never taking his eyes off of her.

“Please, explain this to me Buffy,” he quietly pleads.

Her eyes stay trained on the window and he thinks that maybe she didn’t hear him, but then the dulled-green orbs swing back to him and she begins to speak as though nothing harshly unpleasant has passed between them.

“I should probably start by saying that other than the nifty abilities to break demons and heal really fast when they break me, the consistency of my slayer powers has been pretty crap. So when they all-of-a-sudden make a surprise cameo appearance, I can pretty much figure it’s a big deal.”

She stops and looks down at her hands. They are clasped in front of her on the table and she is stroking the ruby-hued nail of one thumb with the pad of the other. Angel imagines that it must feel slick and smooth—hard, like she has become since sitting down at the table, every inch the warrior.

She pulls her hands apart and lays her palms flat on the table. Her eyes meet his and she continues. “Almost as soon as I got here, the dreams started and wow, had I forgotten about the Technicolor and surround sound of a full-on slayer prophecy. They came complete with a dark, deserted forest and heavy-breathing invisible monsters chasing me, and I suppose for anyone else it would have been a regular nightmare but hey, I’m the Slayer . . . well, a slayer anyway, so I gotta figure that if I’m terrified and running from whatever’s chasing me, then it’s bad.” A deep breath breaks up her monologue and Angel nods, encouraging her to continue.

“Anyway, dark, forest, lots of trees and brush that are cutting at me and slowing me down—you get the picture, and I finally reach this clearing. Dream me decides it’s my chance to put a face to the panting demons, so I turn around and it’s like someone opened the gate at the local petting zoo or something, because I’m running from these animals. But they were more than that. I mean, I knew they were more dangerous than almost anything I’ve ever faced before and I was terrified. One was a wolf, one was a ram, and then there was some kind of deer thingy. . .”

“A hart,” Angel interrupts with a strangled whisper. “You were dreaming of Wolfram & Hart, my former employers.” He looks away, gaze fixating on his hands. Flexing his fingers, he digs them into his thighs, harsh and biting, but he cannot distract himself from the guilt that washes over him. It is magnified when Buffy nods and continues.

“Yeah, we kinda figured that out. Especially after you started guest-starring in the dreams.”

His eyes fly from his lap to her face. Sees a crack in her mask when her eyes dart away from his, trying to hide something from him and succeeding, for the moment.

“Me.” A statement, because after all that has happened to him since the Powers recruited him, he isn’t surprised he plays some major role in this mess.

“Mmhmm,” Buffy affirms with a nod, her brow furrowed as she stares absently at a smudge on the glass tabletop. “You started chasing the animals. Well, that was my interpretation. Giles thought you might be with them, chasing me. It was the subject of many, many . . . discussions.”

Suddenly, Giles’ attitude toward him those months at Wolfram & Hart makes more sense, but the explanation doesn’t take away the resentment he still feels for the man. Apparently his resentment of Giles is shared, if the way Buffy says his name is any indication. Angel has never heard her speak about him in that tone before, as though she can barely make herself utter his name. Beyond the resentment there is a touch of rage and he wants to ask her what has happened between her and the man who was once like a father to her.

Maybe that is it . . . maybe Giles has become too much like a father to her . . . too much like her real father or Angel’s father or Cordy’s father. A disappointment.

“Then things changed again. The deer thingy. . .”

“Hart,” Angel automatically corrects. She flashes him a grim smile and waves her hand.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the hart pulled away from the rest of you and it was just me and it. Suddenly, in that really weird surreal way it always happens in dreams, the monster wasn’t a deer anymore, but a vampire. A vampire who flashed me a smile before he ripped out my womb with a knife. I was highly freaked when I woke up. We all went heavy into research mode after that, but there wasn’t enough to go on, at least not until. . . “

Buffy abruptly stands up, pacing away from the table. When she begins again, the rate of her words is faster-- as if the quicker the story leaves her mouth, the less sour it will taste.

“Not until one night when I saw him in a club. The vampire from my dream—the hart. Faith was here for a check-in visit and we had gone out to blow off some steam. We were doing the timeless sweaty dancing method of steam releasage when the waiter came over with two drinks and pointed to the guy who sent them to us. And there he was, in all his dark, smoldering glory. I went over and politely declined-- if you call throwing the drink in his face polite.”

Angel’s thoughts are reeling with questions and he searches her face for answers. But she is lost in the memory, her hands wringing together as she paces. For a second he is distracted by the sight of her, the diaphanous cloth of her shirt teasing him with glimpses of her skin underneath, the smell of her perfume with its almost chocolate-like undertones sending memories of her licking his chest flashing through his mind. His traitorous mind quickly turns his thoughts into images of her tongue on other male flesh and he snaps back to the present, angrily demanding that she continue.

“You need to keep talking Buffy, because none of what you’ve said so far explains why you’re going out to dinner with a Senior Partner tonight looking and smelling like that,” he seethes. His jaw flexes almost compulsively as he swallows the rest of the accusations that threaten to spill out of his mouth.

Buffy stiffens and stops pacing. He sees her lip tremble almost imperceptibly before she takes a deep breath and fixes him with a blank stare. Her detachment is almost a physical thing—he can see her going someplace else even as she finishes her story.

“Fine. To make a very long and sordid story marginally shorter and less sordid, I exchanged words with the mystery vamp, who turned out to be the Immortal. Actually, I said a few nasty things but he never the lost the charm, told me he wasn’t a threat to me or my girls and asked me to meet him a few nights later. That night and the next day we spent researching, found out the vamp was called The Immortal. Giles found a reference that tied him to another dimension and Willow teleported there to get the goods. She found out that the Immortal had originated from there around the time that the pure elder demons were laid to rest in the well. She also found out that he wasn’t quite like other vampires. He can’t be killed by my usual methods—wood stakes don’t faze him, sunlight is painful but not deadly, ixnay on the holy water and he’s somehow magically protected against beheading. More indestructible than the damn Turok-Han.”

She pauses as a memory assaults her and shakes her head in disgust. “Nasty bastards. Anyway, we decided I’d meet with him as planned, do a little recon. I was . . . surprised, when he was nothing but charming. He told me he wasn’t evil, didn’t kill humans to feed, was just spending time amassing wealth in his chain of nightclubs and restaurants and trying to stay in the good graces of all the new slayers running around. He was flirtatious, came onto me pretty hard—all seductive smiles and green eyes staring deeply into mine. After my little run-in with Dracula, I can tell when a vamp is trying to put a mind-whammy on me so I picked up on it pretty quickly. That night I let him believe he had me in his trance. Since then I’ve been playing spy, trying to find the key to destroying him before he destroys us.”

Angel waits for her to continue, then realizes she is finished as she meets his eyes and waits uncertainly for his reaction. When it comes it is swift and sharp with barely suppressed violence—at least that’s the way he feels inside but on the outside he just stands up slowly and turns his back on her.

“Angel. . .” Soft, plaintive; all of the authority lacing the meaningless words strung together to tell her story gone now. It leaves the woman, not the slayer, to face his wrath.

“Is that all?” His response is cold and clipped and he clenches his fists together at his sides.

“Y-yes” Her hesitation is brief, but hears it and his fists tighten further.

“You’re lying.”

Angel hears the slow intake of breath and the long sigh that follows. Her voice is lower, more cautious when she answers his charge. “Last night I had another slayer-dream.”

“And. . .”

“And nothing,” Buffy asserts, the edge back in her tone for a brief moment, and then gone again. “I’m not ready to talk about it. I don’t know what it means yet, and it. . it was personal.”

He stands perfectly still, his thoughts skipping automatically to the more personal dreams he had shared with her once. They are dreams he has continued to have alone in the years between and he wonders if she ever woke up with her body aching for him like he has for her.

She moves behind him, closing the distance that separates them and he can feel the heat of her body as she approaches. A whisper of sound as her movement disrupts the air directly behind him and then her palm is resting on his back. Angel feels the warmth of her touch and he closes his eyes against the intensity of the sensation. She is flooding his senses and he is torn between the urge to walk away and the need to pull her into his arms and kiss away all of the pain and indignity of the past several months of her life. Caught in the tide of uncertainty, he does neither.

He counts the beats of her heart as she hovers behind him, the clock ticking on the off-beats and he can sense the turn of her head as she studies it. Then Buffy is pulling away, her hand losing contact with his back and the click of her heels hiding the sound of her heart as she moves to the doorway.

“I have to go now—he’s expecting me,” she murmurs. His jaw clenches furiously in response but he still doesn’t turn to her.

“Angel . . . ,” she swallows and he can imagine her sucking in her lower lip to wet it. “I’m so close to finishing this. He’ll pay for what he did to your family. I promise.”

Now he whirls around, but she is already gone, the soft click of the front door the only sign that she was recently there.

*********


The night air is heavy with moisture and smells damp and decayed, as though the rain that washed through the streets before was ancient in origin. Angel had forgotten it was like that here . . . sights, sounds, and scents that carried the weight of life lived for centuries before he existed in any incarnation. It is exactly what he needs right now, in a time when the circumstances of the present threaten to overwhelm him.

He left her apartment shortly after she did, needing to escape the detritus of her life here and the echo of her words. The old demon haunts of Rome weren’t much different now than they had been when he was Angelus and he had found them easily. Information was harder to come by, even when he put the brunt of his anger at Buffy behind his fists. All he has managed to learn is information that Buffy could easily tell him, but it feels better to come by it in some other way . . . less sordid, and certainly less heartbreaking.

Now it is nearing dawn and he can’t stall any longer. It’s time to go back to her, time to figure out the next step. First, he makes a quick stop at a butcher shop to pick up some fresh animal blood. He won’t drink any more of the human in her apartment.

When he lets himself back into the apartment he can hear the shower running and he forces thoughts of what she is washing away out of his mind. There is a built-in bookshelf on the wall behind the couch and he goes to it, raising a hand and running a finger absently across the spines of the tomes that rest there. Many are ancient, most in languages other than English and Angel wonders if Giles left them here expecting Buffy to use them. He is surprised—the girl he knew couldn’t handle a little modern French much less the Aramaic and Sumerian texts he recognizes on the shelf. It strikes him that perhaps he knows the woman even less than he ever imagined.

“They’re Dawn’s.” Her voice startles him, both because he hadn’t heard her approach and because she once again seems to be able to read his mind.

Angel pauses, his finger hovering over a title that promises tales of demons and destruction between the covers. “Dawn reads Sumerian?”

This time he hears her as she moves closer, feels her stop just behind him and he can smell the scent of her shampoo strong in the air. “Yep. She’s actually a natural with pretty much every language spoken by man or demon.”

There is pride lacing her voice . . . sadness too. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants and turns his head so that he can meet her eyes. They are clouded with her misery.

“You miss her.” It isn’t a question, but Buffy nods in response. Her eyes dart away from his to rest on the books and they stand there as long moments pass by, her gaze faraway as she stares through the texts, his eyes drinking in her profile—the slope of her cheek, the natural blush of her freshly scrubbed face, the strands of hair that stick wetly to her neck. So close, so far away, and he wants to reach out to her but his hands are fists in his pockets.

Buffy’s eyes refocus and she turns to face him, taking a big breath. “Angel. . . I want. . .”

She is interrupted by the sound of his cell phone and her mouth clamps shut before she tells him what she wants. Angel curses softly and pulls the phone out of his pocket, checking the display. It’s Nina again. He’d called her and left a message saying that he got to Rome safely last night, but had ignored her return calls.

“You should answer it. She’s been leaving messages here all night.” Buffy’s voice is quiet and Angel glances up quickly to see a flash of pain before she forces all expression from her face. He fights the urge to crush the phone and yell at her or hit her until she stops looking so wounded. She has no right to be wounded, not after. . .

The phone rings for a fourth time and he sighs impatiently as he flips it open.

“Hello.” His voice carries more bite than he intends and he makes an effort to soften it before continuing. “Nina, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just missed your call and I wanted to hear your voice, check in to see how things were going. You know.”

Angel sighs and glances back at Buffy to see her bustling around, gathering the pillows and blankets that he used last night and bundling them back on the couch. She is feigning indifference to his phone call but he can see the tension in the lines of her body. He walks into the kitchen to give them both some privacy.

“Things are going . . . fine. What do you need?” The impatience is back. He doesn’t have time for this.

Silence, for a beat, and then Nina is answering, her words clipped and tinged with anger.

“What do I need? I need for you to answer my damn phone calls. I need to know that you’re still alive and your cell phone isn’t lying in a pile of vamp dust somewhere. I need for you to pretend that I matter when you’re there with your little Roman buddy.”

“Don’t bring her into this. She has nothing to with this,” he lies, anger seething from his voice and he tries to keep it low. He doesn’t want Buffy to hear this. “I’ve been a little busy trying to gather information and I’m sorry if I can’t tell the demon I’m working over at any given second to hold on while I take a phone call from my girlfriend.”

Nina ignores his explanation and his anger. Her voice is softer, less vitriolic when she speaks again.

“I hate feeling this way, Angel. This is not me. I hate being this needy and most of all, I hate that I’m jealous that I can’t turn you into a raving, mass murdering lunatic.”

Angel hears the soft snort of pained laughter and imagines her slowly shaking her head back and forth. In his mind he sees her long lashes fluttering as she closes her eyes, the purse of her lips, and the guilt washes over him. Nina doesn’t deserve this pain. He should have been more careful, been more honest, been something other than what he was, but he can’t seem to do anything but bring hurt and torment to the people in his life.

“Say something, Angel.”

“Nina, I’m sorry. I just . . . things are complicated here—more complicated than I expected and I need to be able to focus on what I’m doing. We’ll talk when I get home, all right?” Angel closes his eyes and rubs his temple with his free hand, a habit from the days when he was alive and constantly nursing a headache. Through the centuries he has never gotten rid of the habit in times of stress.

Nina sighs again, and this time it sounds resigned to him. Her next words confirm the resignation.

“I don’t think so. I. . . I can’t do this anymore Angel. I don’t know this jealous, clinging person I’m becoming and this isn’t something that’s ever gonna change, is it? Because if you ever found yourself loving me the way you love her, I’d be history, right? I can’t live like this. I deserve more than this. . .”

“Nina. . .”

“No, Angel. Just stop. I. . . I hope everything goes well over there. I’d like to hear from you if you . . . if you make it back alive. But I’ve got to get on with my life. Good luck, Angel.”

There is a beep as the call is disconnected. He looks at the phone display to see the words “call ended” and swallows as he snaps the phone closed. Maybe it is better this way, done here and now by her and not later when he gathers enough courage to do it himself. She is right . . . she does deserve more than he has to offer her. It is the story of his unlife.

It still hurts—less than it should, maybe, but Angel had feelings for her and she was good for him. But there is a woman in the next room who is everything to him no matter how much he tries to deny it or change it and he supposes that it is inevitable that he can’t hold onto anything else.

When he makes his way back into the living room, there is a pile of bedding on the couch and Buffy has turned off all of the lamps. The room is illuminated only by the dim, filtered light coming from the streetlamps outside. Buffy is standing by the balcony window again, staring out just as she had been last night and he wonders what she is thinking about this time. She shivers as the rain dampened air washes over the bare skin of her arms and he realizes that she must be cold, standing there with her wet hair in only a tank and a pair of thin drawstring pants. Angel stops next to his bag and crouches down to pull out a sweater. He approaches her slowly and holds it out toward her.

“Here. You look cold.”

Buffy looks at it for a long moment, then reaches out to wrap her fingers in the soft fabric.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and he can see the bare expanse of her stomach as she lifts her arms to pull his sweater over her head. The urge to drop to his knees and kiss the soft skin there, to dip his tongue into her navel and nibble gently across her jutting hipbones is strong and he steps back quickly to put distance between them. Then his sweater is covering her—engulfing her really, the sleeves hanging over her fingertips and the hem ending at her thighs. Buffy burrows into it, wrapping her arms loosely around her waist and hugging it to her. He sees her nostrils flare slightly, knows that she is drinking in the scent of him the same way he has been with her. The sight overwhelms his defenses.

Angel begins to surge toward her just as she moves away from the window and perches on the edge of the overstuffed reading chair that sits in the near corner. He stops himself just in time and hopes that she didn’t notice his temporary loss of control.

Buffy rolls her fingers in the overhanging sleeves of his sweater until the expensive cashmere is crumpled and tightly twisted around her hands. Then she looks up at him and he is struck by the sadness that colors her eyes a grayish-green. One, two, three blinks and that sadness is still there in spite of her attempts to wash it away.

She takes a breath and opens her mouth, then closes it. Angel waits. A swallow, then she breaks the silence that has begun to settle over them like an old familiar blanket.

“Nina sounds nice,” she says, her voice just a little too bright for the dullness in her eyes. “I guess the curse isn’t an issue anymore. . .” Her voice trails off and while her words could have been harsh, her delivery is soft and almost flippant—almost, but he can see the sadness in her eyes deepen in spite of the little smile that crosses her lips. She shakes out the twisted cuffs of the sweater and pulls up one sleeve, uncovering a hand so that she can run it through her hair and comb it with her fingers as she waits for his reply.

He stalks across the room in a move dangerously close to pacing and stops next to the couch. His eyes trace over her in the dark and he wonders if she can see him as well as he can see her, or if her predator’s senses are screaming for her to turn on a light so that she can better see his face. Angel suspects he is just a shadow among the other shadows in the room, and he finds safety in the false anonymity. It’s time for him to drop a few bombs of his own and there is a flash of satisfaction in that for a split second before the sorrow returns. He doesn’t want to hurt her, not really, not even now.

“Buffy, there are some things that have happened since I left Sunnydale that we haven’t talked about. Things that make the curse less of a threat. I’m not sure I can ever be perfectly happy again.” Angel’s tone is cautious and he pauses and looks down, not exactly how to continue this story that he nearly sold his soul to erase.

“You mean losing Connor . . . and Cordelia.”

Angel’s head whips up and he stares at her, trying unsuccessfully to swallow his surprise. She knows? He’d agonized over telling her about his son, knowing in his heart that she would hate him when she found out that he had been hiding Connor from her even before he had hidden Connor from everyone else. But here she is, mostly calm and entirely collected, tying her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck as she waits for his answer.

“How did you . . .?” He trails off, not sure how to continue, and anyway, does it matter? It’s enough that she knows and she isn’t kicking him out.

Buffy shakes her head and looks down at her hands where they lay folded in her lap.

“Faith.”

The one word is infused with meaning, hints of resentment mixing with something much warmer and then Buffy looks back at him, right into his eyes and Angel knows he isn’t lost in the shadows after all.

“Her memory returned about the time you and the others disappeared, and she thought I should know. I think she was trying to protect me or something, maybe keep me from finding out some other way.”

She’s trying to sound matter-of-fact, unaffected, but there is a touch of grief in her voice that speaks volumes and he has the sudden urge to wrap his arms around her and shield her from the truths of his life. Always hurting her, no matter his intentions.

Her chest rises and shudders with the force of her next breath. “So . . . that’s why you can be with her . . . with Nina.” Her voice cracks, and it’s almost imperceptible except that he knows her, hears her better than he hears himself.

“No.” Quiet. Definitive.

Her head snaps up and he watches the sinews of her neck tighten as they stretch with the movement. He is distracted for a moment as he searches for the scar, a landmark from the map of his life, proof that one of his most precious memories isn’t just a vivid fantasy. Angel finds it, then looks up and sees her eyes glimmering with questions and something he’d like to think is hope.

A sigh, deep and tortured, and he considers his options, as though he really has any. He doesn’t want to have to explain this, doesn’t want to tell her that she is the only one who has ever threatened the safety of his soul. Won’t hurt her with the bittersweet knowledge that he has to be careful not to let his thoughts drift to her when he is inside other women. In some ways it doesn’t matter that he believes he isn’t capable of perfect happiness anymore. He is sure that if anything could make him forget his losses, forget his mistakes, forget the curse, it would be her.

“No, losing them isn’t the only reason,” he says, turning away from the body that he cannot let himself touch and the eyes that he does not want to read, walking to the doors that lead to her balcony and reaching to twist the handle. He is suffocating and it doesn’t matter that he does not breathe. Almost free, and then her tiny hand closes over his and he feels her breasts brush his arm, so soft and warm.

“Will you ever stop turning your back on me?” Her voice is quiet and weary but it cuts into him sharply, words stinging with painful truth, and he spins around, capturing her hand in his and pulling her into his arms with a force that might crush another. But the truth is, there is no other and there has never really been an other.

His lips descend, finding hers with no effort and he kisses her harshly, pushing his tongue past the barrier of her lips as he tastes the depths of her mouth. One arm is wrapped around her waist, cradling her tightly against him as his other hand grips the nape of her neck. He angles her head back, tipping her so that he has better access and delves deeper, wanting to touch her, taste her, feel her legs wrapped around him as he. . .

Angel pulls slightly away and stares down at her face, her glistening wet lips parted to let out the short pants of her breath, her eyes lidded, her lashes nearly touching her cheeks as her eyes flutter almost-closed.

“Is this what you want, Buffy?” he whispers harshly against her lips. Her eyes widen and meet his, twin fires of green that spark with desire. She has one hand buried in his hair and the other is clutching his shoulder and she is flush against him and god the way she feels. But she doesn’t answer right away, just locks gazes with him for several long seconds. And her eyes are expressive . . . they always have been, even when she tries to hide. Angel sees the flicker of despair even as she pulls his head down and presses her lips to his again, this time with less force and more finesse, the wet heat of her tongue trailing gently over his lips before tangling with his. He moans into her kiss, a moan that turns sour when she pulls her mouth away and meets his gaze once again.

“Yes, this is exactly what I want.” And she says it with fervor, low and quiet but full of sincerity. As she pulls away, pushing her hands against his chest to force his body from hers, Angel catches the despairing look in her eyes again and watches as it spreads down her face in the shape of a tear.

Then it is her back he is watching as she walks away.

*******

He is dreaming of warm lips and roaming hands, darting fingers that stroke his flesh in unseen patterns that make his blood boil. He can almost feel her tongue on his neck, her breath tickling the wet skin she leaves in her wake. Angel groans and shifts closer to her hands and suddenly it’s not a dream.

Eyes fly open and Buffy is pressed into him, impossibly close on the small couch that is dwarfed by his large frame. She is still wearing his sweater but her legs are bare and one is flung over his, her heel hooking behind his calf.

He is instantly hard, or maybe that came before he woke up.

Buffy is sipping at his neck delicately now with little nibbles of her teeth quickly followed by the soothing brush of her lips and tongue. She is lying on her side, leaning on one elbow and her free hand is trailing over his naked chest, light and teasing as she smoothes over the muscles, the tips of her fingers ghost-like as they flick over his nipples. Angel keeps perfectly still, all of his senses tuned into her, his body on fire and his mind groggy with sleep and consumed with the fact that she is finally touching him.

Angel is hard and aching and she isn’t doing anything more than suckling lightly on his collar bone, her roaming hand moving lower so that her fingers dip into his navel and smooth out over the ridges of his abs. A low moan simmers in the air and he absently wonders if it came from him, but then he can feel it reverberating against him and he knows it is her sound. Her moan, her mouth, her body, her hand. . .

A hand that trails lower and teases at the waistband of his drawstring pants before abandoning it to brush over the ridge of his erection repeatedly, each caress becoming firmer and firmer until she is gripping his cock tightly.

It jumps in reaction, hardening further, and Angel’s mind jumps too. It clears just a fraction, but it’s enough to realize what is happening. Buffy is wrapped around him, the scent of her arousal perfuming the air and he wants this but he can’t have this. This isn’t his to have.

“Buffy.” Half-groan, half-plea as he grabs her hand and stills its motions.

She looks up at him and he shudders at the look in her eyes. They are glowing embers of desire and desperation and desolation, trained on him with the power of everything she is lending them light. Buffy tips her face up, never breaking his gaze as she pulls his lower lip into the heat of her mouth and runs her tongue over the sensitive flesh before biting down just hard enough to make him pant needlessly into her mouth. His hand tightens over hers, inadvertently applying pressure to his cock and he groans again with his need.

The groan rumbles into her mouth and she pulls slightly away, letting go with her teeth but leaving her lips crushed against his. Her breath is sweet and slightly spicy, like she has been eating cinnamon and apples.

“Shhhhh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do anything,” Buffy whispers. “Please, I need this Angel.”

Angel needs this too, but he knows he can’t have it. He knows that she isn’t his to touch and he knows he hasn’t completely forgiven her for that. He knows that this is dangerous for a hundred reasons other than perfect happiness.

He knows all of this, but it doesn’t matter, because above all else he knows there is no way he can resist the look in her eyes, or the words that tumble out of her wet and swollen mouth.

“Need to touch you . . . need to taste you,” Buffy pants, echoing his own needs as she climbs on top of him and straddles his aching lap. He can feel her heat through the thin material of his pants and he arches into her, craving the friction. She settles down, grinding her hips as she throws back her head and Angel has to tamp down the sudden urge to rip into her throat as he drives up inside the wet heat of her. It is gone almost as suddenly as it came, but it sobers him enough that he digs his hands into her hips and stills her movements.

“Buffy. . .” he begins, but she is reaching down and pulling his sweater up and over her head and he trails off, words and thoughts replaced by a mindless, agonized moan as he sees that she is completely bare beneath the sweater. He is stunned by the beauty of her flesh . . . mesmerized by the sight of her hair falling to brush against her shoulders and the tips of her breasts that are puckering in the cool morning air.

She tosses the sweater to the floor and places two fingers over his mouth. “Shhhh,” she commands again, leaning down to replace her fingers with her lips. Angel runs one hand up the ridges of her spine until it is tangled in her hair and rumbles his approval into her mouth when she leans down even further so that her nipples brush against his chest. A spark of awareness shoots through him at the contact and he moves the hand that has been tightly gripping her undulating hips up the slight curve of her side and over so that he can grip one of her small, perfect breasts in his palm. Buffy presses into him for a moment, her mouth going a little slack as an “nnngggg” sound vibrates straight into him. Angel’s returning appreciative moan turns into a protest when she pulls away from his mouth and grabs both of his hands, forcing them down at his sides.

Buffy’s mouth moves to his chin, then to his throat as she repeats the nibbles, licks, and kisses that are more firm, more urgent, more proprietary than those that woke him up in the first place. Her tongue is laving the ridge of his jugular, flat strokes from the base up and then back down. The feeling is thrilling, to be here held captive under her naked body as she tastes him like she owns him.

And just maybe she does.

Her tongue abandons his neck as she shifts and moves lower, her bottom lifting from his lap and settling on his upper thighs instead. Buffy kisses his chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses that pull his skin between her lips. Her tongue skips over him as she leaves each patch of skin for the next and a low, constant moan is sounding from the back of her throat. Neck to chest to flat brown nipples to stomach and then her tongue is dipping into his navel and god the sounds of satisfaction coming from her are making him impossibly hard.

Angel can’t remember the last time he felt this alive, as though his nerve endings are springing back to life and he can almost pretend that it is the sound of his own pulse rushing in his ears. In over 250 years, Buffy is the only person who has had this effect on him, the only woman who has made him believe that he might be a man again one day. It doesn’t matter that he signed that right away—it only matters that she is touching him and tasting him and that her hands are circling his wrists and pressing them firmly into her couch while her teeth are pulling at the drawstrings of his pants.

“God. . . Buffy. . .” he groans. He can feel the heat of her mouth so close and his mind is in such a riot that he can’t remember how she got there but he wants to feel her talented mouth surround him almost as much as he wants to switch positions and devour her.

“Taste. . . so. . . good,” she breathes in little puffs that hit his enflamed skin like wafts of damp fire, humid and hot all at once. Angel’s pants are untied and she has the waistband between her teeth as she tries to tug them down while holding him firmly hostage, but even with all of their combined grace, it is awkward on this narrow couch without the help of their hands and Angel has had enough, or not enough, and he growls as he wrenches his arms free of her grip and drags Buffy up his body. In another second he is standing with her beautiful naked body held firmly in his arms and he is stalking down the hallway to her bedroom.

He pushes the door open and takes a split-second to be grateful that the pale gold velvet curtains are pulled mostly closed over the window. Then Buffy is biting his neck at the place where it meets his shoulder and Angel wants to jump out of his skin and into hers. Setting her down on her bed, he unwraps his arms from her body so that he can pull off his pants and boxers but she makes a low noise of denial in her throat. Climbing to her knees, Buffy pushes away his hands and wraps her fingers in the elastic at his waist. Her tongue plays over his nipple until it is hard and then she bites down. Arching into her, Angel sucks in his breath and wraps his hands tightly in her hair.

Buffy is trailing kisses down his chest again, but this time when she reaches his waist she drops to the floor and swiftly pushes down his remaining clothes, continuing the path downward in the crevice of his pelvis as he steps out of the pants and boxers. Angel’s hands tighten in her hair and it occurs to him that he might be hurting her but that thought and all others flee his mind in the next instant when she slides the tip of her tongue around the head of his cock. The stroke is light and teasing, then firmer as she slips her lips over him and takes him deep into her throat in one long movement.

The sound that rends the air is deep and primal and it takes Angel a moment to recognize that it is coming from him. But the woman from his dreams and nightmares is kneeling in front of him and surrounding him with the wet heat of her mouth and making little noises in the back of her throat and jesus has she always been this good? Then he remembers that for her, this is the first time. . . remembers that she doesn’t have memories of chocolate flavored flesh melting on her tongue or promises of tomorrows ringing in her ears. Sometimes Angel is glad that sorrow is his to bear alone but now he doesn’t think about sorrow or joy or wishes or regrets. He doesn’t think about anything other than Buffy and god her mouth.

His hips thrust forward in shallow bursts, the movement unintentional but he can’t stop it even if he wants to, but he doesn’t because she is murmuring her approval and he can feel the vibrations join the wet hot friction. The combination drives him close to the edge and he tries to pull back, tries to loosen his hold on her hair and pull her up into his arms but she is slayer strong and determined. With a short, low sound of protest Buffy swirls the fingers of one hand around his balls, reaches back, and touches him just there. And it doesn’t matter that Angel is well on his way to 3 centuries old, or that he’s had more lovers than he can remember, or that for the first time since he’s had his soul he isn’t starved for affection because it’s Buffy and everywhere she is touching him is just right and he is coming.

One moment every muscle in his body is flexed and straining, waves of contractions starting from somewhere deep in his belly and flowing out as she swallows him down, and the next he feels the relaxation ripple through him. He feels soft and boneless in the wake of his pleasure, but Angel doesn’t want to sink to some soft surface and rest. Angel wants more and he thinks that maybe he will always want more as long as always means Buffy’s silky flesh and the scent of her arousal in the air. He wants to see that desire reflected in her eyes, hot and liquid and making promises only she can deliver. It drives him to reach for her, to gently grip her chin and tilt her face up so that he can see what he knows is there.

The distance in her expression is completely unexpected. There is desire, but there is also a blank detachment that hits him at his core. He fights the instinct to pull away from that look, and instead drops to his knees and pulls her into his arms with a gentleness that he only partially feels. The fact is that there are many feelings warring inside him— love, an only marginally satisfied lust, confusion, and some measure of regret. But it’s the love that motivates him in this moment, when she is naked, vulnerable, and trembling with more than desire in the cradle of his arms.

“I’m sorry. . . I just needed you. . . I needed to feel you and taste you but I’m sorry.” The words stream out of Buffy in quick succession as she stares intently at his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze even when he pulls back from her at the unmistakable sound of her regret. It hits him hard in the place within himself where he has fantasized about being with her again, in that place where he has imagined what it would feel like to be loved and wanted by her in equal measure to his own love and want.

“You don’t have to apologize, Buffy. I wanted it, I want you,” Angel whispers, not quite able to trust his voice to hide the rush of emotion that has made him pull further away from her, his arms slack where they rest against the curve of her back. There is a battle waging in him, a struggle between his pride and his more selfish desires that has him wanting to pull entirely away from her at the same time that he wants to crush her against him and kiss her and touch her until she loses that empty look.

She takes a strangled breath and shakes her head with one quick, forceful motion. “How can you want me?”

Buffy lifts her head, meeting his gaze, and suddenly the distance is gone. It is replaced by sorrow and a longing so deep that Angel could swear he is looking into his own eyes. Any indecision he felt just a second before is gone in the wake of that look, and he slides one hand up to rest between her shoulder blades while the other spans her lower back and pulls her flush against him with firm but gentle pressure.

“How could I not want you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. He closes his eyes and wishes the tightness in his throat away, not wanting to expose his deepest feelings out-loud to either of them. His sanity, and maybe his soul, depends on it.

Her breath hitches and she shakes her head, bumping it against his mouth. “I…I’m not the girl you used to love, Angel. What I’ve done…what I’m doing…” she whispers into his shoulder, and he aches at the sorrow and self-loathing he hears.

Angel pulls away just enough so that he can meet her eyes. He cannot say the words, but he can let her see the truth of his love in his face.

“It doesn’t matter to me, Buffy. There will never be a time or circumstance where I won’t want every part of you.” And it’s true, for the moment anyway. Deep inside, in the part of him that made the decision to snap Drogyn’s neck, he knows where her choices come from and he understands even though he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t wait for her to reply, just tilts his head and presses his lips against hers in a series of light stroking caresses, attempting to coax a response from her resistant lips. Several long, agony-filled moments pass by as he waits for her to respond, afraid that their wounds are too deep for this healing. With a sigh, she finally relaxes and wraps herself around him, clinging to his body and his mouth with a desperate force that Angel returns. Buffy opens her mouth and he sweeps his tongue inside, thrilling at the taste of himself that greets his tongue almost as much as the taste of her. He feels himself hardening against her again, feels the flatness of her too-thin stomach pressed firmly against him and he pushes back just in case there is a fraction of space left between them. Buffy feels it too, and she rotates her hips into him with a soft, breathless moan.

Limbs move and with a speed that speaks of his darkness, Angel has her in his arms and then on her bed. This time when she reaches up for him, he pushes her gently back and follows, his lips finding hers again as he settles his weight on his elbows. Buffy shifts her legs and cradles his body between her hips and just like the precious few times he’s been here before, he’s amazed how well they fit together. The tip of his cock brushes against the wet heat at the apex of her thighs and his low moan joins hers. Angel is tempted to push inside her, knows that’s what she wants as she’s tilting her hips and wrapping one strong leg around him, but he’s waited too long to touch her again and he can’t rush this, won’t give her less than she deserves. And what she deserves is to be worshiped, long and slow with lips, tongue, teeth, and fingers.

Angel pulls reluctantly back, placing one hand on Buffy’s arching hip and pushing her gently away. He silences her murmured protest with a deep kiss that doesn’t let up until she is gasping for air. Lips trail from her mouth to her ear and he pauses to nibble on the lobe. A shiver runs through her body and Angel bites back a groan at the feelings that even that tiny movement against him create. Her hands come up to thread into his hair and he rumbles his approval against the pulse in her throat, a pulse that he spends long moments nuzzling. But even the call of her blood isn’t strong enough to keep him from tasting the rest of her and he moves slowly down her neck with teasing strokes of lips and tongue.

Buffy’s hands tighten their grip in his hair when he reaches the upper swell of her breasts. Angel pushes slowly away, gazes at her with eyes dark with heat and want. Her head is tossed back on the pillow, her hair spilling around her in waves that he wants to bury his face in. Her eyes are heavily lidded, but he sees that she is watching him and he meets her heated gaze for a second before moving further down. Buffy’s lips are slack and slightly parted, swollen and glistening from his kisses. Angel suppresses an urge to capture her full bottom lip between his teeth and taste the pulsing liquid beneath the delicate tissue. Instead, his eyes slide lower and take in the sight of the muscles in her upper arms flexing as she holds him tightly . . . almost too tightly but he doesn’t care. Because every nerve ending in his body is screaming that she is here, flesh and bone and blood, and she is beneath him and soon she will surround him. He knows that he can’t forget himself in her, but he’ll come close and that is more than he’d expected to ever happen again.

His gaze shifts to her breasts, small and perfect with hard rosy tips juxtaposed against soft, golden flesh, and it’s not enough to look anymore. Hand trails from hip up the curve of her waist and over too-sharp ribs and then Angel is running a single finger just under one breast. Several long moments pass as he relearns the feel of her skin and then Buffy breathes out in a quick rush, untangles one of her hands from his hair, and grabs his exploring hand. Angel murmurs in appreciation as she drags his hand over her breast and arches her back until it is nestled perfectly in his palm. Buffy mewls softly, presses herself tightly against him and he can feel her nipple pushing into his palm. Part of him wants to keep going slowly, but there is a larger part of him that is dying to taste her, feel her pucker more fully against his tongue and between his teeth so he dips his head and flicks the nipple of her uncovered breast with a quick movement that leaves her gasping and straining for more. It is a mutual desire, so he follows the next flicking pass of his tongue with his lips.

Soon she is guiding his hand away from her breast and down the plane of her stomach. Angel smiles into her skin and follows her hint, nearly as impatient to continue his exploration as she is. He scoots slowly down her body, trailing kisses across her ribcage as his fingers dip into her navel, and then smoothing his lips over hips as his fingers skim her thighs. Buffy’s breath hitches in her throat as his fingers skip between her legs and Angel groans in return when he encounters the wetness that has slipped down her inner thighs. She is slick and the heat that pounds off of her in waves calls to him. With one finger he sweeps up the crevice of her smooth labia, shuddering at the feel of her silky wet heat and the jerk of her hips when he reaches her swollen clitoris. Glancing up her body, he sees her staring down at him with naked want and his cock swells impossibly harder at the pounding heat in her look.

It’s enough to drive all thoughts of taking it slowly out of his mind, enough to make him forget teasing and forget slow, measured pleasure. Angel needs to feel her throb and explode against his mouth right now. His descent is that of a predator. . . quick, focused, skilled, and his lips seal around her clit at the same time that he pushes two fingers inside of her in search of the spot that will make her grind against him.

There is a keen spilling from Buffy’s throat and in some distant part of his brain he realizes the soft growls that underlie it are coming from him. Liquid need coats his fingers, lips, and tongue and he savors it, savors her—the sweet tartness of her that is almost sense memory, the clenching tightness of her slick insides, the sound of her rushing blood that is roaring in his head as nibbles at her with lips and blunt teeth at the same time that he presses his fingers forward with firm, rubbing pressure.

Moaned whispers spill from her lips, mostly incoherent but he can hear the pleas and the please, and she doesn’t need to beg because he’s wanted this from the second he woke up to find her on top of him. Firm, unrelenting strokes of fingers and tongue and her hips rise off the bed as she clenches around him. Angel can feel the fluttering of her womb under the hand he has splayed across her stomach, can feel the rhythm of her inner muscles squeezing his fingers, can almost taste the change in her blood through the thin skin of her clit.

Part of him thought it would be enough to have this, but it isn’t. Angel needs to feel this from inside her, needs to bury himself as deeply as he can until he doesn’t know where he ends and she begins. Before she is finished pulsing around and against him, he glides up her body and positions himself at her entrance. Then he is gripping her hips and pushing inside her with thrusts that start with gentle, shallow movements and then turn more firm and insistent when Buffy opens her eyes to meet his and thrusts back against him.

Angel stills his movements when he is seated inside Buffy, savors the hot silken tightness that grips him, promising to never let go. Buffy’s arms are wrapped around him, surrounding him everywhere, hands digging into the straining muscles of his back. The sight of her under him is fiercely beautiful, and he captures her lips with his and begins to move inside her, thrusting into her with slow, deep strokes.

Angel had forgotten what it felt like to be inside her, forgotten how incredible she feels and sounds and tastes as though he knew somewhere deep inside that remembering it might drive him crazy. Pulling away from her mouth, he kisses his way to her neck and licks up the sweat that is gathering there with long, cool strokes. He thrills at the hiss of pleasure that escapes from her lips and groans at the pleasurable pain of her nails digging into his lower back.

“More,” Buffy moans into his shoulder. Just one word, but it’s the first word either of them have clearly spoken since he laid her on the bed and even if it didn’t carry the weight of the silence before it, it’s what he wants too—more of this feeling, more of her.

Angel slides his hands underneath her, grips her buttocks and tilts her up so that he can sink more deeply inside her. Buffy pulls up her knees and wraps her legs around his waist in response, arching up into him as she lets him guide the movement of their bodies. Then he is losing himself in the rhythm, in the sensations of her, and he’s so deep, so close, so close. . .

So is she, her breath coming in short pants that hit his skin in humid waves. Angel slips one hand back around and between them and he is stroking her insistently with cock and fingers and he senses her coming a second before she actually does. When she is tightening around him in waves, Angel sinks into the pleasure and with a final thrust he is coming too, groaning his release into Buffy’s mouth as she shudders beneath him.

The feeling goes on forever, and ends too soon. Long minutes pass in a still silence broken only by the sounds of Buffy’s slowing breath. Finally, reality intrudes on the dream, just barely, but enough that Angel is suddenly aware of the rough feeling of her embroidered raw silk comforter against his skin and the cool morning air that skims over their bodies. Buffy shivers beneath him and he rolls to his side, gathering her to him as he sweeps aside the cover and sheets and nestles her underneath. She curls into him, silent as her eyes flutter closed, and Angel wraps his arms around her and thrills in the way she fits against him.

He is lying with her in his arms, in the quiet aftermath of their passion, and he’s lost. In spite of his intentions he has lost control of the need that has resided in him since he first laid eyes on her, a need that he has repressed for years and he supposes that it is the magnitude of his recent losses that have weakened his resolve. No one to blame for this but himself, really, but he can’t help but blame her anyway. Blame her because she’s not innocent, and she’s not perfect, and she’s not his savior or anything else from his fantasized memories.

Blame her because in spite of all of that, he loves her anyway . . . loves her even more.

Angel falls asleep with the nagging suspicion that, this time, he won’t have the strength to let her go.

******

She is pressed so tight against him, back to front, and Angel thinks maybe nothing has ever felt so good. His arm is wrapped around her waist and he splays his fingers across her stomach, savoring the feel of her bare skin on his fingertips, the whisper of the silk of her delicate under his touch. They brush against a slash of scar tissue, rougher and thicker than the flesh that surrounds it, and he remembers skating his lips over that mark earlier. Another of the wounds he wasn’t there to stop, another vivid reminder of her years without him, another scar that marks his failures to protect someone he loves.

A soft murmur tumbles from her sleep-roughened throat and she wriggles back, trying to get closer but there is nowhere to go. Angel bites back a moan at the sensation and brushes his lips against her neck, unable to resist the pull of her warmth and strength any longer.

“Angel,” she sighs, tilting her head to give him better access. Then she is stiffening against him, somehow pulling away even as her body stays in exactly the same place. It is screaming for distance, louder and louder in every plane and curve and valley as she wakes up more fully.

He pulls away, mouth and arms, mourning the loss of peace and closeness that has surrounded him since he woke up over an hour ago. He held her, the sun thrumming in his bones as it sunk below the horizon, and he savored the feeling of her because he knew it wouldn’t last. Things between them are always forever and never.

Rolling onto his back, he puts one hand beneath his head and watches as Buffy slowly sits up with the sheet clutched over her breasts. Her back is still uncovered and he lets his gaze linger on the lean expanse and the gentle curve of her rear. He itches to reach out and touch her again but now that she is looking at him he can see the slightly panicked look on her face, so he clenches his hands into fists instead.

Buffy’s eyes sweep over him and he can see the panic displaced by a flare of desire that must be mirrored in his own. Then her eyes are flickering to the curtain-covered window and her face drains of a little of its color.

“It’s dark out. What time is it?”

Angel turns his head to glance at the alarm clock that sits on a small table next to the bed. It occurs to him that she thinks she is going to meet The Immortal again and he scowls as he answers. “Almost eight.”

Some of the tension eases from her body and she slumps a little, letting go of the sheet with one of her hands to sweep her hair back from her face. He watches the sheet drift down and catch on the tip of one breast, exposing the curve. Her sheets are cotton the color of rich cream and they seem to make her skin glow with a golden hue that he remembers being darker in the past. It’s still the color of the sun to him. She is so beautiful and he can’t stop himself from touching her.

“Buffy…you are so lovely” he murmurs, rolling back on his side and reaching out to trail a finger over the exposed breast. Angel hears the hammer of her heart as it picks up its pace and he wants to feel it beating strong and sure under her skin. He slowly slips his fingers under the loose sheet and her breath catches, eyes fluttering closed, as he covers her breast with his hand.

She leans in to him for a second, then two, and then she is pulling away as her eyes fly open.

“Angel, I can’t. I have to go,” she says a little breathlessly, pulling the sheet up to cover herself more fully again. He feels the anger surging, pushing away the desire of a moment before, and he sits up and grabs her wrist. The bones rub together under his fingers and he loosens his grip, still tight but not tight enough to hurt her. Buffy doesn’t flinch or protest, but he sees the soft sleepiness that has surrounded her fade away as she fixes her gaze on his hand.

“You’re not going to him, Buffy, not anymore. We’ll find the information some other way.” The thought of that evil thing touching her has been infuriating him for months, but after last night it is unbearable. Angel will do almost anything to keep her out of the Immortal’s reach, even give up the chance to annihilate the Senior Partners if that’s what it comes to. Three days ago, three weeks ago, three months ago, he would have sacrificed anything to this fight—even her. But the loss has been too large and he knows that it wasn’t worth it. He realizes that he will do whatever it takes to keep her from losing her life or soul in this fight.

Buffy slowly looks from his grip on her wrist to his face and he can almost feel the chill of her look spreading over his skin. “Do you think I want to do this, Angel? Do you think I would rather go to him, let him touch me, than be here with you in my bed?” Her voice softens and her eyes roam over him, warmer in the span of a second but he still wants to shiver from the look in her eyes when they meet his again. “You are all I’ve dreamed about since I was 16 years old. Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized about waking up in your arms? ”

Angel doesn’t want to guess, doesn’t want to know if it was as often as he fantasized about it. Even now he prefers to think she moved on, a little, when he left her. “Do you think you’re the only one with dreams?” His voice is harsher, more accusing than he intended and he is surprised by the vehemence contained within.

“I have to get ready,” she mutters firmly, wrenching her wrist out of his hand and standing up. Just like that and once again she’s gone from soft-warm woman to hard-icy warrior. She lets the sheet fall away and strides over to her closet door, grabbing a short robe from a hook inside and shrugging it on.

He is out of bed and pulling on his discarded pants before she can reach the door. Angel wants to grab her again, hold her prisoner, make her understand that he won’t let her do this. But there is a voice inside that tells him he doesn’t have that power over her, can’t make her decisions for her anymore. Once he would have tried. Once he did try, succeeded too for all the pain it caused. Pain, and heartache but growth too and Angel doesn’t regret it as much as he thinks maybe he should. There are other decisions he made for other people that he regrets more—decisions with a higher cost to those involved. At least Buffy is still alive, and he knows with certainty that she wouldn’t be had he chosen differently.

Angel wants her to stay that way.

This time he stops her with a gentle hand on the shoulder, a caress instead of a grip, and her hand stills on the knob of the door.

“You don’t have to do this anymore, Buffy. I don’t know what the hell Giles is thinking but this isn’t necessary. We’ll find some other way to protect your slayers from the Immortal until we can figure out how to kill him.” A soft plea, filled with promises of togetherness and violence and retribution, but she is shaking her head even as he finishes. Strands of her hair brush over the back of his hand and he has a sense memory of holding her hair in his hands as she brushed her lips over him. It sends a spark straight to his toes but when she drops her hand from the doorknob and turns to face him, so close that her chest is almost brushing his, the spark dies.

The resigned sadness is back, deeper and more cutting than it has been in any given moment since he stepped back into her life. It rolls off her in waves and suddenly Angel is terrified.

“Tonight is the night, Angel. It all ends tonight, and god I’m ready for all of this to be over. I’m so tired.”

The feeling of terror increases, and he knows. A suicide mission, again, and even though he wasn’t there for the first one, the details told in Willow’s crying voice still ring in his nightmares.

Angel backs away from her, slowly, trying to wrap his mind around what he already instinctively knows to be true. “What do you mean? What are you going to do?” His voice sounds cold, emotionless, as if he is feeling so much there is nothing left to color his words.

Buffy’s hands drop to her sides and she fingers the bottom edge of her robe. It is made of thin cotton and he can see the shadows of her body barely hidden beneath. “The blood of a dozen slayers. That’s the magic bullet, according to some prophecy Giles uncovered. Tonight’s the night I feed him the blood of a dozen slayers,” she recites, monotone, a little dead already and Angel doesn’t understand, not right away.

And then he does. When he realizes what she has been doing, what she plans to do, Angel’s gut clenches and he feels sick with the knowledge and enraged at her reckless disregard for her own life. Buffy reacts to the look on his face, stepping back before catching herself and stopping, squaring her shoulders as she looks back at him, unflinching.

“The human blood, in the refrigerator—it’s slayer blood.” It’s not a question so much as an accusation. He knows it—knew it was different the moment he tasted it but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint what was wrong.

She nods, then steps over to her dresser and pulls open the top drawer. Angel follows her, shadowing her movements until he is standing over her and looking down into the open drawer. Sitting inside on a stack of neatly folded t-shirts is a syringe kit. Reaching inside, she fingers the plastic of an unused syringe. He watches a play of emotions cross her face and he is sure she isn’t aware of how transparent she is to him—the revulsion and fear warring with something like satisfied pride.

“We planned to trick him into it slowly—taint his food supply bit by bit with donated slayer blood, but the Immortal is smart and ever since Willow’s spell made his death warrant possible, he’s employed tasters to detect anything supernatural in his blood. I almost pulled out of it then, and sometimes I wish…” she shakes her head and pulls her hand out of the drawer, pushing it closed with a bit more force than needed. The sound it makes as it slams into the frame is loud and she jumps a little, unprepared “Anyway, we figured it out right about the time we heard about what happened in L.A. It was a mess there, and we thought he’d managed to kill you all and I knew my girls were next on his list. I realized we didn’t need him to feed on 12 slayers separately—we just needed him to feed on one that was made up of 12. So I sent Dawn to Giles so she’d be safe and I ...I did what I had to do to set him up to bite me.”

Jealousy, hot and pulsing, flares inside him at her admission and it is demonic and human and everything else that has gone into making him what he is. He doesn’t want to feel this proprietary about her, about her blood, but she is his, has always been his no matter what has happened between them. Some fundamental part of him still feels that she is his to love and she is his to hurt and she is his to kill. Angel wishes he didn’t feel any of it but the love but he’s got a demon inside him that isn’t as dormant as he’d like to believe. It’s partly what drove him away but he has nowhere to go anymore and he is so tired of running. He’s been doing it for the better part of his souled existence, in one form or another.

Angel struggles to push it aside, to concentrate on the substance of her words instead of the feelings they invoke. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this last night?”

“Because I… because I was planning to do it last night and I knew you’d wig out on me. But then I got there and all I could think about was that I thought you were dead but you aren’t and you’re here and I just. . . I wasn’t ready,” she explains in a rush of breath, her eyes darting back and forth as she spills out her confession, her hands knotting in the hem of her robe until it is stretched tight and barely covering her upper thighs.

“But now you are?” And he knows why, but he doesn’t want everything to be falling into place this way. What he wants is to still be holding her in her bed, talking in low tones about important things that have nothing to do with letting an evil being violate her with cock and fang. What he wants is to pour out his hurt while she strokes his hair and tells him everything is going to be all right.

Instead she is talking almost matter-of-factly about her suicide and he can’t decide whether to rage at her or plead with her.

Buffy closes the distance between them and reaches out to touch his cheek. Her fingers smooth against the bone, soft and careful as though she still can’t be sure he is in front of her, alive and unbroken. “No, I’m not, but I have to do this and the more time I spend looking at you and touching you, the harder it is. It was so much easier when I thought you were dead Angel!”

He understands that, more intimately than he would like. With each of his losses, the risks had become easier, not harder and by the end he was reckless with his life and those around him because there had to be an end, a reason for it all and if he just sacrificed enough then the losses wouldn’t be for nothing. Angel gets it, knows what it feels like to want everything to be over and to have been worth it in the end.

Angel has learned the hard way that it is almost never worth it in the end.

“You can’t do this Buffy,” he commands, standing tall and powerful as though he is still in his office at Wolfram & Hart, coldly issuing orders that got people killed. “He’ll rip into your neck and when he realizes what you’ve done, he’ll make sure you die with him.”

Her hand drops from his cheek and she takes a step back, but Angel follows, not allowing her to escape this time. He sees annoyance flash over her features and she stops, pulling herself to her full diminutive height and it doesn’t matter that she’s so small because he can feel the force of her power rush off of her in waves. “I have to—it’s the only way. Do you think I haven’t tried to think of something else? I’ll. . . I can stop him in time, before it’s too late.” Angel can hear in the slight hesitation that she doesn’t even believe her lie, no matter how much she may want to.

“You couldn’t stop me. I almost killed you!” he hisses, hands gripping her upper arms so hard she should be wincing, but she isn’t. She’s staring up at him and he can see the memory flash through her, can see that she’s as aware as he is that all she’d have to do is tilt her head to the side and push his mouth into her throat and they would be reliving their past.

“I didn’t want to stop you, Angel.” There is a rush of heat in her eyes and her voice and her scent and he feels a surge of answering lust pulse through his body. It is all he can do to stop himself from pulling her flush against him and letting her feel the way she is affecting him.

Buffy takes a deep breath and he hears the hitch at the end just as clearly as he hears her pulse thundering through her veins. “I’ve been working toward this for months. This isn’t your…,”she begins, but Angel won’t let her finish because he’s heard this from her before, maybe even said this to her before and it has never really been true. It certainly isn’t now.

“Don’t even think about saying this isn’t my fight,” he growls at her, daring her to contradict him. He’s lost so much to this fight and he’s tired but there is no end for him and there is no way he’s losing her too. “Doyle, Fred, Gunn, Cordy, Wesley. I won’t add you to that list, Buffy. This is my goddamn fight too.”

She shakes her head, short and fast, but she doesn’t deny his words, only his ability to make promises that he can’t keep. “There’s nothing you can do Angel. It’s my blood that’s the key. It’s always my blood,” Buffy protests. The bitterness that infuses her words is sharp and cutting, years of hurt and pain that he had no part in but that’s going to change now.

There is something he can do, something that has been nagging at him in the minutes he’s known her plan. He doesn’t want to—swore he’d never do it again but he can’t argue with most of her logic and her blood is the key. The key to her slayerness, the key to his demon’s attraction, but most importantly, the key to her life.

He will not lose her.

Angel pulls her forward, running one hand down her back as he leans in and murmurs in her ear. “It’s your blood, but I can give it for you.” She stiffens, forgets to breathe, and then he feels her melt against him, sagging into him but she is shaking her head no and he rushes on before she can voice her protest. “I took some of the Senior Partners’ blood when I bit their liaison to Wolfram & Hart. If he knows that, he’ll want it back. We’ll make sure he knows.”

She has stopped shaking her head but she still isn’t looking at him and Angel is sure she’s going to refuse him, because the Buffy he knows would never let someone else do something she thinks it is her job to do. Long moments pass in silence as he waits for her inevitable refusal. When she pulls away to look at him, Angel prepares himself to fight her protests but the words fall unspoken from his mind when he can finally see her face.

It is composed, not anguished, eyes hard and calculating, not filled with tears and agony with the pain of having to make a difficult choice. Buffy doesn’t speak a word, just nods, but Angel can see that she understands what he is offering. Understands that he can’t promise to save them, understands that this means a messier fight, but together they have a chance that she’ll never have alone. She has calculated the costs and benefits of the battle plan and made her decision and Angel can’t be sure but he suspects her feelings played into it very little. It’s not what he expected, but he can appreciate the tactician inside her.

Another reminder that she is different, that his memories are beautiful but stale and Angel wants nothing more in this moment than to build new memories with the woman she has become.

Buffy takes a step away from him and he lets her take his hand and lead him the few steps to the bed that still smells of their lovemaking. She stops right before it and turns to him, a mixture of determination and desire lighting her eyes and spilling into the charged space between them.

“We have to do this tonight . . . now,” she says softly, and Angel nods in agreement. Tugging apart the tie on her robe, he sweeps it aside and off of her shoulders as his eyes drink in the sight of her bare to him again, maybe for the last time. He resists the urge to attack her with his mouth and hands with a primal urgency that surges through him at the knowledge of what is to occur. Angel instinctively knows he has to go slow, can’t let himself lose control but there is no reason she can’t and if this is the last time she might be touched with the love and reverence he can offer her, he plans to make the most of it.

The last time he did this he ran away from her, fast and far because he couldn’t trust himself not to do it again in the grip of his weakness. But now he’ll do it again and it isn’t going to be about weakness or saving his own ass this time.

This time it’s about saving both of them.

****

The bells of a church several blocks away are counting down to midnight when they emerge from her apartment building and Angel can hear them with a sparkling clarity, every chime an intricate nuance in his ears. His body is thrumming with power and pleasure, even as his thoughts are grim with the knowledge of what is to come. Buffy is walking confidently beside him, her strides strong and sure and the only sign that she has lost blood recently is the wound on her neck. They left it uncovered for the Immortal to see, to taunt him with the knowledge that Angel took something of his again.

Angel knows the strength of that taunt, knows that the Immortal won’t be able to resist the urge to take it from him. It is exactly how he would feel. The blood of 12 slayers, carried in the veins of a vampire, and the Immortal will never suspect.

He glances at Buffy, watches the roll of her hips as she walks with eyes straight ahead. She looks fierce and determined, like the champion she is, and Angel feels the power of his love for her well up until it bubbles on his lips, threatening to spill out in a torrent of words and promises. It takes all of his willpower to bite them back.

Tonight, there are no declarations of love with all the accompanying joy and pain, no promises for the future that they might not live to see. There is just this—two warriors, wounded and imperfect and fallible, but together. Shoulder to shoulder, like he promised once before.

For now, it is enough.

~~End~~

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