Repeat the Sounding Joy

Author: Princess Plum Jade

This fic covers several events of various Christmas functions over a period of 7 years to tell the story. You may become lost if you don't pay some attention to the dates.
This is definitely a darker Buffy/Angel relationship fic. I wrote it this way because this is how I visualised their bonding in the future. Too often, it is easy to look back on our first loves and wonder what might have been when the truth is we've changed so much our first loves probably wouldn't even recognise/identify with the people we become in 10 or 20 years. This is my view on what might have happened to them if they never got past the past.
Also, I don't think the show has ever really revealed Angel(us) as growing past his human era. A lot of his attitudes reflect upon his past/human life and I have always seen Angel/Angelus as different sides of one coin. I don't see Angelus as a seperate entity, I see him as the very WORST of Angel. Just because Angel has a soul doesn't mean he couldn't share and indulge some of those same qualities.

**

7 December 2009
~Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England~
Approximately 3:00 a.m.

“No!”

Ephraim stirred and sighed tiredly at the familiar high-pitched scream. The Slayer was fighting Angel again..

“NO!” That scream was louder, more forceful and angry.

It was all for nothing. She could not leave Edenscroft, the entire estate was warded with powerful magic, psychic barriers activated to bind her there until Angel decided she might leave.

The inevitable noises of scuffling reached Ephraim’s keen ears and the Drishlac demon’s empathic sensibilities amplified his sympathetic feelings until tears burned his smokey violet eyes. Angel grunted with real pain when the Slayer struck him hard–a well-placed kick smashing into his shin, or perhaps a brutal elbow jammed into his ribs. The Slayer gasped, air rushing wildly from her lungs as Angel tackled her against the icy stone wall. Ephraim felt a loyal servant’s impulse to check on her, make certain she was warmly dressed.

I’ve got to take my hat off to the Americans, they’re a tenacious lot, he thought to himself as the fighting continued outside, mere feet away from his door in the narrow stone corridor that connected the servants’ quarters with the rest of the house. He just wished the Slayer didn’t feel the need to assert her independence at three o’clock in the morning.

“Let–me–GO!” Each word gained volume until she was howling. Ephraim cringed and shuddered from the onslaught of the Slayer’s feelings as their flavors rushed over and scorched his ultra-sensitive psychic nerves. Panicked fear, bitter rage, and, most potent of all, the love she felt for the vampire even as she wrestled his efforts to restrain her with every ounce of her considerable strength. Angel loved her, too–incredible, the empathic patterns of the vampire’s love, it burnt inside his lukewarm body like an eternal torch, inextinguishable heat balanced only by his gentle concern that he not hurt her.

And, like bitter blood staining the purer emotions, Ephraim sensed Angel’s dread of losing her and his determination that, no matter his beloved’s choosing, she would not leave Edenscroft.

Angel had long ago updated the manor with central heating but Ephraim shivered and huddled deeply into his wool blankets. The myriad of powerful conflicting emotions invading the atmosphere were like the pockets of icy air ghosts left in houses they haunted.

The sound of Angel’s voice–the steward could not detect his actual words–was low and deep, a soothing tone used for calming nervous horses and fretting infants as well as high-strung young women. Ephraim often wondered what Angel actually said to her, what magic words made her sob and go weak, submissive, as the vampire picked her up and carried her back to their personal quarters. Angel crooned lovingly to her as she wept, probably kissed her wet face adoringly.

Her breathy little sobs became softer as she calmed. Ephraim sighed in relief and turned over in his bed, hoping for another two hours’ sleep.

The Slayer’s desperate–and useless–bid for freedom would end as all the others had throughout the last eighteen months. She and Angel would sleep very late. Tomorrow afternoon their bedroom would require airing and their bed linens would need changing to clear away the odours of ardent lovemaking. The Slayer’s wrists might be bruised with Angel’s fingerprints, or chafed from soft silk cord used to bind them, and she would walk gingerly, as though she had spent a rigorous day on horseback and her saddle muscles ached from the strain.

The Slayer would be calmer, happier for a while, loving her lover’s company and enjoying the beautiful home they shared. It would be a while before she tried to run again. Perhaps, one day, she would grow tired of trying. Ephraim hoped so, her repeated distress was terribly disturbing to his delicate senses.

As Angel carried her past his bedroom door, the middle-aged manservant heard Angel’s tender words very distinctly.

“I love you Buffy. Always.”

~Christmas Eve 2003~
The Wolfram & Hart Christmas Reception at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco...
About 9:15 p.m.

Lilah Morgan nibbled disinterestedly at a celery sliver from the crudite platter a waiter offered her as she observed her bubbly young trainee/orienteering protegee graciously refusing yet another invitation to dance. Sheila Fabray was raw-boned and round-bodied, her dark walnut hair kinked with a terrible spiral perm; yet the male guests, clients and employees of Wolfram & Hart, swarmed around her like bees drawn to an especially desirable flower.

How does she do it? Lilah wondered. The high-powered executive attorney and junior partner for the sinister law firm had done wonders at her career climbing but she was no popularity queen despite her well-maintained good looks. She inspired a lot of resentment in her male colleagues for her professional successes. They even speculated that she won her promotions by fellating the Senior Partners. Lilah always laughed when she thought of that. If the gentlemen had ever met the Senior Partners they’d know it was anatomically impossible for any human female to do such a thing. Is that all it takes to impress ivy-league graduates? Frizzled hair and a southern accent make a woman irresistible?

“No, thank you, Mr. Riordan.” Sheila beamed up at the middle-aged paunchy man, a CEO for one of Wolfram & Hart’s biggest, most powerful affiliates. “I need to sit a few out!”

Christ! Lilah thought. She’s been raised on sugar cane and it comes out in her voice!

James Riordan, a man definitely unaccustomed to being refused anything, smiled indulgently at the sweet-voiced thing and caressed her hand, before nodding cordially at Lilah and moving along to another woman, the buffet table, the bar, or another business partner to talk shop with.

“Honey I’m so sorry we were interrupted!” Sheila turned back to her mentor. “Where were we?”

“Angel Investigations.” Lilah decided the young associate’s appeal lay in her sincerity. She treated everybody like she genuinely cared about how they felt. No one had called Lilah “honey” since her mother’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point that she no longer remembered having a daughter. “I saw you rooting that file and I don’t want you involved with that.”

Sheila’s lower lip flared into a pout and her soft gray doe eyes widened. “But Lilah, I thought they were one of your most difficult projects!”

“They are,” the cool willowy brunette admitted it cautiously. “But I’m a little ambitious about them.” She sipped champagne in an elegant cut-crystal fluted goblet. The extremely rare, obscenely expensive vintage tasted acidic and bitter to her. “I want to complete that case on my own.”

Sheila’s pout blossomed into a sympathetic smile.

“Is it because of Wesley?” she asked softly.

Lilah lowered her curled eyelashes and set her flute down on the table. It was inevitable that Sheila would have heard the office gossip about her love affair with Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Lilah herself didn’t like to talk about it. She regarded Wesley as one of her biggest adult mistakes. Not because he hadn’t proved useful, however unwittingly, in her attempts to manipulate and undermine Angel Investigations. Not because she hadn’t enjoyed the hottest, most uninhibited sex she’d ever had. Not even because she’d fallen in love with the sensual Englishman. Lilah would never regret that, love was too precious and rare in her world.

It was a mistake and a disappointment because Wesley loved Angel Investigations more than her. Not just that pathetically backward brainiac physicist, Fred Burkle, a woman too stupid to give him a second thought. Wesley loved them all. Angel, the vampire who’d tried to murder him in his hospital bed. Connor, the vampire’s dysfunctional son. Cordelia Chase, his mutated demonic-human secretary, and Charles Gunn, the big muscle in the group. Wesley loved them, even though they’d turned their backs on him and cast him out when Angel blamed him for Connor’s kidnaping and sibsequent loss into the Quorrthoth hell dimension.

It was inevitable that the group welcomed him back into the fold. They’d misjudged him and, more importantly, they'd misjudged how much they needed him. Still, Lilah was surprised that he chose to return. She’d respected him more when he’d curtly refused her offers of employment at Wolfram & Hart even when he was down and out. He’d gone independent instead, using his brains and occult know-how to become a formidable supernatural mercenary, and had done quite well for himself.

Besides, while Wesley remained in private practice, he was still a neutral participant in the conflicts between Angel and Wolfram & Hart. Lilah could still see him and not be considered fraternizing with the enemy. But Wesley had gone back. His calls became less frequent and she had not returned them when they did come, until they finally stopped.

Lilah was alone again, still loving him and missing his arms around her, his husky whisper of her name in the dark.

“Not really,” Lilah replied, shrugging her shoulders and arranging her face into a bland smile. “Wesley made a choice, duty over love. So did I.” Although, in all fairness, Lilah’s choice was motivated by the fact that Wolfram & Hart took its employees’ personal lives very seriously. If the Senior Partners did not approve of one’s personal life, very ugly things might happen.

“It’s all so tragic and romantic,” Sheila sighed dramatically.

“Angel did the same thing once.” Lilah idly fingered the beveled edges of her goblet’s stem where twinges of candlelight reflected an ethereal glow. “Left the love of his life, for her own good or so I’m told. Came to L.A. to forget her, fight the good fight and become a major hemorrhoid for Wolfram & Hart.” Lilah’s head lurched just slightly and she realised she was a little drunk. Odd, this was only her second glass of champagne. She shouldn't be drunk.

Sheila giggled pertly at her mentor's remark and Lilah carefully smoothed her wispy bangs to one side of her face. Porcupine quills prickled in her throat–they always did when she thought about Wes, and what might have been–and her eyes burned a little. I miss Wesley too much, she thought vaguely.

“Oh Lilah!” Sheila exclaimed, softly sympathetic. Her sweet voice almost made the executive attorney burst into tears and Lilah didn’t want to do that. She worked too hard to maintain her hard-as-nails, cold-blooded bitch image.

“I wish that bastard never gave up on her. I wish he loved her so much it ate him up inside. I wish nothing ever mattered to him–except her.” Lilah whispered vehemently, coughing vainly to force the lump out of her throat.

The smarmy Lawrence Welk-esque orchestra struck up a spirited Glen Miller medley and James Riordan chasséd back towards their table. He smiled kindly at Sheila but the hand held out to her was imperious.

“I won’t take no for an answer, young lady!”

Sheila glanced at Lilah concernedly and Lilah waved her on with a brittle smile. Business was business and Riordan was an important man. Lilah wanted to go upstairs to her room, anyway. She had to avoid an unsuitable display of public grief. The Senior Partners probably would not approve. Their very nature was predatory, they preyed upon the weak, and grief was a weakness.

Sheila smiled gleamingly, slowly rising from her seat in the corner where she’d been hiding from her little fan club with Lilah. “You’ve got it, honey!” she said cheerily.

Lilah raised her eyebrows as she rose from the damask-cushioned chair. Riordan, a man with shark-like business tactics, grinned widely and guided Sheila ahead of him onto the intimate dance floor.

Christmas Eve 2010
Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
Late afternoon/early evening

“Your juice is on the folding tray, Madam.”

Buffy Summers politely thanked the Drishlac demon who served as Angel’s steward and left the bathroom, padding across the sinfully plush carpeting of her bedroom to the opulently gilded, old-fashioned vanity chest in the corner opposite the tall king-sized bed. As she sat before her vanity and reached for her wide-toothed comb she caught a quick glance in the heart-shaped glass of the manservant arranging her nightdress, an elegant peignoir set of luxurious washed silk, silvery white embroidered with white flowers and a touch of sequined applique. Her other clothing was already laid out on the bed, ready for her to don it. The white satin ball gown with its puffed sleeves, slim bodice and full skirt and the hardware to go under it: a merry widow, stockings, panties. Her shoes, veil, and gloves remained in boxes to protect them from being scuffed or soiled until she was ready to put them on and go downstairs.

There was something so bizarre about this white wedding Angel had urged and hired people to arrange for them. The long ribbon-trimmed veil with its delicate blusher and the soft flowing lines of the peignoir all suggested innocence and virginity. In truth, Angel had lain beside Buffy every night for the last two years. Not one inch of her body was unknown to him, not one opening was a stranger to his most intimate kisses, his skilled fingers, his insatiable cock. He was her lover in the purest sense of the word and she was his.

Angel had told her this was their new beginning, the only fair shot they’d ever had.

“Buffy.”

She glanced in the mirror towards the corner to the opposite side, past the bathroom entrance to her bedroom door. Her look lightened and she smiled a little.

“Come in, Connor.”

“Father wanted me to bring this to you.” The young man moved slowly. An untutored person would have mistaken him for being timid, but Buffy knew and understood his tense caution. Connor was a hunter and killer of demons and supernatural bogeys, like Buffy herself. His movement was that of a cat, slowing searching, gaining as much information about a potential adversary as he could before he actually approached it. Buffy smiled. There had been some times when he’d seen her darker side, and she didn’t blame him for his caution. “He could not bring it himself, he says it’s tradition.” The slender young man held out a worn-looking leather jewelry case. Slowly, he placed it on the left corner of the vanity.

“It’s an old wives’ tale–bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.” Buffy spoke wryly, trying to sound casual. This is so stupid! she thought. All this pretense and ceremony stuff! Angel’s eighteenth century morals raise their ugly head! She almost wanted to laugh, but she was scared her soon-to-be stepson would be frightened by it. Connor’s eyes held a fine tension and concern for her. “So, what is it?” Buffy fumbled with the old-fashioned catch on the case and finally managed to open it.

The enormous pear-cut emerald gleamed on it’s velvet bed, winking up at her like it was alive. The stone was the size of a small chicken’s egg, suspended on a richly gleaming platinum link chain. The jewel was oversized, really too large for Buffy’s petite form and features. It was too fantastic and ostentatious for the simple lines of her satin ballgown. Buffy would wear it anyway. Angel would want her to.

As she drew the heavy pendant from the scarred old box, Buffy discovered a small white card beneath it. She picked it up to read Angel’s scrawled, slightly crooked handwriting. He must have written it in a hurry, perhaps just before he sent it with Connor:

To my best beloved, emeralds for fidelity.

Fidelity. Neither of them had offered that to each other. Or hadn’t they? Not physically, perhaps, but had anything either of them had done in bed with other partners compared to the connections they’d shared for so long? Angel had slept with Darla and fathered a child on her, but he hadn’t loved her. None of Buffy’s partners had been men she’d chosen for love’s sake. Affection, erotic attraction, desperate need for somebody’s arms around her...

(I’m using you. And it’s killing me. I’m sorry, William.)

“It’s beautiful.” Buffy found her voice.

“He wants you to wear it tonight,” Connor told her.

“Yes. I know.” Buffy repressed the urge to laugh at Connor’s formal language. Their eyes met in the mirror and her throat went dry as she realised how unnaturally she loved him when she barely knew him. He looked nothing like his father, favoring his vampiress mother, Darla, with rich blue eyes and fair hair. His ruddy lips were full and sensuous, nothing like Angel’s thin cruel mouth. He was quiet, taciturn and nervous, as otherworldly as Angel had ever been, though. Buffy felt desire flooding her mind as she thought of embracing the stocky young man, curling her body around him and coupling with him mere feet away from the bed she shared with his father.

A delicate cough brought the woman back to her senses. Ephraim had finished fooling with her clothes and stood halfway towards the bedroom door.

“Will you require anything else, Madam? Shall I ask Miss Anya and Dr. Burkle up now?”

Anya and Fred, her bridesmaids. She was lucky to have them. Willow wasn’t there today, would probably never be Buffy’s friend again. Buffy didn’t blame her.

Thank God for the Drishlac demon and his empathic abilities! Buffy clenched her fingers tightly around the comb. Her impulse towards Connor was dangerous. It wasn’t really the serious young man she wanted, anyway, her attraction was purely chemical. Angel’s blood. Angel’s DNA. Angel, the only man you ever wanted for keeps.

“Yeah, send them up in a minute,” Buffy replied steadily. “Connor, see you downstairs.”

Not one for many words, Connor nodded and left the room silently. Buffy took the cut-glass tumbler of cranberry juice and gulped it thirstily. The tart sweet liquid spilled over her tongue and Buffy closed her eyes, savoring the simple pleasure of taste.

That had been close. Too close. It was just as well their wedding was tonight.

Christmas Eve 2008
The Hyperion Hotel’s Second Holiday Gala in Los Angeles, CA
About 7:00 p.m.

“Hello. Angel.”

“Buffy.”

She was so damned beautiful. If anything, she was lovelier than she’d been when they were in love. (Were in love, who are you kidding?) Had she grown a little taller, or were her heels a little higher? She wore a “naked dress,” a micro-mini sheath of smooth silk dyed to match her skintone covered in black lace and her pumps were black suede, the sculpted heels decorated with rhinestones. Her fragrance, the natural aroma of her blood and body chemistry blended with a subtle vanilla-spice perfume, enfolded Angel, made him joyously drowsy as though they basked in a comfortable afterglow when all they did was look at each other.

Buffy felt it, too. It was amazing, the fire between them even after a six-year absence from each other’s lives. She smiled at him, a smile with rare warmth she had seldom used once Angel and she had parted company years ago.

“You really look fantastic,” she told him. And it was good fantastic. His white-tie ensemble was professionally tailored to flatter his already delectable form. His face and body hadn’t changed one whit from the picture she carried in her heart. It creeped her out a little bit. He was exactly the same as he had been when they’d loved each other a decade ago. She knew she had changed, her face had lost its last bit of teen roundness, and the faintest laugh lines were beginning to surface at the corners of her eyes. It was scary, to realise that Angel would always look as he did when she had first loved him while she got haggier.

“Wot’s up, Peaches? Well, well, well! The Scourge of Europe is an innkeeper now! Very posh.” Spike and a slender young woman with piercing eyes and a white-blonde pageboy stood behind Buffy and Angel realised he was holding up the receiving line for the hotel’s guests who’d paid good money to be part of the festivities. He nodded and made a courtly gesture towards Buffy to enter the reception room.

“Hello there!” The white-blonde girl introduced herself cheerily. Her manner seemed strangely practiced, almost mechanical, as though greeting people was something she rehearsed. “I’m Anya! Spike and I are friends and sometimes we sleep together.”

Angel blinked at the pretty girl’s brashness and Spike’s mouth curled into an amused sneer. Soul or no soul, he liked teasing his grandsire. Spike led Anya into the huge ballroom without another word, leaving Angel to receive the guests behind them.

The next fifteen minutes were an eternity for Angel as he smiled and exchanged meaningless pleasantries with strangers he cared absolutely nothing about. He knew re-opening the Hyperion Hotel was a mistake but it had seemed like a good investment and an interesting project to take his mind off of his failed marriage to Cordelia Chase. He left the guests in the hands of his general manager as soon as he could to go seek out his former love.

She was dancing with Spike and Angel stared at them jealously as they moved together in comfortable intimacy, smiling at each other. They were chatting a little bit and Angel heard bits and pieces of their conversation over the band’s jazz version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Buffy was feeling guilty over her pleasure in Dawn’s decision to live with their father in Europe. Spike assured her she wasn’t a bad person to be glad to have some privacy and a life of her own; after all, she was still very young. They both thought Angel looked incredibly well and the hotel surpassed all their expectations with its opulence.

Their conversation didn’t bother him, Angel realised, it was the casual way their bodies brushed and their easy comfortable manner with each other. He and Buffy had never had that, the aura between them had always included tension and some little fear. Even before Angelus had been released when Buffy’s love reversed the curse that sealed Angel’s human soul in his vampire’s body that dark dynamic lay between them, an intruder to their love. Buffy had never been comfortable with him, Angel knew. She’d been excited by him, his otherness, his strength, and she’d been every bit as fascinated with him as he was with her.

”A vampire in love with the Slayer...That’s rather poetic...” Angel smiled grimly at the memory of Rupert’s words. Poetic, yes, romantic and erotic and tragic. Happy? Some of the time. Comfortable? Never.

Buffy stepped backwards and her heel slid dangerously on the smooth cypress floor. Angel tensed, ready to move to her side in a heartbeat and catch her precious body before she went down. But Spike’s arms were already there, one hand supporting the middle of her back, the other hugging her under her rump as he drew her neatly upwards and placed her back on her feet. It happened so gracefully people probably thought it was some sort of suave dance move they’d perfected. Buffy actually laughed at her near-miss and Spike teased her about her shoes.

Damn silver-tongued bastard! Angel would march right over there and wrest his woman (She’s not really mine!) out of Spike’s arms and beat Spike senseless until his own mother wouldn’t recognise him. He’d drag him out into the courtyard and bludgeon his skull with a wrought-iron chair imported from Spain until bone shattered and broke to mix with blood-clumped white hair. He wouldn’t decapitate him, he’d just beat his neck until his head came off. He would–

“Angel?”

He turned away from the dancing couple and gave Wesley a tight-lipped smile as his colleague and partner at Angel Investigations gestured from a medium-sized table where he was seated with Anya and Cordelia. Angel’s pretty brunette seer gave him a reproving look as he headed towards them and the vampire felt guilty for his unseemly outrage. After all, he had given Buffy up years ago, he had no right to be so jealous of her friendship with Spike.

“Quite a pair, those two,” Angel heard Wesley remark about them when he was halfway to the table.

“Buffy and Spike? Oh yes! They used to have sex a lot,” Anya replied with blithe frankness. “But they don’t anymore, now they’re just friends who don’t have sex.”

Wesley’s smile was brittle and insincere. Angel could see it through reddish clouds dancing in his normally excellent vision. The vampire bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“I’m sorry, should I not have said that?” Anya asked.

“That’s generally not what I talk about at evening parties.” Cordelia tossed her head and gave a properly offended "Queen C" snort.

Anya nodded thoughtfully, searching for a better conversation topic. Her eyes lit up as an appropriate thought occurred to her and she turned to Wesley.

“You’re really very nicely shaped, Wesley,” she complimented him. “I bet women love having sex with you.”

Christmas Eve 2010
~Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England~
Late afternoon

“I can’t get over how sexy Wesley still is!” Anya trilled as she sauntered back into Buffy’s bedroom. “He’s two years older than the last time I saw him, and he still looks incredibly hunky” she added, carefully arranging a huge bouquet of white roses nestling with exquisite winter greenery in an ornamental glass vase stained red. “Xander always said he was a geek, I think his manhood was threatened by Wesley’s rough good looks.”

Buffy shook her head, stifling a giggle. “Actually, An, Wes really was a geek. A big monster geek. A long time ago in a galaxy far far away...”

Anya snorted disbelievingly. “I just walked in on him in the bathroom. He was shaving. Topless,” the vengeance demon added provocatively with a delighted smile. She shook her head at Buffy's blank uncomprehending look. “Xander was obviously threatened.” She glanced away from her work towards Buffy’s vanity where Fred was setting Buffy’s hair in hot curlers. “Why do you fuss with all of that? You’re wearing a veil, no one will notice your hair. Nobody noticed mine when I almost married Xander.”

“Oh, I used to do my sister’s hair all the time. It’s just a little extra pampering for the bride!” Fred said shyly. “Sorta pre-wedding anti-stress therapy!”

“Hmmmph! Angel is as rich as Midas, he could’ve just hired a hair dresser for you.” Anya trimmed away a bit of rotting leaf from one rose. “Then we could be real wedding guests.”

Fred sighed very softly. She actually liked the vengeance demoness but sometimes she reminded Fred of a female Pinnochio. “We’re Buffy’s wedding attendants, Anya.”

“I thought wedding attendants just organised a bridal shower and made sure the bride reported to her groom on time. I don’t recall hairdressing requirements.”

“I didn’t want a hairdresser,” Buffy replied stoically. “I just wanted it to be us.” It would be nerve-rattling enough to go through with the ceremony without having a stranger pawing through her hair. Her stylist had come in a week ago to work on her hair and it shone like rich honey streaked with wheat-golden highlights. Very subtle and natural, very like how she’d looked in the days when she’d first met Angel.

Neither Giles, Willow, nor Xander were attending Buffy’s wedding. She felt more alone than ever because of that. Willow had joined Giles on a paranormal investigation in central Czechoslovakia. Xander could not spare the time, his construction company was awfully busy at the moment. Buffy knew he resented her decision. She’d tried not to think too much about it but she knew he’d always been hoping that something could work out between them. Buffy blamed herself because she knew she had encouraged him a little. Perhaps–if she was willing to be cut-to-the-marrow honest with herself–Buffy had hoped their friendship was growing into something more intimate, something that would last. Something preciously ordinary.

But that was before Wesley and Willow had explained everything to her about how it was with her and Angel. How they could never really be free of each other. And Buffy had given up on hoping any part of her life would ever be normal again.

Christmas Morning 2008
Hank Summer’s home in Los Angeles, CA
About 2:00 a.m.

He came for her in her father’s house that night and she almost was not surprised. They had both been too good at light nonsense-talking, saying lots of nothing to be attentive to each other but still avoiding what they felt. She congratulated him on his accomplishments in business and he commented on her career choice in children’s sociology. They had danced and Buffy had felt electrical impulses burn her inside out and she wanted to shriek in frustration, curse the Powers That Be.

I can’t have him! Fate made sure of it so, damn it, WHY do I have to feel like this? WHY can't I just love him like a friend? A man who meant so much to me in my past but has no place in the here and now?

It was relief to return to her father’s house–he’d allowed her the use of it while he was in Europe–alone. Spike longed to see L.A.’s nightlife with Anya who, for all her millennium of years, had never gotten around to visiting that particular city.

Buffy never lost the feeling of Angel, though, the sense of him, throughout the cab ride home. She kept glancing at the empty sidewalks and porches of the homes flashing in her windows expecting to see him there. Somehow she always missed him, never caught sight of him, but she knew he was there. It was frighteningly intense, they had stayed parted for so long, each hoping the distance between them would affect the bonding they’d felt before.

But it was like those years had never happened. When they were together, the world was nothing except Buffy and Angel.

So the arms embracing her from behind as she locked the front door didn’t frighten her, although she wondered what Angel had done to secure an invitation to her father’s house.

“You belong to me, Buffy.” His voice alone was aphrodisiac, a sensual bass that penetrated her skin and sank into her tense muscles while he drew her tenderly into his arms and they moved, slowly, her flesh imprinting him with warmth no one else could give him.

“No!” she moaned it, half-hearted, when his long fingers gripped the hem of her skirt and drew the lightweight silk up, freeing her hips. He cupped the sweet mound between her thighs through a knitted silk thong that matched her dress while his other hand worked the zipper behind her. She moaned again–his name–and rubbed her groin against his cupped hand. Liquid flame built within the aching depth of her feminine core and she whined low in her throat, turning her face towards him for a kiss.

“We can’t!” she protested, almost weeping when Angel easily undressed her and she stood before him in only pumps and thigh-high stockings. His hot gaze ran over her, fondling her as surely as his hands and he swept her up into his arms without a word.

“Where’s your room?” He was hoarse, gruff. His warm brown eyes were loving and filled with heat. Buffy sensed something dark and dangerous in him as well, desperation. She felt certain that, even if she outright refused him, he would not stop.

She closed her eyes, ashamed as she whispered it to him and he carried her there in seconds, laid her on the bed. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, why didn’t she have better control of herself?

Angel, don’t! her heart sobbed. I destroyed you once because I loved you...

“Your soul!” she managed to rasp as the broad-shouldered man who’d haunted every ill-lived relationship she’d had as an adult knelt over her and spread her trim thighs. I love you so much, Angel, and it’s bad! I'm not supposed to do it!

“You are my soul,” he whispered against the sensitive little crease where her hip, her thigh, and her sex met.

She climaxed instantly, her nipples stiffening and aching, her center weeping when he had yet to touch her. He smiled, smug male pleasure at the proof of her urgent desire for him, lovingly whispered her name while he kissed her swollen nether lips softly, as though he coaxed an innocent young girl to surrender what she’d already given him years ago. She sobbed while he made love to her with his mouth and caressed her with his hands.

“Sweet,” he murmured. “So sweet.”

His mouth, his velvety tongue, nipping teeth worked on her, coaxing more passionate nectar from her body and she whimpered to him that he had to stop, that they couldn’t do this, that she couldn’t bear to destroy him and couldn’t bear to be separate from him because, without Angel, something inside Buffy slept and died away. Without him she was barren.

He disrobed slowly and Buffy felt like crying because his body was still so beautiful and familiar to her, the hard whipcord muscles on his steel-and-whalebone frame. Everything she looked for and never found in another man. His male shaft, turgid and thickly upright in it’s nest of cocoa brown curls, sought her labia, and she spread her legs wider to give him better access to his target, to give him herself, her inner fire, her humanity so that it warmed him and made him feel human as well.

When he entered her she cried in shock at the ache of his penetration. It hurt nearly as much as when they’d first joined years ago despite Angel’s sinfully exceptional efforts to prepare her for him. She had gone for so long without a man, had given up on trying to replace her one love with nice boys and wicked boys and even Spike in despair of ever feeling that perfect sheltering warmth Angel’s embrace had brought her. Buffy clung to his hard-muscled powerful arms and panted as he waited patiently for her to move, mating instinct older than time, her hips surging up against his, her legs curling over his firm flanks. He whispered soft endearments to her with each thrust, some strong and deep, others more measured, meant to tempt her.

“Baby.”

“Lover.”

“Precious.”

“Buffy.”

His ministrations and gentle words only urged her body to engulf him in creamy heat and Buffy mewled like a kitten as he urged her to three more climaxes before he smiled and sighed, “Oh yes, yes, yes.”

He exploded inside her, his thick emission blending with her own fluids and creating a luxuriously erotic perfume, a fragrance unique to their coupling. Angel kissed her throat and softly sucked along her delicate jawline. He kissed her tearstained cheeks and held her shuddering body tenderly as she began to sob in earnest, certain they had sinned and set the dark alchemy in motion that condemned them both.

“Don’t be afraid of me. I love you, Buffy. I always have.” His lips struck the base of her throat and she let out a squeal of agonised delight as his fangs pierced her flesh.

14 March 2009
Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
About 6:00 p.m.

“Mmmm!” Buffy moaned dreamily with a soft smile as she cuddled into Angel’s chest. “This is such a beautiful place.” She raised her head so that her lips could brush the little portion of bare flesh just within the “V” neckline of Angel’s fine cashmere sweater. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it before?”

Angel wondered how he could ever explain to Buffy that Edenscroft had never been beautiful or special to him until the night he brought Buffy there only two months ago. His arms tightened round her slender body and he snuggled her against him as he replied:

“It’s my home. The land it’s built on once belonged to my family. I’ve always liked it, but I didn’t want to tell you about it unless you could be part of it.”

“I wish we could always stay here like this.”

Angel kissed the top of her blonde head and rubbed the side of his face against her smooth hair. She smelled ever so faintly of freesia, a light old-fashioned fragrance he liked.

“Could you be happy here with me?”

Buffy nearly burst out laughing at her lover’s wistful tone. How could he think she wouldn’t be happy here? The manor house was old but very well-preserved and outfitted with all modern comforts. A sweetly old-fashioned rose garden and fountain patio adorned the western border of the property and a modest apple orchard grew slightly wild beyond it. A good-sized artificial pond was about a mile to the east and Angel took her row-boating over the silky-smooth water when the nights were clear.

They swam naked together in the huge pool connected to Angel’s gym. They worked out and sparred together and showered together afterwards. It was just like old times, Buffy thought, the very best of old times, only–better.

“I’m happy right now. Happier than I’ve ever been.” She spoke very softly and knelt over him as Angel lay relaxed on the narrow empire bed he used for a sofa in the smaller “informal parlor” downstairs. She loved the rich comfortable elegance of this room, the red velvet-flocked brocade wallpaper and the huge hand-carved mantel over the fireplace, decorated with huge griffins. The other walls were covered in dark paneling that closed the room up a bit, warmed it up. With a fire chuckling cheerily a few feet away, and the plush velour-covered cushions on the empire bed, with Angel’s body beneath hers, the two of them draped with a thin but warm wool throw blanket, Buffy thought things were just about perfect.

How many times had they indulged in this kind of pleasant peace when she was a young seventeen-year-old learning her place as the Slayer? Buffy couldn’t recall. There had been moments, very brief, when they’d been together alone, peaceful and quiet and able to hold each other. Precious bits of intimacy they’d shared, knowing it was only a matter of time before something awful happened to take it away. The last few months had been heaven revisited for Buffy.

I don't think I was even this happy in Heaven...

“I missed you when you were out yesterday.” She kissed Angel’s mouth slowly, met his eyes and softly kissed him again as his wonderful hands eased under her sweater and gently kneaded her vertebrae. “The bed’s so empty–” Another kiss. “–when you’re not in it.”

Angel murmured wordlessly in pleasure as they kissed. Several soft little pecks before Buffy moaned and Angel pressed his mouth insistently against hers to part her lips. His tongue reached for hers and softly massaged it while the pressure of their kiss intensified. He drew her down to lie on his strong broad chest and caressed her scalp, fingers twining in her lovely warm hair as he cupped his other hand over her bottom. Warm contentment suffused them both as they kissed and pressed their bodies together. Angel felt his body hardening as his desire increased and he slowly broke away the kiss, not yet ready to let go of the warmth they shared even for passion. He could never get enough of this, the nurturing warmth of just touching and being together with no demands attached to it. The lovemaking was wonderful, too, and he wanted lots of it–later.

“Of course,” Buffy commented idly, her voice was soft and sleepy, like a well-satisfied woman. Angel could not ever remember seeing her so relaxed. “The weather’s a lot nicer on the Hellmouth.” Lovingly she cupped his face in her hands and kissed the bridge of his nose. “You do a good job of keeping me warm, though.” Her hands trailed up the sides of his face and drifted into his hair. “I’ll miss being here so much.” She rested her head on his chest. “My sabbatical’s nearly over and I need to get back with Wesley to see if he’s found out anything about the new me.” Angel’s mouth tensed a bit and his eyebrows arched. There was a faint hint of distress in the forced casualness of her tone. “Wes and I were talking at the party,” she replied to his questioning look. “He’s curious about some of the interesting side effects from my slight case of death back in ‘01. He’s running a few chem tests on me.”

Three brisk raps on the wide ornate moulding of the doorway were followed by a discreet pause long enough for Buffy to sit up and smooth down her sweater before Ephraim, Angel’s steward, entered the room with a covered tray for Buffy’s dinner and a tall glass tumbler of blood for Angel. The empathic demon hybrid greeted them very civilly as he arranged their respective meals on a lightweight but strong, prettily carved cedarwood table.

“Gotta love England!” Buffy declared happily when Ephraim lifted the gleaming silver cover to reveal her dinner plate. “Omelettes are strictly breakfast/brunch menu in America!” She took a deep breath, savouring the scent of basil and peppers used to flavour the perfectly even-cooked omelette. “What’s that?” She watched the servant pour a small carafe of steaming hot, clear, dark red liquid into a wide-mouthed glass mug and place it on her tray. It smelled delicious and soothing.

“It’s mulled cranberry juice, ma’am,” Ephraim replied affably. “Flavored with cloves, cinnamon, and lemon.”

Angel watched hungrily as the petite blonde slowly lifted the mug of mulled juice towards her face. Adorably sensual, the moment where she enjoyed the drink’s secondary qualities: the spicy aroma of its steam on her face, the warmth of the glass on her fingers, the rich clear color on the glass itself. Then her full lips met the lip of the cup with casual intimacy and her long sooty lashes veiled her eyes, limiting her perception of anything except the hot drink’s subtlety on her tongue and palate. She sipped it gingerly, then sighed appreciatively, another sip followed by a soft moan.

She opened her eyes and smiled brightly up at Ephraim, looking like a kid who just discovered candy.

“It’s wonderful!”

She missed the anxiously relieved expression sweeping over Angel’s face when Ephraim smiled neutrally.

“I’m glad you like it. Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

16 March 2009–Sometime in the mid-morning...

“This place really is beautiful. It looks like these orchards go on for miles.”

Buffy rolled her eyes skywards at Cordelia and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell her old high school classmate not to overkill drama. The apple orchard at Edenscroft was small, not even a full mile wide. Then, she glanced around them and realised they were surrounded by apple trees and she no longer saw the high stone wall with its crumbling mortar bits that ultimately led to the wide wrought-iron gates that opened the driveway to Edenscroft. An illusion, probably caused by the angle of the incline they walked on, made the orchard look much larger than it was.

“Nice of you to show me around.” Cordelia’s neat Prada pumps glided over the crisp carpet of turned foliage and the occasional fallen fermented apple with deceptive ease. She moved slowly in the unsteady, slightly slippery textures to maintain balance on her high heels. She kept running her fingertips lightly over her glossy dark hair to dislodge the occasional twig or leaves that tangled into it. Somehow, her winter-white angora sweater remained immaculate, clear of debris. “I feel a little out of place, but it’s the perfect place for Angel to keep you.”

’Strange choice of words.’ Buffy had never known Cordelia to be overly friendly or tactful towards her, but something in the other woman’s tone disturbed her. Cordelia sounded too calm and sincere, without her general trace of sarcasm. Buffy couldn’t see Cordelia’s eyes sheltered behind dark-tinted, thick-framed St. Laurent sunglasses. She ran her tongue nervously over her dry lips and wondered what was wrong.

Cordelia reached into the pocket of her black-and-white houndstooth slim woolen trousers and casually tossed Buffy a flat compact pot of dark red lip gloss.

“Thanks,” Buffy replied, after examining it. “But the colour’s not me.” She preferred more neutral tones, light brown, or pinkish beige.

“Use it!” Cordy urged cheerily over one shoulder. “It’s got good SPF and it’s Angelus’s favorite colour.” She turned her attention back to walking.

Buffy opened the compact and swabbed the greasy lip gloss over her mouth with a fingertip, pressing her lips together to spread the soothing moisture evenly over the sensitive skin. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and Buffy, checking her reflection in the tiny mirror on the compact, noticed the gloss left only the softest stain of natural-looking colour on her lips.

“Thanks.” Buffy walked a little faster to catch with Cordelia. Her dark brown suede hiking shoes with their thick soles crunched into the decaying foliage as Cordy pranced gracefully over it. “I think I see the house a little more to the left,” she added.

Buffy watched the elegantly tapered layers of Cordelia’s chin-length bob swirl playfully around the woman’s face as Cordelia shook her head vigorously. A chilly mist formed slowly along the inside of Buffy’s stomach. We can’t be lost! she thought to herself. That would be ridiculous! The orchard’s not that big. We must be walking in a circle.

“So.” Cordelia’s high heels tapped hesitantly over raised roots of the skeletal-looking apple trees. In a few more weeks they would be gloriously festooned with soft white blossoms, but, for now, the orchard was a cemetery for last year’s harvest. “Have you been in touch with Wesley yet? He’s been trying to reach you.”

Buffy shook her head. “Haven’t heard from him.” She moved alongside Cordelia and the brunette never glanced at her, kept facing forward. “Ummm, you know. Cordy.” Buffy foundered for a moment, then came out and said what was on her mind. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and Angel.” She felt a little ashamed for the hint of triumph she couldn’t quite keep out of her voice. Cordelia had always belittled Buffy when they were in school together, saying she could take Angel from Buffy any time she set her mind to it. Buffy felt childishly spiteful even as she was truly sorry Cordelia’s marriage had been an unhappy one.

Queen C snorted derisively. “As if! That was all just a misunderstanding, Buffy. A big misunderstanding!” She touched her lips with her fingers in a soft gesture to stop laughing.

“Misunderstanding?” Buffy echoed. A flirting breeze sprang towards them from the grey sky and she huddled into her wool pea coat, blinking her eyes to filter away dust and loose soil.

“Buffy,” Cordelia declared emphatically. “Angel and I were never in love! We were friends. Best friends and we loved each other, but that’s really not the same thing.” She nodded wisely and her perfect matte-red lips spread into a classic cheerleader smile, open and brilliantly white-toothed. “Two years of misunderstood marriage with Angel while he realised he could never love anybody but you is one of the better things that ever happened to me. I’m half-owner in the Hyperion Hotel and Angel felt awfully guilty when we talked divorce settlement. He’s never more generous than when he feels guilty and wants to make it up.”

Buffy almost wanted to laugh, but there was something horribly depressing about Cordelia’s jaded comments. It presented Angel in a light Buffy did not like to see him in, a man who was lonely enough to marry a friend for comfort instead of doing–doing–what had he done?–to invalidate the curse that made their loving impossible.

Another frigid breeze nipped on their faces and Cordelia shivered, hugging herself .

“I don’t envy you this weather, that’s for sure! Where is that damn house? It’s the size of a museum!”

“It can’t be much further.” Buffy kept her voice low, certain they were lost and not wanting to say it and deal with Cordelia-esque drama.

Abruptly Cordelia stopped and turned towards Buffy. It was slightly creepy, knowing Cordy was staring at her through those huge darkened lenses that covered nearly all of the top half of her face. She cut off a gasp when Cordelia seized her left hand and yanked off the cuddly knitted mitten she wore.

“No ring yet?” she asked, dropping Buffy’s hand. Buffy slipped her mitten back on.

“No.” Buffy was silent for a minute. “Angel and I haven’t actually discussed the future.” Buffy quickly thrust out of her mind the moments where Angel had commented on how wonderful it would be for her to stay on at Edenscroft, how their lives were different now and the changes they had made, the battles they had fought and sacrificed for, had led to a different and better world, one where they were allowed at least a little peace for themselves. She did her best to quench those conversations before they became too involved. “I don’t know how much will change by–by the things that’ve happened. I still have a life in Sunnydale. Kids to counsel, a Hellmouth to guard. That doesn’t change just because Angel’s no longer cursed.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. Lover.” A heavy bootstep crushed the rotting foliage behind them. Buffy shuddered and an icy teardrop of sweat trickled down one armpit.

No! No! Not possible! She wanted to whimper in horror as she recognised, all too well, the slanted twist of the hard mouth, the weird hedonistic aura of confidence that made him seem somehow bigger, greater, even sexier than Angel. It always turned Buffy’s stomach that she felt that way about him. But the feeling never had gone away.

Carelessly, Angelus tossed his cigarette on the ground and smothered it under his boot before he turned his complete attention to Buffy. His eyes were hard and somehow darker than Angel’s, not hateful, simply burning with ice-cold emptiness.

“You see, in my mind, baby,” he began in that hard, faintly lilting voice. “I’ve really gone out of my way for you this time. That changes everything.”

“Cordelia,” Buffy gritted tersely through clenched teeth. “Run.”

To her surprise, Cordelia sighed in relief.

“Finally! Now I can get out of here!” The woman managed a well-paced jog in a rather stiffly upright posture on her high heels.

Buffy faced Angelus and allowed all the baleful emotions she felt to spring into her expression. Genuine surprise and impotent, heartbroken rage. She was determined not to cry and please him by letting him know his taking Angel away hurt her deeply. What the fuck had gone wrong? She and Angel had been as close as two adults who loved each other could get!

“So.” Buffy kept her voice brisk and calm. “What set you free? How did you get out?” Her brain worked feverishly, weighing options on what to do.

Angelus’s smirk spread into a cat-eating-the canary grin. “I’m always around, Buff. You don’t get rid of me. I’m part of Angel, I live in him everyday he lives.”

“You’ve got nothing to do with him, Angelus.” What to do? Where to go? Can I outrun him to the house? Has he killed anybody? Can I trap him and hold him long enough to get Willow to restore his soul? A more macabre thought struck her mind like a sledge hammer: should I just give up?

“I have everything to do with him!” Angelus snapped. “And if you don’t wipe that angry look off your face I’ll smack it off with half the skin on your face.”

“You’re awfully confident.” Buffy bristled at his threat. “I’ve already dealt with you before, you know. Don’t think I’m up to it again?”

“Buffy! Buffy! Buffy!” Angelus shook his head and chuckled softly at her belligerant attitude. “You’d better work on making me happier if you want any happiness for yourself.” He look down at her with a patronising smile. A light flared in his nearly black eyes, dark flames burning restlessly. “You know, I didn’t know the bastard had it in him–I’ve always seen him as a pansy-boy, not much of a credit to me. But this time–” Angelus tossed his head and giggled softly. “All I can say is this is a really soulful love, Buffy!”

“Are we gonna fight or do I just get to listen you enjoy yourself talking?” Buffy sniped.

Angelus stopped laughing and his lips thinned out, his eyes darkening with fury. Then he twittered again.

“You don’t fool me, little girl. I smell your needs. All of ‘em.”

“Yeah? Don’t smell my need for you to never have existed? No hope on fulfilling that one, huh?” She quipped it lightly but the meaning fell flat and Buffy knew it. Angel could never have existed without Angelus because Angel was Angelus without his human soul. If Angelus had never existed and committed unspeakable atrocities, he would never have been cursed–or blessed–with his restored soul and Buffy would never have known the man she loved.

Angelus flashed a gleaming smile and his eyes glittered knowingly.

“You have other needs I can fill. And you don’t have a stake handy–don’t carry one here, huh? Because it’s Angel’s land and you feel safe, cut off from the world?” Angelus laughed with genuine mirth as his hand slapped his leather-clad thigh. “Oh baby! It’s my land! I inherited it from my father after I murdered him!”

Buffy took one step backward and hunkered down, doing her best to feel out firm footing on the ground, and raised her arms defensively.

“Did it escape your notice that we’re in an orchard? Orchard? As in large body of trees? I doubt my stake-less-ness would be a huge handicap!” Buffy tilted her head to one side, pretending to think about it. “Or are you really so stupid you think I can’t improvise?”

Angelus lunged for her with a growl. Buffy rose up from her crouched position and struck him head on with a sharp uppercut that flung his head backward. He snarled and seized her in a full-body hug and threw himself down, slamming her writhing body between himself and the dirt and the filthy leaves on the damp chilly ground.

Buffy thrashed frantically as Angelus pressed his weight upon her. She had thrown and vanquished bigger vampires than Angelus before. But her practice fights with Angel had never been decisive. They were too well-matched. Angel had the bulk and the strength and the know-how. Buffy was strong, incredibly so, perhaps even stronger than he was, but they never seemed to determine for certain who was the better warrior. Sometimes Angel won a scrimmage and sometimes Buffy did. Winner’s luck, never a decisive victory.

“If you don’t stop wriggling, Buff, I’ll break your legs,” Angelus assured her in a deadly quiet voice. “Did you know a properly fractured thigh bone will cause all the toes on the corresponding foot to dislocate? That probably hurts worse than the break itself. Trust me, you won’t want to move at all.”

Clammy moisture broke out on her upper lip, her armpits, her back. Adrenaline was pumping through her body, willing her to fight and buck him off of her. Keep the fight going until she could figure out what to do with him–God! She didn’t want to have to kill him! But if he maimed her, she couldn’t fight–or do much of anything to protect herself.

“Goddamit, Angelus!” Buffy almost shouted in humiliated anger. “What the FUCK do you want?”

He slapped her face, open-handed but none too gentle. His lips had thinned again. Probably, Buffy thought, he was angry with her for cursing him. Or maybe not. He was a card-carrying psychopath from Hell, he really didn’t require a motive to slap her face or break her legs.

She forced herself to stay still, though she quivered all over in anger and fear. Angelus smirked, pleased with her obedience as well as her rage.

“You’ve gotta learn to get along better with me, baby,” he chided her softly–so softly he nearly sounded like Angel. “I’m part of something you love. And if he’s not happy, I’m not happy.” He tore her warm wool coat open and yanked the zipper of her leather jeans so hard he broke it. “But I’m selfish, too. Sometimes I want you all to myself.”

“What–do–you–want?” she gritted, voice muffled slightly.

His eyebrows shot of and he smiled amusedly. “I want to fuck you from behind with your face in the dirt and your ass in the air,” he answered cheerfully, almost chidingly, like she should have known all along. “Aw, come on now! None of that!” he scolded her when she bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears. “I never said I didn’t want you to like it.”

Angelus kissed her then, his hard mouth pressing against her silky full lips, sucking her lower lip between his teeth and nibbling, sometimes digging his blunt teeth a little too hard into the pillowy flesh. He worked her mouth open with his teeth and tongue, then slowly began exploring her softness, probing with his tongue, sweeping over her warmth, marking it as his own.

“Baby,” he whispered tenderly to her. Buffy squeezed her eyes shut. She could almost believe it was– “Open your eyes. Look at me, precious little bitch.” She looked back up at him. Angelus rewarded her obedience with a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Now,” he said. His voice was low and seductive despite its harshness so uncharacteristic of Angel. “I’m gonna show you something.” He eased one hand down into the broken front of her leather jeans. Buffy felt his long strong fingers flutter teasingly on her lower belly, dipping into the elastic waistband of her panties and softly ruffling her pubic curls. “Mmmmm!” He actually sighed, a sound of appreciation, approval maybe. He glided lower, opening the secret folds to access her feminine core, soft, easy. “You’re hot already,” he assured her. “And you’re wet, creamy even. You’re gonna like this, baby. You’re a sweet healthy girl and you love me, there’s nothing more natural than for you to like it.” He was assuring, gentle, laughing softly as he turned her over. “No, don’t get up.” He stopped her from lifting herself up on her hands. “Face down, like I told you. Just bend your knees.” He peeled her pants down her thighs until they hung just under her knees and Buffy felt chilly air invade the hot slickness oozing at the juncture of her thighs. Angelus had pushed her thick coat forward to bare her ass and Buffy felt a profound level of embarrassment as she imagined how she looked, still fully clothed except for her naked ass and thighs lifted up for the cold wind to caress while Angelus fondled her. She breathed shallowly, worried that she might ingest some unsuspecting insect traveling among the mucky leaves and rich soil pillowing her forehead kindly enough. She heard the hiss of his own zipper, his firm sturdy thighs pressed flush against her smooth ones. He pushed her coat up further and reached under her belly to cup her groin, ease the lips open and tease the stiffening little jewel of flesh hidden shyly within. He played with her, skillfully stroking to stoke her passion, inflame her, until her position no longer felt awkward or shameful at all.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he told her in a gruff whisper. Buffy felt more lava flood her core and leak out onto her swollen nether lips.

Angelus gripped her trim hips and thrust hard, filling her completely in one stroke.

Buffy grunted and bucked backwards against the demon to make certain she had all of his length inside her. The tears trickled out onto her face as she moaned softly from the feeling of fullness, the familiarity of his length and thickness, his hard driving strokes, pleasurable friction.

“D’you know why I like to hurt you?” Angelus asked companionably, squeezing her hips hard enough to bruise her. “It’s not because I get off on it–actually I do,” he amended honestly. “But there is more to it than that.” Buffy gasped as his nimble fingers caught her clitoris and tugged it cruelly, stretching it away from her body. She tried to crawl away but Angelus’s other arm was securely wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against him. Besides, her pants were all tangled down around her knees and she could barely hold the position Angelus helped hold her in now. She mewled pitifully and he released the sensitive little pearl of flesh, then reached under her sweater to scrape across her ribcage with his fingernails.

“It’s the only way I really have you, Buffy, the only way you’re really all mine.” Angelus thrust downward hard into her clinging wet channel, hard enough to crack bones in a normal human woman. Buffy hissed and bucked her rump back against his hips, winning the vampire’s pleased growl. “He doesn’t like to hurt you because he despises himself for wanting to. Aw, look!” Angelus leaned far over her body and threaded his fingers into her hair to pull her head up. “Cordy’s leaving already.”

Buffy watched through the trees as Cordelia’s rented car moved smoothly down the slightly curved driveway leading from the house to the main gates. How funny, we were so close to the edge of the orchard, but I didn’t notice it before, she thought to herself, moaning quietly when Angelus shoved her face back into the dirt.

He stripped her carelessly, sometimes tearing impatiently at her clothes, tugging off buttons and breaking zippers. Buffy shivered all over from the cool air on her bare skin. Angelus pushed her down onto her back and she spread her thighs as he plunged against her. He fucked her in rapid shallow strokes, almost teasing, then occasionally thrust harder until he bumped into her womb and she moaned low at the vibrating shock of pain that stimulated her entire body. Her nipples stood upright, hard and dark pink, pretty little baubles for Angelus to torment with pinches and nips.

“If he only knew all of you, loved all of you, the dark and the light, there’d be no room for me in your heart.” He kissed her throat harshly, open-mouthed, digging his teeth into the skin to leave a hurt little mark. He pressed a softer, more affectionate kiss upon her smooth forehead. “He’s scared of your darkness just as much as he’s scared of me–” Angelus thrust even harder–somehow it was possible–and Buffy heard herself cry out, muffled against his dark red silk shirt, with each stroke.

“That hurts, doesn’t it, baby?” His pubic bone struck hers and a cacophony of pleasurable feelings raced and whirled disonantly in her belly. “Makes you feel rejected.”

Buffy wailed aloud, a passionate, wordless sound, and drew her fingernails hard over his silk-covered back. The fabric swished and parts of it tore. Tears, hot liquid silver, gleamed in her soft hazel eyes and Angelus smiled as he lifted a finger to caress her long eyelashes.

“I don’t reject you, sweetheart.” He rode her like a runaway thoroughbred. She was screaming now, keening and writhing, uncaring if anyone heard them, indifferent to the cold hard ground. “I always want all of you!”

Angelus shoved down against her so hard Buffy wondered if she would leave an ass-print in the soil beneath her. The pressure and friction brought her over the edge and she felt her limbs turn to weak liquid, falling limply out of control while white electric balloons expanded in her deepest center. Then they exploded, sending hot lightning through her clitoris, her belly, up into her breasts until her nipples tightened and ached, down through her trembling thighs until her toes clenched inside her shoes. She screamed the demon’s name wildly, tearfully as he purred and watch her panting, a lovely flush sweeping over her golden skin.

Angelus roared as he followed her into the abyss. His neck arched and his dark golden eyes blazed as he threw his head back and pressed down, down, crushing her, his wonderful cock snuggled as deep inside her pulsing, quivering folds as it could go. She clasped against him, clenched him, milk every drop of lukewarm seed out of his twitching member until she was flooded and it spilled into pearl droplets on her dark pubic curls.

“Say it, Buffy.” He buried his face in her bare breasts with a fierce growl, nuzzling his face against her burning racing heartbeat. “Make me happy too, baby,” he coaxed.

“I–I love you.” Her voice was soft, tremulous, and so very fragile.

He smiled against her flesh–Buffy felt the spread of his lips over her heart–and then he sank his teeth into her and began to suck...

Buffy’s eyes snapped open in the darkness and she covered her mouth to stifle a scream as she sat up in bed and instinctively pulled the dense downy comforter closer around her for protection. It was daytime, she knew–she’d become a regular night owl since she’d come here to visit Angel and she slept through most of the early daylight hours. A sliver of golden radiance edged the tightly closed heavy opaque drapes on her bay windows.

Angel wasn’t in bed with her. They’d gone to bed together and he’d made love to her passionately until she was grateful to sink into cuddling sleep. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave her tucked in and got to his office to take care of his business issues and answer mail. Sometimes he surprised her by cooking for her, serving her breakfast in bed. He was a pretty good cook, made tender melt-in-your-mouth crepes that he served with chocolate hazelnut spread and sausages and syrup. A long-stemmed lavender rose on the side of the plate. Yet his absence in bed was chilling after the vividly real nightmare she’d just had.

Only a dream...Just a nightmare...Angelus isn’t back....He’d’ve come back months ago.

She was moist and tender between her legs and that feeling usually brought her a silly joy, memories of beautiful intimacy with the man she loved. Now she wasn’t certain the hot stickiness on her inner thighs was from Angel’s lovemaking, or a response to the dream (nightmare) she’d just had of Angelus. Buffy felt stinky and slightly soiled: she was more than a little angry with herself.

She decided to take a shower, a long hot shower where she could lather up thoroughly with the softly scented freesia bath gel Angel kept in the bathroom. Let the heat and steam treat the slight soreness and soap away the stickiness from her sex. She would be clean again. She slid out of bed and climbed off the mahogany step-stool to the thickly piled carpet so soft and warm she didn’t need her velour slippers. Buffy headed to the bathroom determinedly.

If she lingered in the warm steam long enough, she might forget the mind-numbing climax Angelus’s degrading sexuality had driven her to.

”I’m part of something you love...”

”I–I love you...”

Not true! Not EVER! Just a dream. Buffy threw the doors to the double shower stall so hard they slammed against the tile with a bang.

Two doors down and across the hall, Angel heard Buffy stirring and smiled affectionately. He kept his private office just as it had been when the manor had been built. It was the only room without electricity. It had no windows and all four walls were paneled in darkly stained oak. Unless one had superior night vision it wasn’t a room suited for conducting business affairs at all.

Angel worked at a large ornately carved oak desk with huge lion’s-claw feet and gilded scroll work in the table’s border. No minimal decor/maximum function furniture for him, he’d survived over a century of guilt and misery over his entire existence.

For once, Angel had decided he was going to enjoy himself.

He heard the spray of water, a raindrop melody of sweetness as he imagined his lover, all golden and naked, standing under the sprays as the bathroom filled with scented mist and warm water saturated her body. Angel pictured her head falling back, lovely eyes closing as they often did when he made love to her, lathering soap in her hands and soaping her breasts. If she lingered in the shower, he would join her. He had to deal with this mail, though, it was just piling up too much.

Several large kerosine lamps illuminated the pile of mail Angel sorted through on a simple silver tray. He hadn’t caught up with the mail in a while. It never ceased to amaze Angel that human ingenuity and industrialisation, while beneficial, also produced unsettling drawbacks. It was unbelievable, the amount of unsolicited junk mail one person received in just a year, let alone a lifetime. Of all the envelopes he sorted through–about a month’s worth–most of it was stuff he burned in the fireplace. He didn’t like shredders. Convenient as they were, their modernity affected the feel of his office.

Angel hesitated with a smaller stack of letters. Some of the envelopes were thick, containing letters at least two or three pages long. Others were obviously note cards, probably not really detailed or important. Postmarked from L.A., Sunnydale, even an odd letter of two here in England. Letters from Wesley, Willow Rosenberg, a thick particularly fine envelope that was probably a birthday card from Dawn. Other cards from Giles and Xander.

Buffy’s mail. Words from the outside. Things that came between the moments he shared with Buffy now.

Angel shrugged, and the letters met their fate in the fire with the other junk mail. The edges of the paper blackened and curled, and the outside interferences where eaten away by hungry dragon’s tongues, falling against the grate in fine ash. He smiled softly, satisfied, and shut the office door behind him.

Saint Patrick’s Day 2009
Somewhere between Edenscroft and London
About 3:30 a.m.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” Angel thought there were few things lovelier than his beloved in her evening dress beside him as a hired chauffeur drove them back home from an elegant supper at the Lincolnsfeldt Hotel and an ice show.

Buffy shone like a star against the dark supple leather interior of his cherished custom-designed Cadillac. Her evening gown was a simply cut, beautifully fitted jade green silk jersey slipdress that flowed smoothly over her body, molding her delicate curves. The crescent-cut slit stopped barely short of her right hip. Angel had given her a glorious white mink cape lined in jade silk and at first Buffy had demurred the decadent gift. A true socially conscious California girl, Buffy had always subscribed to the “Animals are for loving NOT wearing” slogan. But English winter and Angel’s touch as he draped the rich warmth over her nearly bare shoulders had induced her conscience to compromise and she was genuinely thankful for the indulgent comfort of the lofty furs .

She smiled at her lover contentedly. “It’s just dreamy.” She spoke softly, almost breathily. The hint of smile deepened to reveal her pearly teeth. “Although it was a little intimidating to have a lot of fine young things dressed in bustiers strutting their stuff in font of you.”

Angel laughed heartily, a rare sound filled with even rarer true mirth. Buffy had a slightly prudish streak he found absolutely charming. In private she was free, deliciously uninhibited with Angel and responsive to his desires. In public, though, she became more conservative. Angel liked it, it lent her dignity. He wondered when her confidence in their future, their belonging together, would ease the tension in her hands when he held and kissed them in public and allow her to relax against him when he slid his arm across her upper back to guide her to their car, their table at a gourmet restaurant, their private box at a theater.

“There were a lot of those, weren’t there?” he asked when he finished laughing.

Buffy shrugged slightly and her smile covered her teeth again. “Well, it was ‘Moulin Rouge Glace.’ I think Baz would’ve pretty proud of that cleavage factor.”

The corner of Angel’s mouth tilted upwards at the Slayer’s insecurity hidden in humour. D’you think they’ve got anything on you? He cast a hungry glance over Buffy. Her hair was swept up in some wonderfully messy style that looked like it would come undone at any moment and left sun kissed tendrils waving around her face. Bedroom hair, soft and touchable. The silvery white mink lent an ethereal contrast to her clear golden complexion. Buffy’s eyes leaped out towards him even in near-darkness and Angel savoured his perfect night vision. He could see every tint and shade of all the colours that created the soft hazel orbs he loved so well. Washed jade, soft teal, turquoise, light golden brown, mossy green and just a fleck of gold. Faint character lines etched the corners of her eyes, a thread or two of grey insinuated itself in her golden hair. Angel’s eyes hardened, offended by the stray signs of ruthless mortality. Then he relaxed.

They would be gone soon enough.

Buffy stiffened involuntarily and sweat broke out in the hollows of her palms. Angel looked at her so intently, and his hard mouth was tilted into a satisfied smirk. For just a moment, a hint of saffron fire flared in his warm dark eyes. For just a moment, he looked like Angelus.

Her nipples stiffened and rose up, swelling against the silk and she licked her lips warily. She almost shrank away as the incredibly sensuous handsome man turned on his side and leaned closer towards her.

“I love you,” he told her. “I love you so much, Buffy.” His voice was husky, pure and deep. He leaned closer to softly kiss her lips. “I love you more now than I did before.” And it surprised him that it was true. The girl he’d loved, the developing woman, had been precious and wonderful but the woman she’d blossomed into was simply amazing. He picked up his courage and told her what he wanted. “I don’t want to live separately from you anymore. We don’t have to, I want you for my wife.”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss. Slow, tender, consuming heat enveloped them and Buffy sighed in relieved delight. Her arms came up instinctively, not a moment of conscious thought, to embrace her strong beautiful lover. Their lips moulded sensually together, moving to touch different choice spots and spaces, parting to suck and nibble, tongues extending to caress and dance with each other in languorous strokes. Her moan was a plaintive cry that Angel understood immediately and the vampire only glanced at the privacy screen to be sure it was closed before he coaxed her to lie back across the soft-cushioned leather seat and blanketed her body with his.

Edenscroft in Devonshire
about 4:30 a.m.

By the time the driver opened the door for her to slide out of the car, Buffy had tucked her ripped G-string in her tiny evening bag. She could not quite look at the man, certain he smelled the aroma of Angel’s confident and all too successful oral loving. She’d never done it in a car before and she was appalled at how the roomy but still confined space retained her most intimate odor. Angel came round to her solicitously, putting am arm round her and drawing her against him as he handed the driver a generous tip and bid him good night. Buffy leaned her head against Angel’s upper arm and closed her eyes, feigning sleepiness. Angel kissed her lightly, a gentle brush of his mouth on the top of her head and squeezed her in his arms.

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly. “You were wonderful, I want more of you.” His deep caramel voice called fresh honeyed desire to leak from her swollen quim onto her dark gold pubic hair. He chuckled knowingly as she blushed.

“So I get second prize?” She asked huskily, as Angel led her carefully up the wooden steps in the dark. He stopped abruptly and looked down at her.

“What’s first prize?” he asked. She raised her kiss-swollen mouth to his.

“Let me do you,” she whispered provocatively, sweeping her hand over the crotch of his pants.

The door opening put a quick stop to her exploration but Buffy vowed it wasn’t over. She turned to smile at Ephraim.

“You shouldn’t have waited up so late, Ephraim!” she chided kindly. The demon looked at her and smiled politely. For some reason, it didn’t utterly unnerve her to know that he knew exactly what she had been doing with Angel and how she felt about it.

“Actually, ma’am, I didn’t wait up.” He was a bit more soft-spoken than when he was fully awake. He allowed Angel to remove her fur cape and hand it to him, then took it along with Angel’s charcoal cashmere coat. “You have visitors, sir,” he continued steadily.

“Who?” Buffy held onto the small credenza covered with ornately framed photographs as she eased each slim foot out of it’s four-inch spike heel pump. She didn’t see Angel’s mouth tighten and his dark eyes harden.

“Americans, ma’am, come to see you–”

“Buffy?”

She turned towards the formal sitting-room and broke into a delighted exclamation as a pretty lily-skinned woman with huge green eyes stepped out into the foyer.

“Willow? Willow!”

Angel watched calmly as the woman he loved embraced her closest friend. They began the traditional girlfriend’s dance, exclaiming over how nice they both looked and telling each other where they’d just been and what they were doing. Angel glanced past them to the other person he’d smelled when he first came into the house. Tall, compactly muscular, his dark blond hair a little limp, the man stood half out of the parlor, his taciturn expression mirroring the vampire’s.

“Angel,” Wesley Wyndham-Price said quietly. “It’s been a while. You haven’t been easy to reach lately.”

~St. Patrick's Day 2009~
Edenscroft in Devonshire, England
About 7:45 a.m.

“Wow!”

Buffy restrained a giggle. Willow Rosenberg’s wide eyes and awed whisper were ridiculously identical to her reaction years ago when they were still high school students and Buffy had confided to Willow that she wanted to be Angel’s lover.

The last few years had been good to Willow. She’d grown taller and a little bit plump. But it was a sexy rubenesque type plump, Buffy decided, it really worked for her. It had been the hardest challenge in Willow’s life to overcome her inhibitions to master the powerful reserves of magick contained within her. Years and tears and very real fear had gone into making a quietly self-assured woman strolling idly beside Buffy this morning.

“So, for once–“ Willow skirted a clump of weeds and the deep fringe on her long leather buckskin skirt danced over her muddy boot-tops. “We get a happy ending?”

Buffy shrugged her shoulders and folded her arms. “I dunno. It feels that way but...” Her voice trailed off and she looked all around at the natural beauty surrounding them. The days were warming up a bit and the pond seemed radiant, beautifully dappled with reflected sunlight and fluffy white clouds. The mossy banks of the pond showed a hint of green, a harbinger of springtime. Behind them, the apple orchard seemed to hum with its eagerness to blossom and bloom. A few trees already boasted early buds and glossy green leaves.

“But what?” Willow asked. Buffy sighed.

“It’s too good to be true, Will! I mean,” Buffy gestured at the grounds. “Look at all of this.”

“I’m looking. I’ve been looking, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful place–of course, you’ve been to Heaven and all, so maybe this doesn’t quite–”

“It’s amazing,” Buffy stated plainly. “Perfectly amazing. You know, I used to think I could never love Angel any more than I already did!” Willow watched Buffy’s mouth work emotionally. “But I was wrong about that. What we had before was hot, deep, and it was desperate because we always knew there was someone or something right behind us wanting us dead. It was exciting. Now–” Her voice quavered. “It’s like our love just pours out for each other and it’s more real, more intense, more everything!”

Willow nodded encouragingly for Buffy to complete her thought. “That sounds incredible,” she said.

Buffy nodded while she smoothed some windblown strands of hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ears before she went on. “But there’s still so much we don’t know! Nothing’s really changed. I’m still the Slayer, no matter what. And Angel has a life–heck, he’s got an adult delinquent son I haven’t even met yet!” But I doubt I’ll like the little prick, he sank Angel to the bottom of the ocean! Buffy sighed frustratedly. “And my job–I really love it! I know it’s nothing fancy like yours, big guns in technical for a big guns computer company–”

“Oh Buffy!”

“But I feel like I do a lot of good working with those kids. There’s more to my life besides hunting and slaying now.” She looked away from Willow now. “Angel doesn’t understand that, he just wants us to be together no matter what. He just wants me to be here for him–Mrs. Angel.”

“And you don’t want that?” Willow asked softly.

Buffy shrugged miserably. “I did.” When I was younger and I was so lonely and my asshole father didn’t give a damn if he missed my birthday. All I saw was Angel, and he was everything...

Willow stiffened and she felt the skin crawl on the back of her neck as she asked, “Are you not in love with him anymore?”

Buffy barked laughter. “If I wasn’t, everything would be so much easier.” She frowned when Willow shook her head violently. “What?”

“There’s something you need to know about Angel. And the curse.”

†

Wesley met Angel’s eyes tiredly. Los Angeles time was eight hours behind British time and he wanted nothing more than a quick shower and a comfortable bed. Still, he managed to stand his ground as he faced the vampire he thought of as a friend and mentor.

“How could you do something like this to a woman you love?” he asked. “Have you thought about her needs at all?”

Angel turned ice-cold obsidian eyes back to him, unblinking. Wesley didn’t flinch. The world he’d chosen to live in as part of his career was dark and Angel no longer intimidated him easily.

“Does she look like she’s suffering?” Angel’s voice was ice chipped by a cold sharp instrument. “Or unhappy?”

“She doesn’t know!” Wesley snapped. “You’ve deliberately kept her ignorant and interfered with her life! You’ve got no right to arbitrarily choose for Buffy! She’s a woman and ought to–”

Angel snarled and the slightest shadow of his demon touched his beautiful human features.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he managed to ask in a gravelly voice.

†

“You’ve broken the curse,” Buffy said stupidly, a little dazed. “And never told me.” Ideas froze in place in her mind as delicious aware flew over her in waves. Angel won’t lose his soul. Angel is free. We’re free. Guilt-laden anvils slid from her shoulders as she realised each smile between them, every soft word and touch, each passionate embrace hadn’t been a risk, loaded Russian roulette threatening to blow away the one man she loved more than anything in her life and leave a cold-blooded gorgeous monster in his place beside her.

Willow shook her head. “I can’t break it,” she insisted. “Or–I dunno–maybe I can and just don’t know how to do it yet.” She plucked a twig from her dark green cable-knit sweater.

The two women walked aimlessly through the orchard, the barest traces of last year’s autumn foliage muckily embedded into the dark fertile soil. Willow thrilled at the excited kinetic energy contained in the orchard. Spring represented possibility and rebirth in the natural order. A lot of power manifested itself in creative processes and Willow’s absorption of magic made her keenly aware of its beauty.

Willow stopped short near an apple tree markedly smaller than its siblings planted round it. It bore a heavily scarred knot very low on its trunk and Willow detected darkness in its aura. The gentle auburn witch placed her hand curiously on the fist-sized knot, then froze in horror.

Buffy frowned. “What’s wrong Will?”

The young tree, only a bit older than a sapling really, shuddered and groaned when the large broad-shouldered man threw a woman–no, a young girl–so hard against it the tree felt the soft cartilage in her slim lengthy nose crush on the tree’s bark. Her wild screech of pain was choked with blood and she grabbed onto the tree for balance, knees trembling from shock and fear.

“What’s wrong Will?” Buffy sounded faded, far away.

The tall heavy-boned man seized the girl by her long hair, ebony black as the nighttime around them, and wrenched her around to face his distorted, bony features and blazing eyes.

“Why were you eating apples, Dru?” His voice was hard, cold, and slightly mocking.

“Because–I’m hungry.” Her reply was thin, watery.

The man–or the creature pretending to be a man, the tree was no longer certain–punched the girl in her belly and she gasped and gurgled, delicate silk slippers sliding in the cool damp soil. He let her fall and turned to the tree, grasping one of its main branches and tugging, ripping–the tree could not believe the creature was a man anymore, a man did not have the strength to do this–until the branch, thicker than a baseball bat, came away in his hand and the exposed splintered flesh of the tree wept sap tears.

The girl saw him coming, her tear-filled eyes wild with mad despair as he lifted the branch aloft. The tree watched in horror as its stolen limb was slammed down across the back of the slender girl and she wailed.

“You don’t eat apples, Dru.” Another blow, hard enough to crush bones, surely, if she were a normal girl. “You know better.” He wielded the branch relentlessly, tearing her dress and the fine alabaster lady’s skin beneath it.

“You drink–and you kill. Or you starve.” Thud! The girl cried out as she was cut by the bark and twigs.

The tree was terror-stricken. Of course men ate apples! What manner of man was this that he forbade the raven-haired girl the nutritious fruit the trees so gladly yielded?

“You obey me, Dru.” Thud! More crying and she hid her face in her hands.

“Yes, Daddy.” She whimpered.

Thud!

“I’m sorry! Please Daddy!”

Thud!

“I won’t eat more apples.”

Thud!

“I promise, Daddy.”

THUD!

“Daddy PLEASE!”

“Willow!”

“Huh?” Willow drew her hand away from the tree and resisted the urge to wipe it on her sweater. Dread surged into her blood from the startling clarity of the tree’s memory.

“What?” Buffy asked impatiently.

“Ummm–this tree is hurt,” she explained nervously. “I can heal it.”

Willow’s skin crept and protested as she lay both hands against the poor little tree and began a quiet meditational ritual, pouring patient loving reassurance into the tree’s aura, willing it to grow, unafraid, and not be ashamed of its apples. The monster who had managed to terrorise the tree would never show itself again. She, Willow, was a powerful magician, and she had made sure of it. She hoped. She sensed the darkness retreating, like a stain fading from the tree’s essence until its aura brightened and grew stronger. Slowly, Willow drew her hands away, then she turned towards Buffy and smiled.

“There! All better now!” she said brightly. I can’t believe I agreed to help Wesley to make things easier for Angel to hold back Angelus so he could be with Buffy one day! I know that technically speaking they’re NOT the same person, but the demon is part of Angel whether he wants it to be or not. We know Angelus is a separate being from Angel, but he’s a distortion of Angel’s personality and characteristics. Somewhere inside him, Angel has the capability of being Angelus if he chose.

“That’s great.” Buffy’s eyebrows rose and she smiled. “Now, could you finish what you were saying about the curse?”

†

“Angel, when Rebecca was able to–er–temporarily revive Angelus by slipping Doximal in your drink, I realised how truly vulnerable you are to the curse placed upon you, and its qualities. I knew something had to be done for your sake and for the rest of us as well.” Wesley sat down heavily in the contoured stiff-backed Victorian easy chair nearest the fire.

Angel snorted bitterly. “And you came up with the perfect solution, didn’t you Wes? For everybody. Except me and Buffy.” His hands rested flat on the desk.

†

“Wesley came to me because he was concerned about Angel. Some woman–one of their clients–slipped Doximal into Angel’s drink and it induced a temporary euphoria on him. It allowed Angelus to manifest and things got pretty dangerous! Cordelia had to bluff him with her drinking water and maneuver him until Wesley could push him down an elevator shaft.” Willow spoke earnestly, hoping she could make Buffy understand.

“Wesley and I couldn’t negate the curse–we didn’t know any other spells that might help restore his soul without a curse clause, some sort of penalty that would negate the curse’s effects. But we did find a spell that could allow me to alter the original curse clause since I was the one who cast the spell that cursed him.” She took a deep breath. “Gee! This orchard is bigger than it looks! I can’t even see the house anymore!”

“Willow.” Buffy’s voice was intent, serious. “How did you change the curse clause? What will take Angel’s soul away?”

Willow took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I never told you, Buffy. Wesley thought it was best if we didn’t tell.”

“Willow!”

“Angel’s soul can only retreat if you ever stop loving him.”

For a moment, all Buffy could do is stare at her best friend in inexpressible shock. If you ever stop loving him...Angel’s soul can only retreat if you ever stop loving him.

Buffy burst into laughter, gales of it rippling out of her spirit and into her body. Willow watched cautiously. Buffy laughed, high-pitched, uncontrollable, a wonderful sound she seldom made so spiritedly. Willow had set them free! Willow had made their love together a possibility. Years ago.

And then she had never told them about it.

†

“Angel, there was no way for me to be sure the adjustment would actually work! But we thought it was worth the effort because you might–eventually–find happiness in many different ways, but Buffy Summers would always love you.” And it had worked. Far better than Wesley could ever imagine.

“I know it, Wes,” Angel chuckled, but there was an angry glint in his eyes. “Don’t I know it? I always felt it, even after she died...”

Wes swallowed. “I’m sorry, Angel, but we had to be sure.”

“Well, be sure now. We love each other.”

“But you can’t take over her life, Angel, she’s the Slayer! She’s an adult!”

“YES I CAN!!!” The vampire stood up, flinging his chair backwards and sending it crashing to the floor. “I’ve already done it, Wesley, with a little help from my less human friends and the information you so kindly mailed Buffy.”

†

“So, you decided to keep it to yourselves in case it didn’t work?” Buffy echoed disbelievingly. “You could have at least told me.”

Willow sucked her lower lip under her teeth. “Buffy, you were trying to make things happen with Riley. I wasn’t sure it would change anything. I knew you loved him, knew you always would. But it didn’t change the fact that you were leading separate lives.”

The witch had to practically skip to keep up with Buffy’s purposeful strides. Something was not right. It was broad daylight and there was no sign of the house or the stone wall that led to the gates opening out to the driveway.

“You didn’t trust us, is that it?” Buffy was trying to keep her temper. “You thought we’d just want to run away and be together forever without a care for the rest of the world?”

Isn’t that what you’ve done? The Slayer’s conscience smote her but she brushed it away.

“I just didn’t want you to be disappointed if I was wrong. And there was only one way to find out it if worked. You and Angel would have to meet. Fall in love with other again. And you did.” Willow stopped trying to keep up with her. “Buffy stop!” she called. “Something’s not right here!”

Buffy turned to face her friend. She was angry, more angry than she could ever remember ever being at anyone.

“What?” she managed to ask bitingly.

Willow sighed sadly. “I think there’s some kind of mojo in the trees, something that keeps us from getting anywhere. We’ve been walking through the orchards too long not to have gotten past them yet.”

Buffy snorted derisively. “And what do you think, it’s just growing longer by itself while we walk through it?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

†

Wesley’s fists tightened. “This–this is kidnaping! White slavery!” he spat.

“Bullshit! I don’t own Buffy, she belongs to me,” Angel declared heatedly. “Just like I belong to her. And you know something? I’m tired! I’m tired of working only to help others and please others and never please myself! I’m tired of knowing that Buffy feels just as incomplete as I do! I don’t care that I can’t offer her an ordinary life! In fact, I don’t want to offer her ordinary life! She’s beyond that! She deserves more than just working a thankless job to even up the status quo between humanity and the demon world–she’s already died twice for it! It’s someone else’s turn!”

“It doesn’t work that way. You know–”

“She’s mine. I let go before, when I didn’t have a choice. I thought there was no hope for us. I’m not giving her up again and you can either help me or get the fuck out of my way because I will kill anybody who tries to stop us this time, soul or no soul!”

“Stop us from what, Angel?”

The vampire turned to face the woman he loved. The bony ridges wavered and receded beneath his skin and the flames in his eyes softened to rich chocolate brown. Buffy stood in the doorway with Willow right behind her.

Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
Saint Patrick's Day afternoon

Ephraim served hot tea decorously, offering all the proper condiments before retreating promptly from the mixture of tension and anger in the room. Angel and his guests remained quiet until the steward bowed politely and left, shutting the the huge double doors behind him with a soft click.

“You've trapped Buffy." Willow stared coldly back at Angel. "You've warded this house and the grounds so that she could never get out of it."

Angel shrugged away the witch's accusation. "The wards are there for protection," he declared quietly.

"Protection from what?" Buffy stared from Willow to Angel, trying to comprehend what was going on. "Angel, the wards make it so that I can never make my way back to the front gates of the house! I can't leave Edenscroft! I can never reach gates. The road just lengthens and I can never quite get there, the trees in the orchard grow deeper and I cant reach the wall."

Angel smiled. "You can, baby, you've left with me. We just went out last night," he reminded her.

Buffy swallowed. "But what if I want to go out by myself?" she asked slowly. "What if I want to go out with Willow today?"

"I don't want you going out unless I'm there to help protect you." Angel shook his head as he spoke.

Buffy stared at Angel. "I can protect myself, Angel." You know that! The reproach hung, unspoken, in the atmosphere of the house's large cold "formal parlor." It was by far more ornately decorated than the informal room where she and Angel had spent so many peaceful evenings toasting bread over a hot fire, talking, loving, and Ephraim brought Buffy cups of that wonderful freshly mulled cranberry juice. With its stylised black marble fireplace carved on either side with a gryphon and a well-polished cedar display case for Angel's cherished collection of bladed weapons, the parlor lacked warmth and friendliness.

"I know you can, Buffy." Angel smiled patiently. "But you don't have to here. This is a place for us, a nest for us. A place where nothing bad can ever touch you."

Buffy turned to Willow. The lovely red-head sat primly beside Wesley Wyndham-Pryce in an antique loveseat covered in burgundy brocade. Her large green eyes were heavy with anxiety.

"Angel," Buffy finally said. "You have to release the wards! I can't leave Edenscroft unless you do!"

"But you don't want to and I don't want you to!" Angel declared. "Admit it, nothing has ever been so good for us since we've been here!"

Buffy swallowed. Angel looked edgy to her. A hard lilt flavored some of his words, a harsh trace of Irish accent.. She wanted to go put her arms around him and kiss his face, love away the hardness. She crossed the room halfway and stopped several feet away from Angel.

"Everything has been good, Angel." Part of her agreed with everything he said. Edenscroft was a beautiful place and it was safe and seperate from Buffy's regular world. Nothing dark or violent or ugly happened at Edenscroft. Only peace, beauty, comfort, and love happened. Until now.

"What kind of ward did you use?" Willow spoke coldly. Angel didn't remember her being this cold to him even after they first met again when she'd restored his soul. The vampire felt a brief intense pang of regret. Willow had been a friend to him. She'd never given up hope of saving his soul so that he could be free and Buffy and he could be together. It was a bizarre outcome that her efforts to create that result were successful and she didn't care for the consequences.

Angel met her eyes evenly, unblinking, and gave her the truth. "Amor-Veritas," he replied. "Voluntary. Eternium."

He smiled slyly as Willow's ivory skin paled until it looked like smooth skimmed milk. Her large green eyes flared with outraged respect for his ability and his forethought.

In the back of Buffy's mind, Angelus's mocking remarks in her dream reminded her: “Buffy! Buffy! Buffy! You’d better work on making me happier if you want any happiness for yourself...I didn’t know the bastard had it in him...All I can say is this is a really soulful love, Buffy!...You’ve gotta learn to get along better with me...I’m part of something you love. And if he’s not happy, I’m not happy...I’m selfish, too. Sometimes I want you all to myself...”

The Slayer felt her heart sink and ice glazed the inside of her stomach. This wasn't Angelus standing before her and stubbornly declaring there was no need for her to leave his home without him. This wasn't Angelus taking away her choice to stay with him or go home. They were qualities and characteristics more pronounced in Angelus and Angelus would have probably taken more joy in shutting her up in a cage instead of a beautiful manor in England. But this was still Angel, the love of her life, the only man she'd ever loved with everything she had.

She still loved him, even though he'd done this. Another voice--Faith, the rogue Slayer who'd been her friend brieffly--accused her: I bet a part of you dug 'im even when he went bad.

"What does that mean?" She found the courage to ask her best friend.

Willow spoke softly. “You went with him–of your own free will. You entered this house at his invitation. Willingly. That activated the wards.” She sounded like the words would choke her.

“I didn’t know he’d planned to trap me here when I came with him!” Buffy brushed one hand through her hair tiredly. She had thought it was so sweet when Angel had first brought her to Edenscroft and faced her to ask her softly, “Do you want to come in with me, Buffy?” It had seemed so courtly and old-worldly in its way. She’d smiled to him, her heart on her lips, reached for his outstretched hand and he’d pulled her into his arms for a fierce hug. “How was I supposed to know that?” she insisted. She felt uneasy and a little angry with Willow's coolness. Didn't she understand how serious the situation was?

“Once you accepted him, the wards were active,” Wesley told her. He was dispassionate, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. “They won't dissipate until Angel chooses to de-activate them. Or until you die.”

Buffy hugged herself in her folded arms, not liking the finality in her former Watcher’s voice. She strolled idly around the huge sitting-room and gazed blankly at the display of fabulous wealth around her: the carved cathedral ceiling and the marble bust of Caesar Augustus on the piano, the Ming vase on a small decorative table covered with a brightly-patterned Indian shawl. She’d always suspected Angel had more funds than he chose to reveal, but she’d never imagined he was this rich. He’d told her casually one day that he hadn’t been to the house in years but his demonic caretaker, Ephraim, had looked out for everything since the 1860's after he’d made Drusilla.

Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She wondered how many people had fallen victims to vampires while she was trapped in this veritable palace, her every whim catered to, the man of her dreams covering her naked body every night with all manners of pleasure in lovemaking while he whispered lovingly to her.

”You are my soul.”

“They’ll never stop working,” Willow declared sadly. “Angel bound the ward for eternity--based upon--" Willow's face soured as though her words tasted bad. "It's based upon your sincerity when you entered. Your--desire to be with him. Your love."

"Angel," Buffy whispered.

Angel felt his heart contract at the blankness in Buffy's face. Her rich-coloured eyes filled with disappointment and betrayal from the one hand she never expected to deal it. The vampire felt honest resentment stir within him. He didn't want to hurt her. Why couldn't she understand? He had a duty to take care of her and he loved her.

Abruptly, he turned towards Wesley, sitting stiff as a poker beside Willow, his face a study of cautious censure.

"Tell her the rest of it," he ordered his old friend.

Wesley's censure darkened into honest anger. He remained calm. Although he'd never expected this day to come--a day when he and Angel would be on different sides--the former Watcher had learned a long time ago that expecting the unexpected was a healthy thing when one's chosen profession involved the supernatural. For better or worse, the hand had been played out and Angel had the winning cards. All of them had gambled on the one thing they absolutely believed in, that Angel and Buffy would always love each other. He wondered what history would make of this, a vampire with a soul allied with the cause of good driven to an evil--or at least an amoral act--using the purest and most powerful emotional energy that existed.

Slowly, Wesley reached for his slim attache case and opened it.

“The Watcher's Council has agreed you've served actively long enough, Buffy, they approved your retirement earlier last month." Buffy stopped pacing and turned her soft hazel eyes upon him.

“What?” she asked stupidly.

The Englishman could not quite meet her eyes squarely. “The Watcher’s Council made arrangements to release Faith from prison when--when we first understood the nature of your connection to Angel. "She is active Slayer at the Hellmouth.”

Buffy’s heart thumped into her stomach. Since last Christmas Angel had made her the center of his life. At first, it had been wonderful but Buffy had slowly come to realise that, while her heart and body clamored for her vampire lover, her mind was not as accepting of him as she had thought it would be. Much as she had eaten up the faerie-tale wonder of this romantic interlude with her only love, Buffy had anticpated returning to her regular life, her duties as a Slayer, a job that truly fulfilled her, and the comfort of her friends and family.

Now, Angel had complete control over her. She would never lack material goods and service, and she would never lack love. Only freedom.

“I can’t stay here!” Buffy insisted. Her voice rose and she scowled at Willow. “What the Hell is wrong with you people? Get in gear and do serious research before some major ickiness ends up happening and I'm not able to stop it! I have a job to do, I can’t spend the rest of my life catering to Angel! Even if I really wanted that, I'm the Slayer, I have a sacred duty!" Buffy tapped her chest vigorously. "Destiny Girl, remember?”

“Buffy,” Willow told her tremulously, her soft white hands trembling as she sipped a Lennox cup of darjeeling tea. It was disturbing to see how agitated her friend was becoming. “Angel is a part of you now. He always was. If you leave him he could revert to Angelus again. Lose his soul. And there'd be no way to get him back.” Buffy’s eyes hardened into steel. “I can't counteract my own magic. The only way you could free yourself of the wards would be--"

"To hate him?" Buffy asked crudely. At this point, that might not be too hard!

Willow shook her head. “Hatred's only another side of the coin, an extremely passionate emotion," she explained. To the witch's surprise, Buffy nodded her understanding. "To be free of the wards you would have to feel nothing for Angel. Just indifference, no love or hate."

And that would break his heart. He's obsessed, never loved anybody else in over 200 years and doesn't want to try. And you've never loved anybody else and never wanted to. Your fate is sealed. If his heart is broken, if you ever stop loving him...

Buffy’s eyes widened and terrified lightning struck her mind. I can’t stay here! I can’t! This cannot be my life!

Wesley stared dispassionately at the petite blonde. He had never really liked Buffy Summers when he had been her Watcher. Probably because he'd been every bit as arrogant and self-important as she. The qualities one hated in oneself were generally the characteristics one tended to loathe most in others. Now, he felt a sincere wave of pity cover his thoughts.

Poor Buffy, he thought to himself. You've spent over half your life being the center of attention in a dangerous game. The weight of a Slayer's duty wasn't always late nights and gory darkness, some of it was very gratifying attention. When all's said and done, being the center of attention would be hard to give up no matter what the attention was for.

And Angel was desperate, understandably frighteningly so. The vampire had loved the Slayer sincerely in the past, and he certainly loved her now. But that love was shadowed by Angel's consuming desperation to perserve his own humanity. That desperation had made him as ruthless as Angelus had ever been. Every bit as dangerous.

I don't blame you for being afraid...

"There’s something else,” Wesley told her calmly. He was cooly neutral. “I’ve been exploring the relationship between you and Angel further–through your relationship with Spike.”

Buffy frowned at him. “What d’you mean?” she sniffled.

“When Willow completed the resurrection spell to raise you from the dead, you and Spike were able to fight again. Spike could strike you without his chip activating amd causing him pain.” He waited patiently for the reminder to sink in. Buffy nodded tiredly, smoothing the sides of her skirt. “You’re no longer a true human in any sense of the word, Buffy.”

She nodded her aching head and made a negligent waving gesture at his comment. “Tara explained it to me. My cellular structure is slightly altered from a natural human and the chip recognises that.”

Wesley shook his head. “It’s not true, Buffy. Tara did not know your history. You allowed Angel to feed upon you until you nearly died–it was only his quick action and blood transfusions that saved you.”

Buffy stared silently at the silver tea-tray on the coffee table in the middle of the room, waiting for Wesley to finish. She felt whipped and hopeless.

“And you drank blood from Dracula before your death.”

“Not enough to turn a person! He told me so.” Buffy insisted.

“You’ve evolved, Buffy,” Wesley said with more of that frighteningly quiet patience. “Something beyond human and certainly beyond Slayer. Not into a vampire, though, I’m not sure what you actually are or if there’s even another like you in world history. You’ve a Slayer’s genetics and traditionally Slayers are linked to demon origins in some studies. You’ve been bitten, you’ve been fed, and you’ve been resurrected. You’ve changed. Your urges–” He looked away from her now, perhaps a little embarrassed for the woman who had once been his unwilling student. “You hungered for Spike, sexually. No matter how hard you tried to break it off, you were needy, desperate, for sex with him. For intimacy.”

Heat suffused her face, even her eyelids as Buffy recalled some of the things she’d done with Spike when she didn’t even like him. She’d been so ashamed and angry with herself and with him although, in his own selfish, soulless way, Spike had tried to do right by her. And he’d become her friend. Angel growled softly, offended by the reminder that the woman he loved had been with another besides himself.

“It’s Angel you want–need,” the lithe rugged Englishman continued relentlessly. “Spike was as close as you could get to Angel–he carries his blood. You made the most of it, then learned to do without it. But you’ve never been happy, have you? Not until you met Angel again, last Christmas?”

Buffy took a long shuddering breath and the tears finally spilled over her face to trail down her cheeks.

“Make your peace with this life, Buffy,” Wesley advised her. “If getting to know Angel has disappointed you in some ways, learn to bridge those differences. He’s all you’ve got, and you’re all he’s got. Without each other, you’ll always be incomplete. And I do mean always. Your body is not degenerating or ageing. The blood analysis and DNA readings I've secured are showing a growth level and regeneration capacity in you that exceeds even human childhood growth patterns. You may very well live forever–or at least as long as Angel does. If you turn away from him you will always be hungry, wanting whatever you could get that was closest to him. Spike or even Connor...”

But how! she wanted to wail. How can I trust, how can I believe, how can I have faith, when so many people have let me down in the end?

“The only thing that has ever really mattered to Angel was you, Buffy. You were already joined in all the ways a vampire could be joined to a mortal mate. You made love, you fed him. You had a bond.” Wesley spoke quietly and set his teacup on the table.

“No!” Buffy insisted. She looked all around the room for a door to open, a light to flash, an answer that would surely come if she just waited. Her mind reeled at the implications of Wesley's words.

“Even when his son was taken from him, it didn’t break his heart because there was always that corner of hope–that you and he would be together again. One day.”

“No!” I don’t accept that! I cannot accept that! My whole life cannot be about Angel! I cannot be the soul source of all his happiness! How could ANYONE live up to that?

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Wesley fiddled with the smooth seam of the upholstered arm of the loveseat, tracing it with a finger. “If you remain with Angel, as his wife and consort, Angelus may never show himself again. In a way,” Wesley hated himself for adding this but honesty forced him to admit it, "Angel has been protecting both of you by keeping you here."

“NO!” Buffy lunged for the loveseat with incredible speed. Willow’s large eyes widened and she raised her hands defensively as Buffy laid hands on her and hurled her roughly across the room. “I WON’T stay here! I don’ t WANT to stay here!” she screamed as the red-head struck the piano and fell.

Willow rolled onto her side and began to sit up to face Buffy. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and her fair skin faded to a cheesy pallor. Groaning softly, she began to climb to her feet.

Buffy savagely kicked Willow’s supporting leg from under her and the woman fell again, groaning her friend’s name.

“This is NOT my destiny!” Buffy’s face was a rictus of pain and rage. She flushed red and tears streamed down her cheeks. She knelt astride the prone body of her friend and yanked her head up by her elegantly groomed auburn hair. “You HAVE to fix it! Get me OUT!” She delivered an open-handed slap against the girl’s cheek. The ugly sound of flesh cracking cruelly against flesh hard enough to snap the girl's delicate cheekbone seemed to echo in Buffy's throbbing eardrums. “You created this problem, goddammit Willow, FIX IT!!!” she sobbed hysterically.

“Buffy.” Willow said calmly behind her back.

Startled, Buffy turned away from the body she was attacking. Her eyes widened and her jaw sagged as she met Willow’s large green eyes staring down at her, horrified condemnation in them. Willow stood in the open doorway to the room that led out into the main hall of the manor house, her lips smooth and unblemished, every hair in place.

Buffy looked back down on the floor in front of her. There was only empty space. Wesley had risen from his seat and was staring down at her angrily.

Willow thanked the Goddess she had developed enough control over her formidable magical abilities to cast an illusion of herself for Buffy to turn on rather than do something that might have injured Buffy herself. Still, she felt cold terror knotting her stomach at the sight of Buffy physically beating her–an illusion she believed to be her, anyway–and threatening her. In a way, it was every bit as awful as if Buffy had actually struck her personally. Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed hard to force them back. Intellectually, Willow understood what had happened. Buffy was not angry only at her, her reaction was stress and rage and she turned against Willow because it was easier to blame Willow for the choices that had set the dance for everything that had happened.

Willow felt her stomach wrench with years of hurt feelings and frustrated efforts to do right by Buffy Summers. When had Buffy ever been satisfied with anything? she wondered resentfully. No matter the circumstances, it seemed the Slayer was determined never to be happy with her lot. Once, she had hated being the Slayer and Angel was all she had wanted. She'd resented Willow for ressurecting her from the dead because she hadn't wanted to leave Heaven. No matter what I do, what choice I make, I can never do right by you! Willow felt like screaming. And this is NOT my fault! I did NOT tell you to come here with Angel! That was your choice!

“I'm sorry I couldn't do better for you, I tried my best.” Willow heard herself say. "There's nothing else I can do. The rest of it is up to you and Angel." She sobbed, covering her mouth with one hand.

“Willow–“ Buffy began in a small voice.

The witch turned on her heel and left without looking back. Buffy pressed her lips together and her eyes swam with tears. A coughing little sob escaped her body and her heart ached while slimy sickening shame coated her mind like virulent fungus. She glanced up at Wesley, tears reflecting in her eyes like liquid crystal.

“Good luck.” Wesley exited quietly. A moment later, Buffy heard Ephraim showing Wes and Willow out. She sobbed loudly, bitterly, and threw herself against the loveseat her friends had just vacated.

It was only mere seconds before Angel came to her, took her soothingly in his strong arms and crooned softly to her in Gaelic and English while he lavished kisses on her face and stroked her long hair. Angrily she tried to fight him off. She snarled at him, shoved him away at first but her heart lurched at the thought of rejecting Angel and she clung to him, let him draw her into his arms.

"How could you?" she sobbed reproachfully into his chest. "Why wouldn't you tell me before? You know I love you!"

Why do you do this, Angel? Treating me like a child, like I have no right or say in any of this...Just like when you broke up with me before...

"Baby, this isn't about love. It's not that simple.". Angel cradled her shuddering body closely to his and nuzzled her tenderly, softly kissing her wet face. "Every little bit of me wants every little bit of you and I couldn't take the risk that you might say no. This isn't about my loving you, Buffy. This is about our survival."

Buffy nodded against the broad firm comfort of Angel's chest. She felt his anxiety and very real care as his large fingers stroked and petted her silken hair. He didn't want her to suffer; Buffy knew that. He had betrayed her to make their dream--their cherished dream--come true.

And I can't kill him! I can't do it again!

Blind instinct drove the hurt woman to the very being who'd hurt her for comfort and Angel did not fail her. He shushed and petted and crooned and loved her gently, lavishing kisses on the top of her head. Soon, her sobs faded into hiccoughing little noises and then, more tired, she sank into much-needed sleep, her moist cheek pressed against his chest, one hand curled in his shirt.

"Sir?" The steward stood calmly in the doorway, carrying a tray with Buffy's mulled cranberry juice on it. Angel could only imagine what the demon felt from the wild emotions so recently let loose in the house. If he thought less of Angel for his actions it didn't show.

Angel glanced up tiredly at Ephraim. For once he felt every bit of his near 3 centuries of age. "Just put it on the table, please," he said. "She doesn't want it just now--" Angel's voice died away and he felt his eyes moisten.

You're mine at last, baby. All mine. Not exactly the way we wanted but still...

The servant, a born professional, silently set the tray on the nearby table and placed a neatly folded green linen napkin beside the steaming cup. He turned back to face Angel and bowed stiffly. Then he spoke.

"It's love, sir. It's not perfect. Then again, it never is. Good afternoon, sir." The steward turned and walked quietly out of the room, shutting the double doors firmly.

Christmas Eve 2010
~Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England~
8:00 p.m.

’Ave Maria
Gratia Plena
Dominus Tecum
Benedictus Tu...’

“This is the bloodies’ friggin’ unbelievable sight I’ve ever seen,” Spike slurred although, for once, he managed to keep his voice relatively low. Anya met his eyes as she led Buffy towards the altar where Angel awaited her, resplendent in full white-tie. “A vampire married with Catholic hymnals!”

Cordelia didn’t even turn her head to glare at him, she was disgusted that Spike was already drunk when the reception bar wasn’t even open yet. The blonde vampire must have spent the whole day drinking–it generally took a lot of liquor to get a vampire buzzed, much less tipsy.

“Angel was a Catholic once,” she reminded him through gritted teeth.

“Doesn’t she just look lovely?” a female wedding guest marveled. “They make an enchanting couple!”

Enchanting...what a peculiarly appropriate word for it. Although, despite her sour thoughts, Cordelia had to admit the joy on Angel’s face was priceless. She had certainly never made him that happy during their two-year-marriage. It had almost been a relief when they agreed to end it. Now, Cordelia was satisfied that she had done the right thing. She’d never been the settling type and being second choice to a whiny cry-Buffy was definitely settling in her mind.

The central gardens in Edenscroft had been transformed into a winter fantasy world with both witchcraft and wealth. Weather spells to make certain it didn’t snow. Carefully installed hanging heaters under the pavilion canopy to trap a warm pocket of cosiness for the guests before they returned to the house for an elaborate sit-down dinner ball.

It had to be a trick of lighting and the fact that Buffy’s face was covered with a veil as she floated in full skirts towards the great love of her life to knit their souls together legally as well as metaphorically, but Cordelia swore Buffy looked very little changed from the days when she, Cordelia, had lived in Sunnydale over a decade ago. Her thick, lustrous honey-blonde hair flowed in smooth waves down her back beneath the white illusion of her veil. It was really too long to look good on woman nearing thirty but...no...somehow, she looked fresh and perfect.

Her eyes remained fixed ahead, Buffy never swerved or turned away to look at anyone but Angel. She wasn’t smiling and Cordelia frowned at that.

After everything they’ve been through, after all they mean to each other, Buffy should be crying for joy today. she thought to herself.

’..In mulieribus
Et benedictus
Fructus ventre tui, Jesu...’

The local children’s choir was surprisingly professional, the female soloist an incredibly talented thirteen-old-girl with a plain freckled face and large frightened brown eyes. As beautiful as the gift of her voice was she didn’t care for the attention of performing in public.

But I don’t understand, Cordelia wondered. Why Buffy isn’t happier–or more emotional or something.

The lady guest to Cordelia’s right just beamed at her, perfectly lined Chanel classic red-lipsticked mouth spreading to reveal slightly crooked teeth.

“Honey, sometimes, no matter how much a woman loves a man, marriage is just a scary thing. Period, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.” She had a rich Southern accent–Georgian maybe–that Cordelia found oddly soothing even though accented English of any kind usually just annoyed her. Talk American! was her motto.

Cordelia flashed a plastic smile back to the curly-haired lady but her arched brows swooped downward into a confused frown. She hadn’t thought she’d voiced her opinion aloud.

’Sancta Maria,
Sancta Maria,
Maria...’

“Not for thos’ two,” Spike snorted. He watched Anya stand gracefully to one side, clearing the way for the bride to take her place beside her groom. Anya’s smoke-grey velvet gown made her seem almost a shadow in the candlelit semigloom of the altar. Fred smoothed Buffy’s train behind her and stood beside Anya and Buffy handed Anya her rather simple bouquet of miniature blush pink roses. “All they e’er wanted wuz t’be t’gether fore’er wit’out the res’ o’ th’world in their way!”

“Mm Hmm! And now it’s happening!” The charming southern belle agreed. “Fantasies fulfilled can be the scariest thing of all! Imagine getting something you believed you always wanted but never would get?” There was a wealth of satisfaction in her tone.

’Ora pro nobis
Nobis Senza toribus
En hora
En hora mortis nostrae...’

A sharp crystal shard of jealousy pierced Spike’s mind as he watched his old poofy grandsire take Buffy’s hand in a proprietary grip. Buffy’s body sidled nearer to Angel’s so that they touched, a casual intimacy he’d once enjoyed with the Slayer himself. He’d loved Buffy for a time and it'd been awful heartache to get over her.

In a way, though, Spike realised, he’d never loved Buffy more than when they ceased being lovers. Her sexual favours had been aggressive, angry, acts of desperation, equivalent to physical attacks. The blonde vampire had tried so hard to ignore her fierce whimpers when they’d coupled like frantic overheated animals.

”Angel!” And sometimes she’d even cried despairingly, “Angelus!”

It had been good–beyond good, the Slayer’s body was incredibly beautiful, agile, and strong–but a bloke wanted to be liked for himself and all. Specially if he really liked the girl.

’Amen....Amen...’

Spike shook his tipsy head, grabbed a sober second to truly wish Buffy well in his heart.

“Jus’ as well, thos' two can finally be together.” Like they’d always wanted.

~Christmas Eve 2003~
The Wolfram & Hart Christmas Reception at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco...
About 9:15 p.m.

“I wish that bastard never gave up on her. I wish he loved her so much it ate him up inside. I wish nothing ever mattered to him–except her.” Lilah whispered vehemently, coughing vainly to force the lump out of her throat.

The smarmy Lawrence Welk-esque orchestra struck up a spirited Glen Miller medley and James Riordan chasséd back towards their table. He smiled kindly at Sheila but the hand held out to her was imperious.

“I won’t take no for an answer, young lady!”

Sheila glanced at Lilah concernedly and Lilah waved her on with a brittle smile. Business was business and Riordan was an important man. Lilah wanted to go upstairs to her room, anyway. She had to avoid an unsuitable display of public grief. The Senior Partners probably would not approve. Their very nature was predatory, they preyed upon the weak, and grief was a weakness.

Sheila smiled gleamingly, slowly rising from her seat in the corner where she’d been hiding from her little fan club with Lilah. “You’ve got it, honey!” she said cheerily.

Lilah raised her eyebrows as she rose from the damask-cushioned chair. Riordan, a man with shark-like business tactics, grinned widely and guided Sheila ahead of him onto the intimate dance floor.

"Just what're you so enthusiastically agreeing to with Ms. Morgan, youngling?" Riordan asked the curly-haired woman. She glanced sideways at the old fool and smiled charmingly.

"Lilah Morgan is my mentor, I'm a new associate for Wolfram & Hart--at least on a temporary basis. I've got a freelance job that can be awfully demanding at times."

Sheila fondled a small pendant hanging on a simple leather thong around her neck. Riordan peered down at it curiously, pyramid or diamond-shaped with some runic-looking markings on it. It was out of place with her formal attire. Riordan smiled snidely. If she played her cards well with him, he'd send her some pearls.

"Shame on you, young lady!" he scolded mildly. Sheila's eyes widened slightly, all innocence. "This is a holiday party, not a convention! Talk business with Lilah another day!"

He drew her into his arms and they began to dance lightly to the spirited "In the Christmas Mood" music.

"Actually," Sheila flashed him a nearly perfect smile, "I'm glad Lilah brought up this project today. It's a bit complicated--something I'll need to work on long-term before it can actually happen. So the sooner I get started, the better!"

"Innocence Anew"

"I woo'd thee with my sword,
And won thy love, doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key..."

--"A Midsummer Night's Dream" by William Shakespeare

Christmas Morning 2010
Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
Sometime after Midnight..

Making love to Angel is incredible. In every way. When he’s gentle, slow, and worshipful, my body melts for him. If he’s harsh, even cruel or brutal when he handles me I explode like a volcano all around him.

Tonight is no different. A night hasn’t gone by in two full years where he hasn’t touched me, tasted me, made me scream and weep from pleasure. It’s our wedding night and I almost didn’t expect the same excitement we’d always felt before. After all, we’re married now. Truly domesticated. Doesn’t that mean we’re not supposed to want to do it anymore? Don’t I automatically turn into a little old lady knitting socks for him while Angel reads the sports pages?

He helps me with my clothes a little, unzips my gown, unpins my veil. The satin dress with all it’s little underskirts falls away from my body easily, waves of gleaming satin and ruffled tulle and soft illusion crashing into the plush carpet of our bedroom. The ridiculously expensive designer veil is tossed upon my vanity bench and Angel stands back, arms folded across his powerful chest, watching me intently, waiting for me to undress for him.

Angel scares me when he’s like this. I don’t understand why I never recognised how much he and Angelus, his evil un-souled self, are essentially alike. Angel used to watch me and spy on me before we met. Angelus lurked and stalked and watched me all the time. I wonder now why I thought Angel was beyond the things he's done to me in the last two years. He's a man of the eighteenth century, forceful and dominant to his woman. Not cruel, not hateful--it'd be easier for me if he was, then I'd have a reason to hate him. How do you hate a man who wants to do for you what Angel wants to do for me? Keep me, pamper me, love me always. Whether I want it or not. And I do want it, I can't help myself.

I remember the Halloween before my seventeenth birthday, when I got that fabulous magic costume that transformed me into an eighteenth century ninnified lady. I'd wanted it so much--the wide bell-shaped skirt and low ruffled neckline, the high pompadour wig with pretty ringlets hanging over one shoulder. I'd wanted to look more like a lady from Angel's time. I'd thought that would impress my boyfriend.

Angel had laughed at me and called me silly. He said the girls from his time were boring, he'd always wanted to meet someone interesting. Like me.

But I know now that I misunderstood Angel. I don't think he lied to me at all. I think the women of his living era probably did bore him, and maybe he did want to meet someone more interesting, but he definitely wanted to marry a woman from his living era. A dainty, pampered girl he could spoil and pamper and make love to. His wife shouldn't work since he can easily afford to support her. His wife definitely should not have to slay demons and ugly things that go bump in the night. Like any modern man, Angel confused what he liked and what he wanted. Go figure!

He isn't ashamed, doesn't feel the least bit guilty for keeping me at Edenscroft. In his mind, I'm his wife and he has the right to make my choices for me. Any choices.

I wish I had studied history more instead of relying on Willow to help me cram enough to pass exams and get by.

I wish I'd realised that being the Slayer was more important to me than being Angel's girl.

I thought I was locked into slaying, had to do it. I didn't realised that I had an instinctive need to want to do it. They say Faith is holding the Hell Mouth together quite well these days. Giles is always nervous when we talk about it. I can't imagine how he must feel, what a position he's in. He's one of my best friends, my trainer, my Watcher. He knows me, the real me, and he knows I don't really want what's happened between Angel and me. He also knows if I turn away from Angel, take my heart away from him, we lose him for good. Angelus comes back forever. Willow can't curse him again--no witch can overide her own magic. Faith isn't bothered by this--she's always been a better Slayer than I am, she was true to her killer instinct even if she let it get the best of her for a while. She'd kill Angelus in a heartbeat and go home whistling Dixie afterwards.

Sometimes, I wish I'd never forced Angel to drink me up when Faith shot that poisoned arrow into his body. If he'd died, I'd still love him as my romantic ideal, my first love...

But my love is here with me now, bound to me through legal paperwork as well as a soulful love and a dangerous curse, and his thick brow has shot up impatiently because I'm still dressed.

It excites Angel to watch me step out of my shoes and remove my underthings while he’s fully dressed. It makes me feel cheapened somehow.

And, dammit, he’s gorgeous in his tux and tails! They fit him perfectly, moulding to his whipcord muscles where it needs to and gliding neatly over everything else.

But he’s most beautiful wearing nothing at all.

I’m still in love with him, in spite of everything. Even when he scares me. I’ve always loved him. I always will.

I reach for the heavy emerald necklace he gave me this afternoon.

“Leave it.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the small alcove outside my supersized Byzantine bathroom. I feel my breath hitch in the top of my throat as I see the impossible.

The alcove is my dressing-room and Angel designed it with mirrors on all four walls. There’s still enough power shopper in me to appreciate a room like this, with perfect lighting and great mirrors extending from the ceiling to the floor so that I see how my outfits look from every angle and if they work with my shoes.

But it’s what I see in the mirrors that is amazing, beautiful–and impossible.

I see myself, totally naked and even now I’m a little afraid of that. It’s childish, foolish. Angel tells me I should love my body, that I’m beautiful, perfect. I don’t know why it scares me to look at myself. I work out, try to eat right, yadda-yadda-yadda. I think what really bothers me is the change–I mean, the abnormal change.

Since I’ve lived with Angel, I haven’t changed at all. My body is every bit the same as it was when he first invited me to Edenscroft. My hair grows, my nails grow. But my body weight and body fat analysis haven’t altered the slightest bit. No matter how hard I work out, my muscle bulk doesn’t increase. The character lines in the corners of my eyes haven’t deepened, and I think they might even be fading, disappearing. And my face is getting rounder, not fat, just the childishly rounded contours of my middle teenage years. When Angel first saw me and loved me.

I don’t want to think about this! I don’t want to! I don’t want to think about how happy Angel’s been, how I only seem to grow closer to him, almost read his thoughts at times, and the rest of the world and the rest of my life is fading further and further away until it almost isn't real!. I don’t want to wonder why I eat less grain and more meat than I ever have in my life. And the cranberry juice–the fresh chilled glasses Ephraim brings to me every day, so cooly wet and delicious and red...I think I know what it means...

The truly amazing thing is that my reflection doesn’t stand alone in the mirrors surrounding us. Behind me is my love–my new husband. His reflection is as stunning as his reality. I drink in his features greedily, my eyes wide. Squarish masculine jaw, the firm hollow of each high-placed cheekbone, thin cruel, hard-looking lips and sharp, beautifully even white teeth. His nose is too wide for him to be conventionally handsome, maybe, but I don’t care, he’s too beautiful for convention. The prominent brow over deep-set eyes that say so much–deep, rich, the colour of steaming espresso, a perfect match to his thick wavy hair. I’ve seen those eyes so tender and full of emotion it made me cry. I’ve seen those same eyes, dead and merciless as a shark’s seeking my blood.

“Angel.” I can’t keep the wonder from my voice. “Wh-what is it?” I reach out to touch his reflection and I see his face contort, work in pleasure as though I’d actually touched him. Somehow, I feel less lonely.

“These mirrors are blessed,” he whispers in a husky mellow voice while he bends over me to press a hot kiss on the spot directly behind my ear. I stare, incredulous, as his reflection kisses mine. “They reflect the soul–no matter what vessel it’s in.”

“Angel...”

His hands travel the sides of my body, rising to cup my breasts and I gasp when I realise how aroused I already am. His fingers swirl over my nipples, racing them into tense peaks that tingle and ache. How to describe the idiotic joy I feel when I see his reflection teasing me? How can a simple thing, such as a reflection, make him more real than he was a moment ago?

He jerks me around hastily, gently pushing me until I’m leaning back slightly against the cold marble lavatory. It’s cold and solid, hard on my ass and I brace myself with my hands when he drops to his knees in front of me.

“Watch me love you,” he orders, spreading my thighs.

I watch him at first, still marvelling that he’s real, that I can see him in the mirror–his soul opening my legs and kissing me, licking me, fingers wandering inside me until I can’t watch anymore. It feels too good and I’m trembling, gripping the hard smooth marble of the lavatory and little unintelligible noises come out of me. I want to beg for more, I want pleasure, and I’m also afraid because we’ve never done this, I’ve never been able to see him make love to me in a mirror before so I want to stop.

“Please!”

He glances up at me and smiles, sensing my apprehension. Instead of stopping, though, it only spurs him forward. Angel is a predator and fear excites him. He lashes my clitoris with his tongue, skilled and sure of his touch and its effect on me. I feel myself melting and getting wetter as he traces every bit of my labia and his fingers continue a regular stroke within me.

“Angel!”

“Lover!”

“PLEASE!!!”

I explode against his face, his tongue so insistent against my clit, my inner muscles grasping convulsively at his fingers, searching for the thickness of Angel’s cock. He kisses me harder, more deeply, penetrating me with his tongue to lap up my secretions. Firm swipes of his tongue against my inflamed tissues.

I can’t stay still-can’t–Oh god, ANGEL!

My knees buckle and he’s right there, holding me gently while I weep because this feels too good. Every time I think there’s nothing left for him to teach me, nothing that will make my fire burn hotter, he proves me wrong. He’s my lover, my husband. My soul mate. I belong to him, he told me so once, before he brought me here.

He seats me on the cold marble and I gasp from the cold smoothness against my burning skin. He’s smiling, tender and cocksure, pleased with his prowess just like any man would be. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s just made me come twice when he hasn’t even taken his clothes off.

But they’re coming off now. I’m gripping his coat and forcing it off his shoulders, tugging the sleeves down his arms. The white tie, cuff links, waistcoat, suspenders...All of it, gone, some of it not in one piece. I break the buttons on his pants and force the fabric off his hips along with his silk undershorts.

His cock springs free, the hard uncircumcised tip already slightly moist and I feel calmer, knowing he’s just as hot as I am. He points upward proudly, a thick column of flesh tumescent with hunger for the heat of my body. My labia are slippery against the marble sink top. I smell musky and I detect Angel’s scent, more subtle than mine, but profound to me, like a precious memory of a beautiful day.

I want him so badly! I love him. I always have.

I squeal as he bends his head to taste my breast, kissing the hardened tip and nuzzling, suckling hungrily as I cradle his head against me, closing my eyes to savor the softness of his perfectly smooth skin, his silky hair on my flesh. His fingers roam over me, constantly exploring and rediscovering places on my flesh that his touch can make me moan or arch my back and sob his name. Now he licks my other breast, flicking the nipple playfully with his tongue before he kisses a path up my throat to my mouth and we kiss like old lovers who miss each other terribly.

He lifts me easily from the tabletop, one hand under each of my rear cheeks, gripping me firmly and pulling me against him. Instinctively, my legs curl over his hips to cling to him. My arms hug him around his neck tightly

“Buffy,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

I glance from the fantastically erotic picture of our reflection to meet his eyes. He’s dark, filled with passion, but also very serious. My sex is spread and pouting for him, weeping honey drops onto my pubic hair.

“Tonight is new–completely new,” he explained. He smiles, a soft curl in one corner of his mouth at my confusion. “Your new emerald–it’s for fidelity, it makes you new for me tonight.”

“I don’t underst–”

He thrusts up hard into me and I scream at the sudden ripping sensation as his body pierces mine. I sob, not just with passion though I still feel plenty.

“Angel!”

He lowers himself to his knees, never releasing his hold on me. My stretched torn body clings to his invading cock and his scent mingles with mine. I’m crying, can’t stop it, it hurts terribly.

Just as much as it hurt the first time we ever did it. I wish he'd warned me. I understand it though, making me new for him, making this loving our first. It's his old-fashioned ego, not wanting there to have been others besides himself. Tonight, we start over. From tonight onwards, I'm only for him. He doesn't have to share me with the world. I don't have to slay. Wes, Cordy, and Gunn are way on top of Angel Investigations, he's hardly needed anymore. He gave up the hotel project and left it in his partner's hands.

This is what obsession is. This is what it does to people. This is why neither Angel or I could never really let go of what we felt years ago. Obsession is when nothing in the world matters but what you want to be true. This is our truth.

He is soothing me, loving me, kissing my tears and crooning odd comforting words to me, waiting for me to stop trembling and clenching against him, waiting for me to relax and accept him.

I’m bleeding. Angel’s demonic features are gliding through his human beauty, enticed by my smell. I touch and kiss his face tenderly, rub my cheek against his.

I love you so much–both of you...I always have...

Now his teeth pierce my throat and I groan with that new pleasure. I've never forgotten the joy it gave me to feed him, the wild euphoria of that intimacy, just another form of making love. Exquisite, painful, beautiful. An act of sacrament because it's Angel taking me, my blood and my sex.

His hips ride up against me and I tighten my thighs over him to press back. Tenderness in his flashing dark eyes as he licks his lips, not the most comfortable position for virginal intercourse but deliciously intimate. I watch his eyes darken and bleed golden, then darken again.

“Buffy!” he growls against my mouth.

“Lover!” I cry hoarsely.

I rock against him, riding his thrusts, our eyes locked to each other's as we pound our bodies together. Friction, heat, hunger, pleasure, pain. His cock is steel covered in padded silk rushing through my body. My hair falls around us, sweeping over his hands and caressing my spine. I score Angel’s broad strong back with my nails and he roars, thrusting up so hard he hits my womb.

Curious, I glance at our reflection to my right. The woman I see is wild, not someone I ever thought of myself as being. I look like I'm seventeen again, but my eyes are blazing in passion, my mouth swollen and still reaching up for more hard kisses. I think I look like a porn actress. I've been so intimate with Angel, done things I never imagined I'd do with anyone. I've swallowed his cum and loved him while I did it. I've lain on my belly and taken him in my ass and every damn time I've been so afraid that I wasn't ready, relaxed enough, that Angel would rip me in half. I always whimper and struggle a little because he likes to grip my hips and seduce me into that particular loving, guiding me slowly and building momentum until the climax rips through us both. Nice girls don't like this kind of thing. I didn't know I had it in me to be this kind of woman. I didn't know I could be wild and like it. Wild is supposed to be dangerous.

I wonder if Angel knew I was wild when he chose me. Does he love me more for it, since it makes me a better match for him, or does it disgust him?

He rises, incredibly without breaking the pattern of his strokes, and manages to carry me to our waiting bed. I can’t help sighing in relief when he settles me flat on my back, adjusting the depth he can drive into my body. I cup his face in my hands, reach up to kiss him on the mouth.

I rock back up to meet his thrusts and his pubic bone pounds the sensitive knot of my clit.

“Angel–I–God!–I love you!” I scream as I come for him, my inner folds working magic to cling to him and spill hot wetness all over the both of us. His game features morph over again and I moan weakly, helpless with pleasure. My insides are throbbing, wave after wave of burning spasms.

I’m not lying. I do love him. More than anything or anybody.

His fingers have taloned edges and he rips a deep wound above his left nipple. The smell of Angel's blood is incredibly sweetly wild to me. I don't know how he lived near me and interacted with me day in and day out if my blood smelled half so hot and enticing to him.

"Drink." His voice is soft and velvety deep, I feel it all over as I sit up and lean against his powerful body. He clenches all over, muscles rippling as if an electric current made them react, and gives an amazing sigh as I flick the tip of my tongue on his nipple, catching the stream of warm life above it. Angel's life, my life.

"My love." I smell his tears. He is so happy! I love you too, Angel, I always wanted to make you happy, baby.

"You are my soul." My heart clenches and sings.

I’m not sorry I belong to him now, that I’m part of his world forever.

I don’t even resent him for taking my old life away from me. Not anymore.

But I still miss it. I always will...

The End

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