VI
Hours, minutes, seconds: he had no way of knowing how long he'd been totally out of himself. Totally. And he was shocked to discover that, when he was once again aware of sitting in the chair opposite Buffy, he was crying.
"Here," Lorne said, handing him a handkerchief, "use this."
Angel took the white cloth and wiped the tears from his face. Buffy was watching him carefully. For once, though, her eyes were veiled, revealing nothing.
"That was..." Angel started, when he found his voice.
"Intense, I know," Lorne said. "I probably should have warned you, but sometimes when I do it blocks my path. People get all tense and it makes things more difficult." He handed Angel a snifter of amber liquid. "Jameson's. That's your drink, right?"
Angel reached out a shaking hand and took the glass. Tipping it to his lips, he swallowed the whiskey in one, burning gulp.
"When you're ready, why don't you tell us what you saw, sweetcheeks," Lorne said, encouragingly.
Angel shook his head. "I don't even know where to start." He looked at Buffy and his throat constricted. "I don't even know where to start," he repeated, softly.
"Okay, why don't I start, then," Lorne said, rhetorically.
"The lives that you two are living right now, right this moment, are borrowed. The concept is not that unusual, really. Everyone has experienced déjà vu. You're walking down a street in a strange town and suddenly you get that arm-hair tickle thing that tells you that you've been on this street, in this town before." Lorne inclined his head toward Angel's empty glass, silently asking if he wanted more, needed more. Angel shook his head, no.
"For most people, déjà vu is a queer little thing that happens once or twice in a lifetime. But for others it can be far more disconcerting. What Buffy has been experiencing these last few months has been a bit like that, only the déjà vu moments of her life have been taking over, making it impossible to sleep properly or even, at times, tell the difference between fact and fiction. Is that a fair assessment, Buffy?" Lorne didn't wait for an answer. " For you, Angel, the moment you met Buffy, changed everything. You've lost all your memories pretty much, haven't you, doll?"
Angel nodded.
"I know that I haven't really cleared anything up for you, have I? "Lorne said with a smile. "Patience." He motioned to a door at the back of the room. "Walk with me, please."
Angel got up unsteadily and offered his hand to Buffy. With a little tug, he pulled her to her feet. He'd needed the contact; needed to feel the warmth of her hand.
Lorne was standing by the door, waiting. "Shake a leg, you two," he said as he disappeared into the room beyond the door.
**
The room was dim and cool. In the middle of the floor, on a little platform, was a bed covered in crisp white sheets. The walls were dove-coloured, bare. A small table on the left hand side of the bed held a simple lamp, an empty glass and a picture frame, with the store's own "happy couple" picture still inside.
Lorne laughed, surveying the room through his guests' eyes. "No, this is not the sex portion of the reading. But I will ask you to lay next to each other, shoes off, if you don't mind."
Buffy took a second to glance at Angel, unsure of whether he was willing to go along with Lorne's odd request. He nodded imperceptibly. Sitting on opposite sides of the bed, they each bent over to remove their shoes, and then, almost simultaneously, swung their legs up onto the bed.
"Right then. Close your eyes. Sleep if you'd like, if you can manage. Buffy, I want you to think about the last thing you remember about this alternate life you've been leading and Angel, I want you to remember the last thing you thought of before you came out of your trance in the other room."
The bed was comfortable, the sheets good Egyptian cotton, the room smelled of lilacs. Buffy felt the heat of Angel's substantial biceps and forearm next to her own arm. He smelled clean. Buffy closed her eyes and drifted towards the last memory she had of her other life and that was...
...a battle against a huge reptilian thing with a mouth full of jagged teeth. All around her, classmates were wielding crossbows and fire-throwers and baseball bats. She felt, strangely, calm and focused. Behind her she could sense another, equally important battle raging, and beyond that, Angel.
When the time was right, Buffy threw the monster the verbal bait and he, still in possession of human feelings, went for it. She'd led him into the trap: thousands of pounds of explosives timed to blow him to kingdom come as soon as she'd thrown herself out the window.
Later, a curious scroll in her hand, Buffy had waited for Angel. Through the dusty smoke she'd felt him, as palpable as a hand on her arm, and she turned to find him looking at her across the parking lot. Buffy felt her breath stop, felt her stomach flip over once, twice, felt him reaching out to her with such love that she felt almost glad. He belonged to her...
...she belonged to him. That's what Angel knew, standing a dozen yards (too damn far) away from her that night. He willed himself to step closer; had an almost painful desire to wind her hair through his fingers, pull her close and sink his tongue into her mouth: a quest, a brand. The expression on her face broke his heart. He swore he could feel tiny splinters making their jagged way through his veins, sure he was dying from the inside out. But, no matter, he did what he had to do...he walked away...
**
Angel and Buffy stirred at the same time. Lorne was sitting across the room in an armchair, martini glass poised precariously on its plump chenille arm. "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, taking a final swallow of the drink.
"I'm afraid that I'm not going to be of much use to you. I mean, there are some things I can tell you to set you on the right path but the journey is yours and yours alone. Well, not literally, I guess, since you'll be together."
"Lorne, you're being cryptic," Buffy admonished.
"I like to think of it as having `flair.' I have flair." Lorne said, with a chuckle, moving to join Buffy and Angel on the bed. "Scooch over, doll," he said to Angel.
"You are not whom you seem to be," he said, looking first at Buffy and then at Angel. "You had a life before this one which was...pre-empted, for lack of a better word. Something happened to separate you, but that separation has thrown the universe out of whack."
Buffy held up her hand. "Wait a minute, Lorne. Are you trying to tell me that I am a vampire slayer? I mean, that's my life?"
"Sweetie, you know the answer to that question."
"What about me, am I some sort of a vampire slayer, too?" Angel asked.
"My dear, you are most definitely not." Lorne said.
Angel shot him an expectant look and Lorne shrugged.
"You are a vampire."
VII
There was a split second when Angel wasn't sure whether he should laugh, cry or punch Lorne square in the face.
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"Angel, think about it. If I can be some sort of vampire slayer, well, there must be vampires to slay, right?" Buffy said, quickly.
"Okay, sure, but think about what you just said, Buffy. If you're the slayer and I'm a vampire doesn't that make us, like, mortal enemies?"
Lorne chose this moment to interject with a sharp laugh. "You two are so not mortal enemies. Unfortunately, that's the problem. Look, there's one more thing I can show you and then I'm going to escort you out. Lay back down," he said. "Go on, it won't hurt," he encouraged.
With another tense glance at each other, Buffy and Angel made themselves comfortable on the bed and...
...Buffy shivers. Her hair is wet, her clothes cling to her like a second skin and a cut across her back stings. She knows that Angel is behind her, can feel his gentle fingers lingering along the scrape. `It's nothing. Just a scratch. It's already healing.'
Buffy feels her body fold in on itself and her desire to put up a brave front, crumble. She feels Angel's arms circle her, pull her into him, hold her tightly and her teeth begin chattering uncontrollably.
`You almost went away today. So did you. But you're right, we can't really know. Buffy, I love you. I try to stop but I can't. Me too. I love you too. Maybe we shouldn't. Just kiss me.'
And then bliss. His strong arms slide around her and pull her close; skin melting into skin, until it is impossible to know where she ends and he begins. An impossibly long heartbeat before she lays naked beneath him, exposed and completely sure of his mouth on hers, her hands in his hair, his hands sliding down the length of her body, skimming over turgid nipples, taut belly, quivering core. Then him naked: endless chest, strong, sinewy arms, rigid cock. Buffy can't believe she's here, beside him, naked. Can't believe it's taken so little to make her feel as though she might explode. Knows from endless hours of kissing in graveyards, her bedroom, this very apartment, this very morning, how ready she is; can feel her crotch's yearning. She can hear herself whimper and can hear Angel murmur, `wait love, wait' in her ear and even that feels like foreplay to her.
He leaves not an inch of her untouched. The pads of his fingertips soothe and press and dip. Buffy feels herself rise up, willing him closer. Please, God, closer. The feel of him is almost unbearable. Buffy's own hands clutch and smooth the long lines of his back, his straining arms.
`Are you sure?'
Buffy has never been more sure of anything in her life. Her eyes find his and she is amazed to discover that they are as wet as her own. `Please don't cry'. Reverent. Worshipful. With one fluid motion Buffy and Angel create a temple of their love. Eyes and bodies locked, Angel begins to move. Buffy moves with him. Equals. Partners. Lovers at last.
**
The waves of pleasure blind Buffy. The orgasm begins at the tips of her toes and radiates up through the soles of her feet, along her calves and thighs, the muscles of her vagina clenching and releasing helplessly. Her breasts ache; sweat mists her forehead and upper lip. Even her scalp tingles. It is endless. Buffy moans deliriously. Angel.
**
In his whole long dead life, Angel has never felt this way. Never. Beneath him is the object of his desire, the shining princess in the castle keep, a gift from the heavens. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers trace her body, its grooves and hidden secrets, smooth flesh and sharp bone. He can't remember the last time he made love to a woman. He can't remember the last time someone believed in him. He waits for her to catch up. Suspended above her, he watches her eyelashes flutter, watches the little hollow space at her collar bone dance with each sobbing breath she manages to grab, listens to her whisper his name incoherently. He knows, then, that he is no monster to her and she is...
His. The instant he joins his body with hers, taking the precious gift of her virginity, Angel remembers what it is to feel human. Buffy makes him feel human. Whatever is to come after this moment can come. Fitted inside her, he knows where he belongs. He cradles her close, closer still: feels the steady drumming of her heart against his chest and sobs her name.
**
Angel bolted upright in the bed. He clutched at the sheets, felt fire tearing through his chest, searched the room for discarded clothes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw ...Lorne. Angel shook his head.
Buffy stirred beside him. "Angel?"
"I'm here, Buffy. Right here," Angel said, resting his hand on hers.
He watched a tear sneak out from behind her closed eye and wondered, for a moment, how it would taste.
"Open your eyes, Buffy," Angel said, quietly.
Buffy shook her head. " I don't want to. I can't leave...you."
Angel looked over to Lorne who was seated, with a fresh martini, in the armchair.
" Could you see all that?" Angel asked.
"Well, yeah. But I've seen it before," Lorne said, quietly.
Angel bent down, close to Buffy's ear and whispered, " Buffy, you need to come back. Back to me, here, in this world."
With great reluctance, Buffy opened her eyes and drank in the sight of Angel looming over her.
"Do you understand?" she whispered.
"No. Do you?" he replied.
"I do, though," Lorne said. " What you just shared was a very real moment from your very real past..."
"Which ended very badly," Angel interrupted.
"True. Much unhappiness ensued. But there is a willingness on the part of certain parties to rectify the situation."
"Certain parties?" Angel asked.
"You don't think you're in this alone, do you?" Lorne asked, with a cocked eyebrow.
"Apparently not," Angel grimaced. " But I don't like the idea that someone...something...has the power to interfere with my life, to screw with it like this."
"Look, dollface, most people go through life blind. You know, they eat, sleep, use the bathroom, boink their partners, work at dumb jobs, whatever. They never really experience anything beyond the one dimension they're living in. You weren't meant to live that kind of life." Lorne stopped and looked pointedly at Angel. His gaze shifted to Buffy. "And you, you're the Slayer. Honey, that's destiny. There's no escaping destiny." He shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed.
"But, okay, then why are we living these so-called one dimensional lives?"
"Something happened which threw the whole works out of orbit. Stuff happens, of course, and most times the big guys don't interfere. Free will and all that jazz." Lorne said, with a smile. "But in this instance they felt they couldn't let things go."
"What?" Buffy said looking at Lorne and then Angel. "What happened?"
"Thus endeth my part in this little drama," Lorne said, standing. "You'll have to go now."
"Wait a minute," Buffy said, plaintively.
Lorne shook his head. "It was a great honour to meet you both," he said guiding them to the door. "I wish you well."
Suddenly, Buffy and Angel found themselves standing in the street, a glorious full moon smiling benevolently upon them.
VIII
"Intense," Angel said, as they started the walk down the street.
"That's an understatement," Buffy replied.
"I guess you're right," Angel said. "What next?"
Buffy stopped and put out a hand to stop Angel. "I feel...I'm sorry." Her eyes stayed resolutely focused on the corner of his sleeve.
"No, what? Tell me."
"I feel as though I have loved you my whole life. In this pretend life. In my dream life. In the next life," Buffy pulled her gaze from Angel's shirt to his strong jaw, further up, to his eyes. "I don't think I could make these feelings go away even if I wanted to, but I'm afraid. I don't know who I am, really. And even though we've only just met, I feel connected to you. I..."
Buffy stopped again.
"Buffy. You came looking for me. You must have been fairly certain you'd find me. You must've known of, or at least understood, the possibility that this could all go horribly wrong. Maybe I'd be married, or in a serious relationship. Or gay." Angel stopped long enough to allow Buffy to see the twinkle in his eyes. "I am none of those things. But I'm not a vampire either. I had eggs for breakfast, not blood. I love the beach and the sun and food with lots of garlic." He brought a long-fingered hand up to the crucifix resting in the hollow of Buffy's throat and touched it gently. "See, no burning. I can't deny the connection. I had the same...dream, hallucination, whatever you want to call it, back at Lorne's. Down to the very last earth-shattering detail."
Buffy smiled wanly. Taking a step back she said, "Angel. I'm really tired. I think I'll just head back to my hotel."
"I can walk you if you like?"
"No, you know I think I'll just hail a cab," Buffy said, glancing up the street and raising her hand. In short order, a taxi pulled up to the curb and without another word, Buffy was safely inside and speeding away.
**
The answering machine was blinking when Angel arrived home. He'd decided to walk despite the distance. His body had felt over-caffeinated, all loose wires and jangling nerves and he'd thought the long walk through the city might help. Not quite. He arrived home, with more questions than answers, covered in a layer of city air that you could scrape off with a knife.
He debated: messages or shower? What if Buffy had called, he thought, reaching for the play button on the antiquated machine. He really should just get call answer. That way, he'd have to actually pick up the phone to listen for the short beeps that alerted you to the fact that you had waiting messages. Angel was hopelessly old-fashioned about some things.
Beep. "Hi, Angel, this is Wesley. Sorry not to reach you. Umm. Look Rupert flew into town unexpectedly this afternoon while you were out. Not to worry. He's quite pleased. Umm. I was hoping you could join us for dinner. Nothing so dull as two English blokes trading stories of the mother country, but then, we'll make do. See you tomorrow.
Beep It's Cordelia. Pick up the phone, Angel. Damn. Look. Look, oh never mind. I'm coming over there.
Beep. Angel. Hi. It's me. I'm sorry that I just left like that. This has been a really difficult day for me. I feel trapped between two worlds. My old world and my borrowed world, as Lorne would call it. Maybe I should have tried to learn more before dragging you into this whole mess. In my dream, Angel, I have the clearest memory of you walking away from me, walking out of my life. And, truthfully, it was devastating. I feel out of time, out of my element. I feel that there's something not right, but I can't figure out what it is. Crazy, huh? But, you, you feel right to me.... I'm sorry. I'm taking up all the space on your machine, it's just easier to talk to you when I can't see you, can't see you looking at me... through me... into me. I'm sorry, Angel.
The message ended. Angel pressed rewind and listened to it again. And again. And a fourth time, until his doorbell rang and he was forced to press stop.
He pulled open the door into the hall and revealed Cordelia looking half-drunk and half-crazy.
**
Buffy wished she could reach through cyberspace or whatever space it was that contained her awful, naked message to Angel. Once she'd heard his machine kick in, she totally forgot the real reason she'd called him and started blabbering endlessly about herself and her feelings. Now, curled up on the chaise in her hotel room, an untouched room service dinner on a tray on the ottoman in front of her, Buffy reflected on the true purpose of her call. For someone who claimed not to be a vampire, Angel had certainly known an awful lot about them.
IX
"Cordelia," Angel said, wedging himself between the half open door and the doorframe as if to prevent her admittance.
"Angel. Glad you're home," Cordelia slurred, confirming Angel's suspicion that she'd been drinking.
"Were you out with some friends, Cordelia?" Angel asked.
Cordelia snorted. "Yeah. Like I have so many of those. No wait, I have no friends. Because I gave all that up, didn't I, to follow you all over the place while you made it your mission to fix up every falling down building in North America."
Angel stepped back. He could see where this was going and while he didn't necessarily want to have this conversation in the first place, if Cordelia was going to insist, he definitely didn't want to have it in the hall. "Come inside, Cordelia."
Wobbling on her stacked heels, and hiking the hem of her skimpy skirt down, Cordelia teetered past Angel into his apartment.
Closing the door softly, Angel followed her. "Can I make you a cup of coffee? Tea?" Angel asked solicitously.
"Yeah, that'll make everything just dandy, Angel."
"Okay, what's up?" Angel asked, sitting on the leather sofa.
Cordelia sat gracelessly beside him and placed an unsteady hand on Angel's crotch. "Nothing. Yet."
Angel stood up and moved across the room. "Look, Cordelia. I am not going there with you, certainly not tonight and most certainly not in the state that you're in," Angel said, not unkindly.
"I don't get it, Angel. I mean, are you a monk or gay or what?"
Angel sighed. The last thing he needed after the day he'd just had was to have this conversation with Cordelia. He admired her skills as an assistant. He valued her contributions to his business. In a vague way, he supposed, he was aware of her considerable feminine charms. But Angel was not interested in her: not sexually, romantically, nor even as a companion to spend dull weekend evenings with. He liked things the way they were between them, friendly and professional and distant.
"Cordelia. I consider you a tremendous asset and I would hate to lose you. But I am not going down this road with you. If I've done anything to make you think that it was ever a possibility, I am truly sorry. It was not my intention to mislead you."
A gulping sob escaped Cordelia's mouth. "It's her, isn't it?"
"Who?" Angel asked, with no small measure of exasperation.
"That girl. The blonde one who was at the hotel yesterday. It's her, right?"
Angel shook his head. "I don't even know her, Cordelia," he said, gently.
Cordelia smiled sadly as she got to her feet. "Yes, you do." She walked unsteadily to the door and, hand on the knob, back to her boss, she whispered. "I'm sorry, Angel." Then she was gone.
**
That night Angel had a dream.
Billy Idol and an emotionally flawed brunette whispering cruelly in his ear.
A mansion on a hill with quiet cool rooms.
A lovely girl in a pale pink gown dancing, dancing with him.
Fluttering curtains, and a stuffed pig.
A man slumped in a chair, bloody and broken: defiant, nevertheless.
Tenderness and love and regret, longing.
Power and rage and hate shuddering through his body always just below the surface.
No air to give her and she's dead.
Do you love me? Do you?
For a hundred years I offered an ugly death to everyone I met and I did it with a song in my heart.
...it means you belong to someone.
Angel woke with a start. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness in his room, as he made silent contact with the bureau, the chair, the window and the twinkling city lights beyond, the remnants of the dream washed over him; chilling him and soothing him at once.
Rolling over, he reached for the alarm clock. 4:17 am. Convinced he would not find sleep again, Angel crawled out of the bed and headed for the shower.
**
Buffy sat curled up in the armchair, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She hadn't eaten and she hadn't slept, but she craved neither food nor sleep. Her body was thrumming with life, the residual energy from earlier that day.
He hadn't said so, but Buffy knew that Angel was confused by the discoveries they'd made that day and the mysteries they had yet to solve. She knew how it must feel to suddenly find out you weren't who you thought you were. Buffy imagined it must be a bit like having amnesia, little pieces of your life coming back to you in no particular order.
There was a part of her that longed to be satisfied with this one-dimensional life she'd been living. There was nothing wrong with it. She was a college student with a handful of friends, a decent GPA, a mother who loved her. There wasn't anything wrong with her life. She'd been dating a TA named Riley, a decent guy who really seemed to care for her. But scratch below the surface of any of this and there wasn't much substance.
Lorne had said that he wasn't able to help them anymore. He'd also said that there was someone else- or something else- ready to rectify the situation as it stood. Buffy wondered how she and Angel were supposed to find this other person.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, and resting her chin on the ledge she'd created, Buffy thought back to the incredibly real dream she'd had that afternoon. It suddenly occurred to her that she couldn't remember whether she and Riley had ever consummated their relationship. The nerve endings along her spine snapped to attention: She was quite certain that Angel was the only man to have ever touched her so intimately. Buffy closed her eyes, reached out to the memory of the memory and hugged it close.
Hours, minutes, seconds: he had no way of knowing how long he'd been totally out of himself. Totally. And he was shocked to discover that, when he was once again aware of sitting in the chair opposite Buffy, he was crying.
"Here," Lorne said, handing him a handkerchief, "use this."
Angel took the white cloth and wiped the tears from his face. Buffy was watching him carefully. For once, though, her eyes were veiled, revealing nothing.
"That was..." Angel started, when he found his voice.
"Intense, I know," Lorne said. "I probably should have warned you, but sometimes when I do it blocks my path. People get all tense and it makes things more difficult." He handed Angel a snifter of amber liquid. "Jameson's. That's your drink, right?"
Angel reached out a shaking hand and took the glass. Tipping it to his lips, he swallowed the whiskey in one, burning gulp.
"When you're ready, why don't you tell us what you saw, sweetcheeks," Lorne said, encouragingly.
Angel shook his head. "I don't even know where to start." He looked at Buffy and his throat constricted. "I don't even know where to start," he repeated, softly.
"Okay, why don't I start, then," Lorne said, rhetorically.
"The lives that you two are living right now, right this moment, are borrowed. The concept is not that unusual, really. Everyone has experienced déjà vu. You're walking down a street in a strange town and suddenly you get that arm-hair tickle thing that tells you that you've been on this street, in this town before." Lorne inclined his head toward Angel's empty glass, silently asking if he wanted more, needed more. Angel shook his head, no.
"For most people, déjà vu is a queer little thing that happens once or twice in a lifetime. But for others it can be far more disconcerting. What Buffy has been experiencing these last few months has been a bit like that, only the déjà vu moments of her life have been taking over, making it impossible to sleep properly or even, at times, tell the difference between fact and fiction. Is that a fair assessment, Buffy?" Lorne didn't wait for an answer. " For you, Angel, the moment you met Buffy, changed everything. You've lost all your memories pretty much, haven't you, doll?"
Angel nodded.
"I know that I haven't really cleared anything up for you, have I? "Lorne said with a smile. "Patience." He motioned to a door at the back of the room. "Walk with me, please."
Angel got up unsteadily and offered his hand to Buffy. With a little tug, he pulled her to her feet. He'd needed the contact; needed to feel the warmth of her hand.
Lorne was standing by the door, waiting. "Shake a leg, you two," he said as he disappeared into the room beyond the door.
**
The room was dim and cool. In the middle of the floor, on a little platform, was a bed covered in crisp white sheets. The walls were dove-coloured, bare. A small table on the left hand side of the bed held a simple lamp, an empty glass and a picture frame, with the store's own "happy couple" picture still inside.
Lorne laughed, surveying the room through his guests' eyes. "No, this is not the sex portion of the reading. But I will ask you to lay next to each other, shoes off, if you don't mind."
Buffy took a second to glance at Angel, unsure of whether he was willing to go along with Lorne's odd request. He nodded imperceptibly. Sitting on opposite sides of the bed, they each bent over to remove their shoes, and then, almost simultaneously, swung their legs up onto the bed.
"Right then. Close your eyes. Sleep if you'd like, if you can manage. Buffy, I want you to think about the last thing you remember about this alternate life you've been leading and Angel, I want you to remember the last thing you thought of before you came out of your trance in the other room."
The bed was comfortable, the sheets good Egyptian cotton, the room smelled of lilacs. Buffy felt the heat of Angel's substantial biceps and forearm next to her own arm. He smelled clean. Buffy closed her eyes and drifted towards the last memory she had of her other life and that was...
...a battle against a huge reptilian thing with a mouth full of jagged teeth. All around her, classmates were wielding crossbows and fire-throwers and baseball bats. She felt, strangely, calm and focused. Behind her she could sense another, equally important battle raging, and beyond that, Angel.
When the time was right, Buffy threw the monster the verbal bait and he, still in possession of human feelings, went for it. She'd led him into the trap: thousands of pounds of explosives timed to blow him to kingdom come as soon as she'd thrown herself out the window.
Later, a curious scroll in her hand, Buffy had waited for Angel. Through the dusty smoke she'd felt him, as palpable as a hand on her arm, and she turned to find him looking at her across the parking lot. Buffy felt her breath stop, felt her stomach flip over once, twice, felt him reaching out to her with such love that she felt almost glad. He belonged to her...
...she belonged to him. That's what Angel knew, standing a dozen yards (too damn far) away from her that night. He willed himself to step closer; had an almost painful desire to wind her hair through his fingers, pull her close and sink his tongue into her mouth: a quest, a brand. The expression on her face broke his heart. He swore he could feel tiny splinters making their jagged way through his veins, sure he was dying from the inside out. But, no matter, he did what he had to do...he walked away...
**
Angel and Buffy stirred at the same time. Lorne was sitting across the room in an armchair, martini glass poised precariously on its plump chenille arm. "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, taking a final swallow of the drink.
"I'm afraid that I'm not going to be of much use to you. I mean, there are some things I can tell you to set you on the right path but the journey is yours and yours alone. Well, not literally, I guess, since you'll be together."
"Lorne, you're being cryptic," Buffy admonished.
"I like to think of it as having `flair.' I have flair." Lorne said, with a chuckle, moving to join Buffy and Angel on the bed. "Scooch over, doll," he said to Angel.
"You are not whom you seem to be," he said, looking first at Buffy and then at Angel. "You had a life before this one which was...pre-empted, for lack of a better word. Something happened to separate you, but that separation has thrown the universe out of whack."
Buffy held up her hand. "Wait a minute, Lorne. Are you trying to tell me that I am a vampire slayer? I mean, that's my life?"
"Sweetie, you know the answer to that question."
"What about me, am I some sort of a vampire slayer, too?" Angel asked.
"My dear, you are most definitely not." Lorne said.
Angel shot him an expectant look and Lorne shrugged.
"You are a vampire."
VII
There was a split second when Angel wasn't sure whether he should laugh, cry or punch Lorne square in the face.
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"Angel, think about it. If I can be some sort of vampire slayer, well, there must be vampires to slay, right?" Buffy said, quickly.
"Okay, sure, but think about what you just said, Buffy. If you're the slayer and I'm a vampire doesn't that make us, like, mortal enemies?"
Lorne chose this moment to interject with a sharp laugh. "You two are so not mortal enemies. Unfortunately, that's the problem. Look, there's one more thing I can show you and then I'm going to escort you out. Lay back down," he said. "Go on, it won't hurt," he encouraged.
With another tense glance at each other, Buffy and Angel made themselves comfortable on the bed and...
...Buffy shivers. Her hair is wet, her clothes cling to her like a second skin and a cut across her back stings. She knows that Angel is behind her, can feel his gentle fingers lingering along the scrape. `It's nothing. Just a scratch. It's already healing.'
Buffy feels her body fold in on itself and her desire to put up a brave front, crumble. She feels Angel's arms circle her, pull her into him, hold her tightly and her teeth begin chattering uncontrollably.
`You almost went away today. So did you. But you're right, we can't really know. Buffy, I love you. I try to stop but I can't. Me too. I love you too. Maybe we shouldn't. Just kiss me.'
And then bliss. His strong arms slide around her and pull her close; skin melting into skin, until it is impossible to know where she ends and he begins. An impossibly long heartbeat before she lays naked beneath him, exposed and completely sure of his mouth on hers, her hands in his hair, his hands sliding down the length of her body, skimming over turgid nipples, taut belly, quivering core. Then him naked: endless chest, strong, sinewy arms, rigid cock. Buffy can't believe she's here, beside him, naked. Can't believe it's taken so little to make her feel as though she might explode. Knows from endless hours of kissing in graveyards, her bedroom, this very apartment, this very morning, how ready she is; can feel her crotch's yearning. She can hear herself whimper and can hear Angel murmur, `wait love, wait' in her ear and even that feels like foreplay to her.
He leaves not an inch of her untouched. The pads of his fingertips soothe and press and dip. Buffy feels herself rise up, willing him closer. Please, God, closer. The feel of him is almost unbearable. Buffy's own hands clutch and smooth the long lines of his back, his straining arms.
`Are you sure?'
Buffy has never been more sure of anything in her life. Her eyes find his and she is amazed to discover that they are as wet as her own. `Please don't cry'. Reverent. Worshipful. With one fluid motion Buffy and Angel create a temple of their love. Eyes and bodies locked, Angel begins to move. Buffy moves with him. Equals. Partners. Lovers at last.
**
The waves of pleasure blind Buffy. The orgasm begins at the tips of her toes and radiates up through the soles of her feet, along her calves and thighs, the muscles of her vagina clenching and releasing helplessly. Her breasts ache; sweat mists her forehead and upper lip. Even her scalp tingles. It is endless. Buffy moans deliriously. Angel.
**
In his whole long dead life, Angel has never felt this way. Never. Beneath him is the object of his desire, the shining princess in the castle keep, a gift from the heavens. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers trace her body, its grooves and hidden secrets, smooth flesh and sharp bone. He can't remember the last time he made love to a woman. He can't remember the last time someone believed in him. He waits for her to catch up. Suspended above her, he watches her eyelashes flutter, watches the little hollow space at her collar bone dance with each sobbing breath she manages to grab, listens to her whisper his name incoherently. He knows, then, that he is no monster to her and she is...
His. The instant he joins his body with hers, taking the precious gift of her virginity, Angel remembers what it is to feel human. Buffy makes him feel human. Whatever is to come after this moment can come. Fitted inside her, he knows where he belongs. He cradles her close, closer still: feels the steady drumming of her heart against his chest and sobs her name.
**
Angel bolted upright in the bed. He clutched at the sheets, felt fire tearing through his chest, searched the room for discarded clothes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw ...Lorne. Angel shook his head.
Buffy stirred beside him. "Angel?"
"I'm here, Buffy. Right here," Angel said, resting his hand on hers.
He watched a tear sneak out from behind her closed eye and wondered, for a moment, how it would taste.
"Open your eyes, Buffy," Angel said, quietly.
Buffy shook her head. " I don't want to. I can't leave...you."
Angel looked over to Lorne who was seated, with a fresh martini, in the armchair.
" Could you see all that?" Angel asked.
"Well, yeah. But I've seen it before," Lorne said, quietly.
Angel bent down, close to Buffy's ear and whispered, " Buffy, you need to come back. Back to me, here, in this world."
With great reluctance, Buffy opened her eyes and drank in the sight of Angel looming over her.
"Do you understand?" she whispered.
"No. Do you?" he replied.
"I do, though," Lorne said. " What you just shared was a very real moment from your very real past..."
"Which ended very badly," Angel interrupted.
"True. Much unhappiness ensued. But there is a willingness on the part of certain parties to rectify the situation."
"Certain parties?" Angel asked.
"You don't think you're in this alone, do you?" Lorne asked, with a cocked eyebrow.
"Apparently not," Angel grimaced. " But I don't like the idea that someone...something...has the power to interfere with my life, to screw with it like this."
"Look, dollface, most people go through life blind. You know, they eat, sleep, use the bathroom, boink their partners, work at dumb jobs, whatever. They never really experience anything beyond the one dimension they're living in. You weren't meant to live that kind of life." Lorne stopped and looked pointedly at Angel. His gaze shifted to Buffy. "And you, you're the Slayer. Honey, that's destiny. There's no escaping destiny." He shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed.
"But, okay, then why are we living these so-called one dimensional lives?"
"Something happened which threw the whole works out of orbit. Stuff happens, of course, and most times the big guys don't interfere. Free will and all that jazz." Lorne said, with a smile. "But in this instance they felt they couldn't let things go."
"What?" Buffy said looking at Lorne and then Angel. "What happened?"
"Thus endeth my part in this little drama," Lorne said, standing. "You'll have to go now."
"Wait a minute," Buffy said, plaintively.
Lorne shook his head. "It was a great honour to meet you both," he said guiding them to the door. "I wish you well."
Suddenly, Buffy and Angel found themselves standing in the street, a glorious full moon smiling benevolently upon them.
VIII
"Intense," Angel said, as they started the walk down the street.
"That's an understatement," Buffy replied.
"I guess you're right," Angel said. "What next?"
Buffy stopped and put out a hand to stop Angel. "I feel...I'm sorry." Her eyes stayed resolutely focused on the corner of his sleeve.
"No, what? Tell me."
"I feel as though I have loved you my whole life. In this pretend life. In my dream life. In the next life," Buffy pulled her gaze from Angel's shirt to his strong jaw, further up, to his eyes. "I don't think I could make these feelings go away even if I wanted to, but I'm afraid. I don't know who I am, really. And even though we've only just met, I feel connected to you. I..."
Buffy stopped again.
"Buffy. You came looking for me. You must have been fairly certain you'd find me. You must've known of, or at least understood, the possibility that this could all go horribly wrong. Maybe I'd be married, or in a serious relationship. Or gay." Angel stopped long enough to allow Buffy to see the twinkle in his eyes. "I am none of those things. But I'm not a vampire either. I had eggs for breakfast, not blood. I love the beach and the sun and food with lots of garlic." He brought a long-fingered hand up to the crucifix resting in the hollow of Buffy's throat and touched it gently. "See, no burning. I can't deny the connection. I had the same...dream, hallucination, whatever you want to call it, back at Lorne's. Down to the very last earth-shattering detail."
Buffy smiled wanly. Taking a step back she said, "Angel. I'm really tired. I think I'll just head back to my hotel."
"I can walk you if you like?"
"No, you know I think I'll just hail a cab," Buffy said, glancing up the street and raising her hand. In short order, a taxi pulled up to the curb and without another word, Buffy was safely inside and speeding away.
**
The answering machine was blinking when Angel arrived home. He'd decided to walk despite the distance. His body had felt over-caffeinated, all loose wires and jangling nerves and he'd thought the long walk through the city might help. Not quite. He arrived home, with more questions than answers, covered in a layer of city air that you could scrape off with a knife.
He debated: messages or shower? What if Buffy had called, he thought, reaching for the play button on the antiquated machine. He really should just get call answer. That way, he'd have to actually pick up the phone to listen for the short beeps that alerted you to the fact that you had waiting messages. Angel was hopelessly old-fashioned about some things.
Beep. "Hi, Angel, this is Wesley. Sorry not to reach you. Umm. Look Rupert flew into town unexpectedly this afternoon while you were out. Not to worry. He's quite pleased. Umm. I was hoping you could join us for dinner. Nothing so dull as two English blokes trading stories of the mother country, but then, we'll make do. See you tomorrow.
Beep It's Cordelia. Pick up the phone, Angel. Damn. Look. Look, oh never mind. I'm coming over there.
Beep. Angel. Hi. It's me. I'm sorry that I just left like that. This has been a really difficult day for me. I feel trapped between two worlds. My old world and my borrowed world, as Lorne would call it. Maybe I should have tried to learn more before dragging you into this whole mess. In my dream, Angel, I have the clearest memory of you walking away from me, walking out of my life. And, truthfully, it was devastating. I feel out of time, out of my element. I feel that there's something not right, but I can't figure out what it is. Crazy, huh? But, you, you feel right to me.... I'm sorry. I'm taking up all the space on your machine, it's just easier to talk to you when I can't see you, can't see you looking at me... through me... into me. I'm sorry, Angel.
The message ended. Angel pressed rewind and listened to it again. And again. And a fourth time, until his doorbell rang and he was forced to press stop.
He pulled open the door into the hall and revealed Cordelia looking half-drunk and half-crazy.
**
Buffy wished she could reach through cyberspace or whatever space it was that contained her awful, naked message to Angel. Once she'd heard his machine kick in, she totally forgot the real reason she'd called him and started blabbering endlessly about herself and her feelings. Now, curled up on the chaise in her hotel room, an untouched room service dinner on a tray on the ottoman in front of her, Buffy reflected on the true purpose of her call. For someone who claimed not to be a vampire, Angel had certainly known an awful lot about them.
IX
"Cordelia," Angel said, wedging himself between the half open door and the doorframe as if to prevent her admittance.
"Angel. Glad you're home," Cordelia slurred, confirming Angel's suspicion that she'd been drinking.
"Were you out with some friends, Cordelia?" Angel asked.
Cordelia snorted. "Yeah. Like I have so many of those. No wait, I have no friends. Because I gave all that up, didn't I, to follow you all over the place while you made it your mission to fix up every falling down building in North America."
Angel stepped back. He could see where this was going and while he didn't necessarily want to have this conversation in the first place, if Cordelia was going to insist, he definitely didn't want to have it in the hall. "Come inside, Cordelia."
Wobbling on her stacked heels, and hiking the hem of her skimpy skirt down, Cordelia teetered past Angel into his apartment.
Closing the door softly, Angel followed her. "Can I make you a cup of coffee? Tea?" Angel asked solicitously.
"Yeah, that'll make everything just dandy, Angel."
"Okay, what's up?" Angel asked, sitting on the leather sofa.
Cordelia sat gracelessly beside him and placed an unsteady hand on Angel's crotch. "Nothing. Yet."
Angel stood up and moved across the room. "Look, Cordelia. I am not going there with you, certainly not tonight and most certainly not in the state that you're in," Angel said, not unkindly.
"I don't get it, Angel. I mean, are you a monk or gay or what?"
Angel sighed. The last thing he needed after the day he'd just had was to have this conversation with Cordelia. He admired her skills as an assistant. He valued her contributions to his business. In a vague way, he supposed, he was aware of her considerable feminine charms. But Angel was not interested in her: not sexually, romantically, nor even as a companion to spend dull weekend evenings with. He liked things the way they were between them, friendly and professional and distant.
"Cordelia. I consider you a tremendous asset and I would hate to lose you. But I am not going down this road with you. If I've done anything to make you think that it was ever a possibility, I am truly sorry. It was not my intention to mislead you."
A gulping sob escaped Cordelia's mouth. "It's her, isn't it?"
"Who?" Angel asked, with no small measure of exasperation.
"That girl. The blonde one who was at the hotel yesterday. It's her, right?"
Angel shook his head. "I don't even know her, Cordelia," he said, gently.
Cordelia smiled sadly as she got to her feet. "Yes, you do." She walked unsteadily to the door and, hand on the knob, back to her boss, she whispered. "I'm sorry, Angel." Then she was gone.
**
That night Angel had a dream.
Billy Idol and an emotionally flawed brunette whispering cruelly in his ear.
A mansion on a hill with quiet cool rooms.
A lovely girl in a pale pink gown dancing, dancing with him.
Fluttering curtains, and a stuffed pig.
A man slumped in a chair, bloody and broken: defiant, nevertheless.
Tenderness and love and regret, longing.
Power and rage and hate shuddering through his body always just below the surface.
No air to give her and she's dead.
Do you love me? Do you?
For a hundred years I offered an ugly death to everyone I met and I did it with a song in my heart.
...it means you belong to someone.
Angel woke with a start. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness in his room, as he made silent contact with the bureau, the chair, the window and the twinkling city lights beyond, the remnants of the dream washed over him; chilling him and soothing him at once.
Rolling over, he reached for the alarm clock. 4:17 am. Convinced he would not find sleep again, Angel crawled out of the bed and headed for the shower.
**
Buffy sat curled up in the armchair, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She hadn't eaten and she hadn't slept, but she craved neither food nor sleep. Her body was thrumming with life, the residual energy from earlier that day.
He hadn't said so, but Buffy knew that Angel was confused by the discoveries they'd made that day and the mysteries they had yet to solve. She knew how it must feel to suddenly find out you weren't who you thought you were. Buffy imagined it must be a bit like having amnesia, little pieces of your life coming back to you in no particular order.
There was a part of her that longed to be satisfied with this one-dimensional life she'd been living. There was nothing wrong with it. She was a college student with a handful of friends, a decent GPA, a mother who loved her. There wasn't anything wrong with her life. She'd been dating a TA named Riley, a decent guy who really seemed to care for her. But scratch below the surface of any of this and there wasn't much substance.
Lorne had said that he wasn't able to help them anymore. He'd also said that there was someone else- or something else- ready to rectify the situation as it stood. Buffy wondered how she and Angel were supposed to find this other person.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, and resting her chin on the ledge she'd created, Buffy thought back to the incredibly real dream she'd had that afternoon. It suddenly occurred to her that she couldn't remember whether she and Riley had ever consummated their relationship. The nerve endings along her spine snapped to attention: She was quite certain that Angel was the only man to have ever touched her so intimately. Buffy closed her eyes, reached out to the memory of the memory and hugged it close.