January 1999

The door of an upper bedroom in the old Crawford mansion gave a satisfying slam as Angel vented his frustration on the house that had become his tomb. Five thousand square feet of living space had failed to turn up anything that might qualify as an adequate birthday present for the girl who was his salvation. The vampire clutched at the banister, his fingers digging deep scratches in the wood railing as he brooded over the cold and empty great room.

He couldn't go out and shop for an appropriate gift. It would be several more hours before sundown, and Buffy would be here by then. Not for the first time since his return from Hell, Angel questioned his decision to settle in this particular property. Why had he chosen a place so far from the nearest sewer access? He tried to think back to his reasoning last year. He supposed that in his soulless state he had been less concerned about practicality than about the number of rooms in which he could have his way with Drusilla.

He sighed. This really wouldn't have been a problem if he had just remembered Buffy's birthday a few days earlier. He would have had plenty of time to find something. But when you had been undead for two whole centuries, you tended to forget about little things like birthdays that seemed so important in a human's frail, short life.

Spike never forgot, a treacherous little voice in his head reminded him. The younger vampire may not have celebrated birthdays, but he had always made a big event of his anniversary with Drusilla. Every year on the date of his siring, he would pamper the madwoman with rose petal baths and sensual massages. These gestures would be followed by a showering of expensive stolen dresses and fine jewelry, liberally supplemented with the choicest victims to sate her hunger.

However, romance had never been a big part of Angel's life. Of course, he understood the basics. After all, the only human holiday he had ever bothered to celebrate was Valentine's Day. But his observance of it had always been about depraved displays meant to mock the romantic gestures of human couples. And his relationship with Darla had never been more than mutual lust. The two had always abandoned one another whenever danger had reared its ugly head.

No. Human or vampire, soulless or soulful, Angel had never found a woman worth the effort of romancing until Buffy had come along.

Now his history of perverting romantic gestures had left him with few options for giving the love of his life a meaningful gift. He couldn't give her chocolates. He didn't keep any at the mansion. Besides, he needed something that spoke to their relationship. Roses were also out of the question. Angel shuddered as he remembered the black-ribboned bouquet he had left on her doorstep last year. Before his soulless stint, he might have considered drawing her a picture. He had some skill with a pencil and he'd always been an artist at heart. But now Buffy had seen the dark side of his artistry-how it influenced his kills. And she had probably received enough of his sketches to last her a lifetime.

Frustrated, Angel pushed away from the banister and stomped resolutely down the hallway. There had to be something romantic in this house that hadn't been poisoned by the events of last spring. He stopped hesitantly in front of a large set of double doors. He hadn't stepped foot inside the master bedroom since his return, ashamed of the memories of the time he had spent with Dru in its spacious interior. But now Angel had no choice. He had searched every other room in the house.

Slowly he pushed open the doors. The room was even larger than he remembered. The bulk of it was dominated by a huge wrought-iron bed, its sheets still rumpled from hours of lovemaking. Opposite the bed was a heavy fireplace clad in Italian marble. The back of the room curved into a massive bay window, a chaise positioned haphazardly beneath the heavy blackout curtains. To his immediate left was an open door leading to the bathroom. Peering into it, Angel could see that Drusilla's dresses were still scattered on the floor where he'd torn them off her body several months earlier.

Shameful memories threatened to overwhelm him. So much had happened since last May, but here in this room his betrayal of Buffy seemed like only yesterday. Angel retreated back to the threshold, sickened by the reminders of what he had done. But just as he was turning to flee, something caught his eye.

He shuffled reluctantly toward the fireplace and picked up the small familiar volume sitting on the mantle.

Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

As he fingered the book's yellowed pages, an idea began to take shape in Angel's head. Poetry was romantic, wasn't it? Most girls seemed to love it. Or at least, they loved men who loved it. Poetry made men seem mysterious and sensitive and deep. When they had first met, Buffy had thought those things about him. Maybe if he gave her something like this, Angel could recapture some of those feelings that had been lost on her last birthday.

He hesitated for a moment. Technically, this little book had been tainted by his time as Angelus just as much as bouquets of roses. But Buffy didn't know that. He flipped through the pages and frowned. The original owner had written on several pages, underlining verses and writing comments in the margins. He'd even written some short verses of his own.

Clearly, Angel was going to have to personalize the book in some way. But how? He wandered over to the bed and sat on it, reaching for the pen he knew he would find in the side table drawer.

He could write something of his own on the first page. But would Buffy notice the difference in handwriting? He didn't think so. To his eyes, his own eighteenth-century script differed significantly from the nineteenth century scrawl in the margins, but he doubted Buffy would see the difference. It would probably all look equally sophisticated to a Valley Girl like her.

But what to write?

Angel's hand remained poised over the book, his brain struggling to come up with something special. "Happy Birthday" and "I Love You" seemed too generic. He could write her a note, but words didn't come easily to him. He needed something short and pithy. Something powerful.

Angel's eyes wandered about the room as he considered his options. Once again, something small caught his attention, sitting on the chaise across the room. It was a box of sweethearts, probably one of Spike's attempts to bribe Drusilla to come back to him. Dru had shared the runt's predilection for human food but tended to prefer sweet things to spicy ones. He picked up the box and spilled the contents across the floor.

"Be Mine." No, too possessive.

"Hug Me." Too needy.

"You're Fine." Underwhelming.

"Moonbeam." Ridiculous.

"Always."

Angel paused. That had a nice ring to it.

He smiled and added the word to the title page with a flourish. Now all he had to do was find something to wrap the book in before Buffy stopped by during nightly patrol. He left the room in light spirits. The poetry book was a good idea. He just knew it. After all, it had worked once before…