XV
Buffy wasn't surprised that, as soon as he'd shut the door behind him, Angel pulled her against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Buffy," he whispered into her hair. "I am so sorry for leaving."
"Don't be, Angel. You did what you had to do and, in my heart, I forgave you."
"I'm not sure I've forgiven myself, though," he said, dropping a kiss onto her honeyed hair.
Snaking her hands between them and using his hard chest as leverage to tilt her body back so she could see him, Buffy said, "You have more important things to think about, right now, Angel."
"More important than this?" Angel said, moving his face nearer.
Buffy's heart began to race. She wasn't sure she could stand this much intimacy without spontaneously combusting like a Spinal Tap drummer.
"Angel," she said. "I…"
"Listen to me, just for a minute, before you try to talk me out of doing anything," Angel said, taking Buffy's hand and leading her to the couch.
Seated across from him, her hand still held protectively in his much larger one, Buffy was struck with a thought. 'I would have loved you anyway. Even if I weren't the Slayer and you weren't a vampire, I would still love you.' Drifting back to the sound of Angel's voice, Buffy was acutely aware of the heat of him, of his thumb pressing lazy circles on the back of her hand, of the longing in his hooded eyes.
"Kiss me," she said.
Angel smiled, a small smile that tugged at one corner of his wide mouth just a little; a smile that was almost a smirk and so familiar Buffy almost cried. Without letting go of her hand, Angel leaned forward and pressed his mouth firmly against hers: a chaste kiss, a promise.
Buffy could do nothing to prevent the tears, now. She felt them slide down her cheeks, into their joined mouths, felt Angel's tongue slip from his own mouth discreetly, to lap at them delicately, felt his fingers on her face trying to stem the flow, felt his body shudder with recognition as she pressed her own aching body closer.
"Buffy," he moaned into her mouth.
"Please, Angel," Buffy said against his mouth. "Don't try to talk me out of this."
Small, nimble fingers worked their way up the front of Angel's silk shirt, releasing buttons as they went. Slipping her hands inside the material, Buffy marveled at the heat where she half expected to find cool, hard flesh. She took a breath and bent forward to place a wet kiss at the hollow of Angel's throat.
Sliding the shirt over muscular shoulders and arms, Buffy felt panic well up inside her. How would Angel ever be able to choose if they went any further? She banished the thought. How can I not touch him? Her hands reached for the snap on his pants and it was there that Angel's hand stilled her own.
He tilted her head up, kissed her tenderly and shook his head. "Not here, Buffy. I am not going to make love to you on a couch, like some teenager."
"I don't care, Angel."
"I do."
**
In the bedroom, naked, they were solemn. They stood, illuminated by the twilight, fingers touching fingers, eyes searching for proof. Not a word was spoken. In silence, Angel lay her down. In silence, he adored her. He had the chance to make up to her all his past shortcomings: that he hadn't been man enough, hadn't been strong enough, hadn't loved her enough to overcome.
So now, as she lay vulnerable to his fingers and lips and tongue, as he pushed his own need away, as he worshipped her, pulling her along a path to release and salvation, setting her down gently and then pulling her along again, Angel had only one thought: I can't go back. to the darkness.
**
Blinded by tears, Buffy cried out, not when Angel entered her, but when she could no longer feel him inside.
**
He watched her for endless minutes, after she had finally fallen asleep. He could barely bring himself to leave the warmth of their shared bed, but he had to leave, while he had the strength. If he dared to touch her; place his palm across her supple back, or cup her rounded breast, or run a finger along her love-swollen labia he would not be able to go. He lay on his side, breathing in the air she exhaled as though his life depended on it.
"Buffy," he whispered to her sleeping form. "I think I once told you that in 243 years you were the only person I'd ever loved. You. Just you."
Kissing each eyelid, Angel rose quietly from the bed, grabbed pants and shirt from the floor, and left the room.
**
The crystal and pouch were in his jacket pocket and Angel retrieved them and went into his study. Switching on a little light over his desk, he opened the pouch and reached his fingers inside. Powder of some sort and a piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and read:
"Pour a counter clockwise circle with the powder and sit inside of the circle holding the crystal in your right hand. Patience is a virtue."
Pushing his reading chair out of the way and lamenting, for just a second, about the powder sinking into the deep pile of his Oriental rug, Angel followed Willow's instructions.
Folding his long legs into a classic yoga meditation pose and holding the crystal in his right hand, Angel waited.
**
He must have fallen asleep; that's what he thought when he opened his eyes only to discover that he was sitting in a circle of salt in his den. He felt stiff all over, his hand a cramped claw around the crystal.
"I must have done something wrong," Angel said to himself, unfolding his numb legs and pushing himself off the floor. "How could I do something wrong? The instructions weren't exactly rocket science."
Angel left the den and made his way back to the bedroom. Stifling a yawn, he pushed open the door for a look at Buffy to discover:
No Buffy. No evidence of Buffy. A bed made so snugly a quarter bounced on the spread would have easily hit the ceiling. No smell of Buffy. No. Buffy.
XVI
It occurred to her, as she made yet another heartless pass through the cemetery, that this was getting old. While most teens couldn't wait to grow up, move on, Buffy felt as though her high school years had flashed before her eyes: a train wreck.
She had nothing to hold on to and the one person she thought she could count on was gone. Left her. But Buffy couldn't think about that, not now, not when she needed to concentrate on the silent night.
She hadn't been sleeping well. She'd been having such weird dreams. Detailed dreams, where she was just a normal girl and he was a normal guy and they walked together in the sunshine. And last night…Buffy blushed just thinking about the way he'd split her open like fruit, sucking the very last bit of nectar from her until she'd screamed for him to stop. And, God, he hadn't stopped.
But it had only been a dream and Buffy had awoken feeling even sadder than before. Before the sewer talk and before the prom and before he had told her that when it was over, he wasn't even going to say goodbye. And now he was gone and there was only one thing Buffy knew for sure: that old 'time heals all' thing was crap.
**
Angel called the Hilton and asked for Buffy's room.
"I'm sorry, sir," a sterile voice informed him, " there's no Buffy Summers registered at this hotel."
Angel swallowed his panic. 'You mean she's checked out."
"No, there has never been a Buffy Summers staying here."
Angel called Wesley. "Where's Rupert Giles staying?"
"Angel are you aware of the time," Wesley said, sleepily.
"Wes, this is important, where is he?"
"Angel, he's not even due in LA for another week. Are you alright?"
"No. No, I don't think I am," Angel said, placing the receiver softly in its cradle.
Grabbing a jacket and his keys, Angel flew out the door.
**
"I'm coming already," Cordelia said, making her way from her bedroom to her front door and yanking it open after checking the view through the peephole. "Angel," she said. "What are you doing here? It's three o'clock in the morning."
"Cordelia, I need to ask you something. I'm not trying to embarrass you, but I need you to tell me the truth."
Cordelia clutched her robe tighter and nodded, "Okay. Shoot."
"Did you come by my place a couple nights ago, drunk?"
"I thought you said you weren't going to embarrass me. I thought we'd put that little…miscalculation behind us," Cordelia said with a frown.
"So, you did come by? You were drunk?"
"Well, yes. But only a teensy bit drunk and only a teensy bit…okay, way out of line," Cordelia said. "I don't understand why we have to talk about this now, at three o'clock in the morning, when I'm all sleep-ugly."
"Did I tell you why I wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with you?" Angel asked.
"No, as a matter of fact, I told you."
"You told me? How's that?" Angel said.
"You know, I …touched you…inappropriately, my hand slipped…" Cordelia started. "Then I knew. I had like this premonition or something...of this girl, this blonde girl…and I knew," Cordelia hung her head and whispered, "I knew you weren't available, not to me."
"Okay," Angel said. "I'm sorry to put you on the spot. And I'm sorry if I hurt you."
Cordelia shook her head, "I'm alright, Angel. I should be apologizing to you."
Angel reached out and took Cordelia's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "I am sorry."
Cordelia smiled. "Don't be, Angel, things aren't meant to be different. Things are what they are."
**
On the street, Angel consulted his wristwatch and decided that he didn't have any time to spare. Climbing back into his sleek Tercel, he headed north.
**
"Alright, already. Holy Mary Mother of Merciful…" and the door opened to reveal, Lorne.
"Okay, something really freaky is going on," Angel said, pushing his way past Lorne and into the room beyond.
"Yes, indeedy," Lorne said. "You woke me up. There's nothing more freaky than that."
"Do you know what's going on?" Angel said, stepping menacingly into Lorne's personal space.
"Dollface, I see all…well, not all, but most. What did you think…poof, it would all just magically right itself?"
Angel shrugged, "Well, yeah, sort of, I guess."
Moving to a small bar and uncorking a bottle of scotch, Lorne said, " Oh, if only life were that simple."
"But my life was that simple, Lorne. This life. Not that life."
"Ahh, well, there's the rub," Lorne said with a small smile. "In this one instance, you can't have your cake and eat it, too."
"But I was going to go back. I was going to set things right. I had the crystal and the powder for the circle…and I did the circle and nothing happened."
Lorne shook his head, "Pffft. That magic wasn't gonna get you anywhere. And besides, that's not quite all you did is it, lover?"
"What are you talking about?" Angel said. "You can't mean that there was a no sex clause in this life, too."
Lorne shrugged and swallowed his scotch. "I don't make the rules."
"Well, who in the hell does?"
"That would be me," said a voice from the dark hall.
"Angel, I'd like you to meet Fred, an emissary for the Oracles."
XVII
She was a small, wisp of a thing: a twig Angel felt he could snap in two with his bare hands. Her long brown hair was twisted haphazardly into one long plait down her back. She stood, regarding him with extreme interest, occasionally pushing her glasses back up her nose with a skinny index finger.
"You're an emissary? For the," he looked back at Lorne.
"The Oracles," Lorne whispered.
"The Oracles," repeated Angel to Fred.
She shrugged delicately. "It's a temporary position, really."
"Shall we sit?" Lorne suggested.
Fred nodded and moved to one of several chairs grouped around a low, glass table piled with magazines.
"I'm sure you have questions," Fred said, before Angel had even settled into his own chair. "And I'm sure I can provide you with answers."
"You're not the first person that has made that particular promise," Angel said, tightly.
Fred rolled her eyes and pushed at her glasses again. "We did have some unexpected interference."
Angel shot a look at Lorne.
"Oh, not me, dollface," Lorne said, swirling his scotch and smiling broadly.
"Willow?" Angel asked
"Yes. Her intentions were good. She apparently decided to conjure her own alternate reality, but it undermined what we were trying to accomplish. Wiccas, they're all razzle dazzle, no substance."
"So are you saying all this has been a dream?" Angel said, incredulously.
"No, not exactly," Fred replied.
"But some of it?" Angel asked.
"Some of it, yes," Fred conceded.
"Who in the hell am I?" Angel said, with no small measure of exasperation evident in his voice.
"You're Angel, of course," Fred replied, as though that fact should have been the most obvious thing of all.
"Which Angel? Vampire Angel or…human Angel," he asked with a hint of desperation.
"Oh," Fred said. "Oh." She looked over at Lorne and he smiled encouragingly.
"Nothing like getting to the big questions first, I suppose," Fred said. "Like I told you, this is a temporary thing for me…I'm supposed to be somewhere else, really, and so are you."
Angel stood up and then, immediately, sat back down. "Can't any of you people talk in English?"
Lorne reached over to pat Angel's knee. "Honestly, Fred, could you put the man out his misery?"
"Oh, yes, sorry. It was silly of me to hedge," Fred said, sliding her glasses up her nose once more.
Angel slumped miserably in his chair and waited.
"You asked if you were human. The short answer is no," Fred said without preamble. "You are, in fact, a vampire."
"That doesn't make any sense," Angel said. "Why do this? Why make me human?"
Fred regarded him sympathetically, "It's what you wanted most in the world…so it's what we made for you. From the moment you thought you saw Buffy on the street, coming here to see Lorne, dinner, all of it…a waking dream. You see, Angel, you left Buffy and no one thought you would. You weren't meant to. We diverted you from the path you chose and we gave you the path you dream about most often…a life, a human life with Buffy."
"All this because I left Sunnydale? I left to protect Buffy. I wanted her to have a normal life, " Angel protested.
"Yes, but, you see, your life will get very complicated."
"More complicated than this?" Angel scoffed.
"Considerably more complicated," Fred assured him. "And not just for you, but for Buffy, too."
"Is this a dream?"
"I'm not comfortable describing this as a 'dream,' actually. But there's really no other word. It's more like existing on two different planes of reality, they run parallel to each other but they never touch."
"Why can't I stay here?"
"Because that's not your destiny. And would you really want to leave Buffy forever?"
"Of course not," Angel whispered. "But you put me here without any knowledge of her. What was the point of that?"
"It was a manipulation, of sorts."
"What were you manipulating?"
"You, of course. But that's where Willow entered things, going all happy with the spells and the potions, giving Buffy these incredible dreams about you. At that point we took a step back."
"I tried to go back tonight. Willow gave me a crystal and some powder and I was going to go back," Angel said defensively. "But I'm not sure I understand what difference it will make. Nothing's changed. I mean, I left so Buffy could have a normal life."
"No. You left Sunnydale because you couldn't…" Fred hesitated.
"What Fred wants to say, but is too polite, is that you left because you couldn't make love to her,"
"That's not true," Angel argued.
"It is true. After the first time, you were worried about your soul, and rightfully so. But you should have trusted in Buffy's feelings for you, which were pure, and didn't come with any strings attached."
Angel shook his head. "Buffy is okay, right?"
"For now. Yes. But now you need to make a choice, Angel. If you stay here, you risk losing a great deal. If you go back, the road isn't likely to be any easier. You have faced many impediments on your journey. What made you think that Buffy was ever an obstacle you could walk away from?"
**
Angel awoke with a start. The room was eerily gray and unfamiliar. His head felt fuzzy, his tongue felt swollen. He needed a drink and he pulled himself out of bed and wandered toward the door.
Something wasn't right. This wasn't his apartment. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the flesh of his palm and still; something was wrong. Stubbing his toe on the corner of a chair he hadn't noticed in the gloom, Angel swore and then yanked open the refrigerator door. Hanging in a neat row were six bags of blood.
XVIII
In the pool of light thrown by the frig, Angel paused. Tentatively, he reached out a finger and poked one of the little bags. It swayed heavily and Angel could smell the blood beneath the plastic.
Angel sank to his knees and sobbed.
**
Hours later, Angel moaned himself awake. He hadn't moved from his spot in front of the refrigerator and his body felt cramped. He was hungry, hungrier than he could ever remember being and he reached for a bag of blood, tore it open and drank deeply.
Pulling himself off the floor, he walked back into the bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. The past couple of days filtered through his mind like a movie replaying in slow motion. He didn't pretend to understand the machinations contrived by the powers or Willow, but he did understand the result. The powerful illusion that the powers had constructed had fallen apart like a spider's web caught in a hailstorm. Already the filaments of his other life were receding into the distant past.
Angel went to the closet and took down a battered box. Despite the fact that Angel loved fine things, was a creature of comforts, he'd rarely kept personal mementos. How could he store decade after decade of his life? He had, however, kept these few things: a leather bound volume of sketches he'd done, one photograph of Buffy from the night of the prom and the claddagh rings; his, and hers. He'd found hers on the floor of the mansion when he'd returned from hell. He slipped his on his finger and hers into his pocket. Then he waited.
At dusk he did the only thing he knew to do. He climbed into his beat up car and headed for Sunnydale. He didn't spend the drive home trying to unravel the gnarly web the powers had caught him in: part dream, part sub- conscious yearning. He knew only that he had done nothing honourable here. He wasn't sure how returning to her was going to make anything any better, but he was sure that staying away was no longer the right thing, either.
He had no idea where he would find Buffy. He had no idea which day or week or month it was, or how long he'd been gone. It felt as though a century had passed since he'd last seen her, standing in the steaming rubble that had been Sunnydale High School. Would the Powers have interfered so much that he would find himself standing across the parking lot with the courage to walk toward her instead of away from her? Would he have the opportunity to quell the fear and sadness and heartbreak before it made its way to her eyes? Angel knew one thing for certain: he didn't deserve that kind of second chance.
Fred, Willow, Lorne; none of them had said anything to indicate what was to become of them. Worse, in this "dream" state, he had made love to Buffy, again. And he would have made love to her again. And again, had he known that she would be stolen away from him.
He pounded the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. His eyes glowed amber in the rear view mirror. Los Angeles behind him. Buffy in front. Miles and miles to go.
**
The Bronze was a bust. Buffy always let Xander and Willow convince her that 'this time' would be fun, but it never was. Never. Her eyes were constantly drawn to the shadows even though she no longer had the familiar feeling that he was lurking there. She missed that feeling.
"You should come dance with us," Willow said, energetically. "You should be in dance mode."
"I should be in patrol mode," Buffy said.
"Oh, we could go with. If you want," Willow said.
"Nah, it's okay. It's been quiet," Buffy said, with a forced smile.
"Well, I'd better go rescue Xander before he steps on any more toes. You know there's always a risk that Anya will have a relapse and reek vengeance on him," Willow laughed.
"See you later then," Buffy said, sliding down from her stool and heading for the exit.
Fresh air hit her face and she sucked it in gratefully. She had no intentions of patrolling, not tonight. Tonight she wanted a bath, Mr Gordo and her bed, in exactly that order. She walked briskly to her house. She was met with silence; her mother was away on business.
She stopped in the bathroom long enough to plug the tub and start the water, adding a capful of lavender bubble bath. Retrieving her pyjamas from the hook on the door in her bedroom, she paused only long enough to give her face a cursory glance in the mirror on the front of the closet door.
"Brutal," she said, shaking her head.
The bathroom was steamy and fragrant and Buffy undressed and crawled, with a sigh, into the hot water. Why did it seem like a tub full of bubbles could solve anything, she wondered. Closing her eyes, she drifted.
**
Instant replay.
Images of Angel crowded behind her eyes almost every time she closed them. Things he'd said. Things he'd done. The way he touched her like she was something precious that might break, even though he knew she was stronger than him. His voice: velvet.
Buffy never tried to push the thoughts away. She never tried to stop the tremors that rolled through her body; tiny, rippling waves on an empty shore. She never tried to pretend, even for a moment, that he wasn't the most important person in her life. Even though he was no longer in her life.
Instead, she let herself be carried away by the memory of…the way he smelled of clean skin. The way he looked at her, through her, as intimate as any touch. The way he touched her, with intent. The way he held her, his strong arms full of steely tenderness. The way she knew that he loved her, even when he couldn't say the words. Even though he couldn't stay.
That was always the point in the fantasy when Buffy would feel the wild panic rise up into her throat like gorge. Gone. Then, the cooling water in the tub was no comfort anymore and Buffy would have to get up, wrap herself in her towel and move to the safety and comfort of her bed and her stuffed pig.
**
The school was gone. Angel slowed the car and let the impact of the razed lot wash over him. It must be strange for those left behind to have the constant reminder of chaos always around the corner from them. Accelerating, Angel headed for Revello Drive.
**
The Summers' house was dark, except for a dim light burning in the upstairs bathroom window. Angel parked the car and got out. He felt calm, sure, terrified.
Walking around to the back of the house, Angel climbed the trellis on the side of the house and edged himself over the window ledge. He knew in an instant that, while she wasn't in the room, she was close. He sat in a chair in a shadowy corner and waited.
**
A fluffy white towel wrapped around her, her hair pinned on top of her head, the weariness in her face, blurred, Angel was quite sure that she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. He felt her hackles rise, her sixth sense kicking in, as soon as she entered the room. She reached immediately for the light switch.
"Leave it," he whispered and thought to himself, 'I may as well get used to it again.'
"Angel?"
"Yes," he said, simply.
"What's wrong?" Buffy asked, taking a small step toward him.
Her question broke his heart. "Everything is wrong, Buffy." he said, rising to his feet and closing the distance between them in two long strides.
She shook her head and stepped back. "You're not here. This is a dream. You're not here."
"No, not a dream," Angel assured her, reaching out to place his hand flat against the curve of her cheek, holding it there while it drew in the heat of her skin, flushed from the bath.
Placing her hand on top of his, she raised her eyes and met Angel's. "It is a dream. It doesn't matter that you can touch me," her voice cracked. "You touch me all the time in my dreams."
"I have those dreams, too," Angel said. "I dream of you. I dream about how it feels to hold you, how you fit perfectly under my chin. I dream about your mouth and how kissing you is like slaking an incredible thirst. I dream about…" Angel stopped.
"What?" Buffy whispered, still convinced he wasn't there.
Angel dropped his hand and knelt before her, his head pressed into the flat of her belly. "I dream about making love to you." Angel tugged on the towel and it fell, a puddle at her feet. His arms snaked around her and he held her close, the stubble of his chin rasping gently against her. He didn't know why it was so important to feel her warm, naked flesh; didn't know why he felt it necessary to torture himself with what he knew he couldn't have. It had simply seemed the most natural thing in the world and he'd done it: instinct.
He felt the first tear hit his head. Then another. "Please, Buffy. Please don't cry."
She wound her hands through his thick hair, and whispered, "Stop. I can't do this anymore. It's too much."
"I am here, Buffy. Here in Sunnydale, here in this room," Angel said.
He stood and led Buffy to the bed, wrapping her dressing gown around her shaking shoulders. "Look at me," Angel said. "I need you to look at me."
Buffy opened her eyes and fixed them on Angel's chin. He took a finger and gently tilted her head up until her eyes met his own.
"You know, they say that the eyes are the window to the soul. I've never really appreciated the gift that my soul is until this moment."
Buffy sniffed. "Why are you here, Angel, if you really are here. And if you really aren't, go away. I'm tired."
Angel smiled. "I drove all the way from LA. I guess I was hoping for a better reception."
"Oh, really?"
"I don't blame you for being mad. It's been a while."
"It's been a week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours," Buffy said, dismally.
"Gee, when the Powers play with time, they don't mess around."
"What are you talking about?" Buffy asked.
"You were in my dreams. I saw you in LA. We had dinner. We went to see a funny guy who read our auras…"
Buffy's eyes widened, drawing Angel into their depths until he felt as though he was drowning.
"We'd never met, you didn't know me…Willow was there…" she said
"And Spike and Wesley and Xander…"
"Delivered us a pizza." Buffy finished. "I had those dreams, Angel. I was in those dreams. We…"
"Yes, love, we did."
"I thought I was going crazy."
"Turns out, it is even more complicated than that. The Powers set about to make things right between us and, Willow, independently, set out to do the same…so we were sort of having a dream within a dream…bizarre."
"What do you mean, set things right?" Buffy asked.
"Do you believe in fate, Buffy?"
"Of course," Buffy said.
Angel nodded and stood. "Of course you do. But if I believed in fate then I would have to believe that it was my destiny to become a vampire, my destiny to torture and kill innocent people."
"And then your destiny to make it right, to make restitution."
"Yes, "Angel agreed. "And then fated that I would meet you."
Buffy nodded. "Yes."
"And then, what, fated that I couldn't have you?"
"But Angel, you do have me. Every single moment, in all the ways that count, I belong to you. Even without this," Buffy pulled the collar of her dressing gown away to reveal the scar on her neck. "I would still belong to you."
"I know that. I knew it when I walked away from you. But you understand why I did, right? You understand what I wanted for you, what I couldn't give you? I thought it wasn't enough, Buffy."
"It was for me," Buffy said, softly.
Angel nodded, contritely, "It should have been for me, too. But I thought I knew more, knew what was best for you and I made the decision alone, without consulting you. I was a fool for not seeing what was right under my nose."
"So, why couldn't we have just stayed in the other world?" Buffy asked.
"It was an illusion. Fake. I guess I might have been able to stay, but not with you and I…couldn't stay, especially not after…" Angel stopped, his mind suddenly filled with images of tangled limbs, soft lips, golden hair, moans.
"I don't get it, then." Buffy said, interrupting his thoughts. "Nothing's changed. We still can't be together that way. You're still a vampire and I'm still the Slayer," Buffy said, bitterly.
"You're wrong, Buffy. Everything has changed."
"Your soul is bound?"
"No. That hasn't changed," Angel said, sadly. "In the dreams we did something we could never do before… and I don't mean just the sex…we walked in the sun. All I ever wanted was to be with you in the light, Buffy. The emissary for the Oracles told me that they created a world that gave me what I wanted most, to be human and to be with you. How will I ever get that chance if I walk away from you now?"
Buffy felt fresh tears flood her eyes.
Angel sat next to her and pulled her close. "You are my salvation, Buffy. You are my destiny." He pulled the Claddagh ring from his pocket. "Remember this?" He slipped it onto her finger.
Buffy nodded, tears coming in earnest now, her fingers tracing the Claddagh's hands, heart and crown.
"You belong to me and I belong to you," Angel said.
"Always." Buffy whispered. "But I don't understand how it will be any different this time, how, knowing what you know, you could give it all up."
"I gave up nothing, Buffy. Nothing compared to what I'd be losing if I lost you. We'll fight together, until the end."
He kissed her then, his lips lingering, smoothing their way over hers. And when he broke the kiss, he stayed close and murmured against her lips, "I love you. In this life. In the next."
Angel lay down on the bed, and pulled Buffy into the safety of his arms. He could feel her warmth, her breath against his neck, her heart thumping next to his own chest and he closed his eyes. No longer lost, Angel was home.
Beside him, Buffy watched the smooth column of Angel's throat, felt his cool body leeching the warmth from her own and whispered, "I love you, too."
**
In LA, Fred and Lorne clinked martini glasses and smiled.
"Well, for your first kick at the can you did okay, Fred," Lorne said.
"Why, thank you, kind sir," Fred smiled. "I feel sorta bad for them, though. You know, all that angst. All that…"
"Lust?" Lorne laughed. "Imagine how great it'll be when Angel finally gets his shanshu…oh, the walls are gonna come tumblin'down."
"He'll get it then, his reward, his humanity?" Fred asked.
"Honey, it's written in the stars."
The End
Buffy wasn't surprised that, as soon as he'd shut the door behind him, Angel pulled her against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Buffy," he whispered into her hair. "I am so sorry for leaving."
"Don't be, Angel. You did what you had to do and, in my heart, I forgave you."
"I'm not sure I've forgiven myself, though," he said, dropping a kiss onto her honeyed hair.
Snaking her hands between them and using his hard chest as leverage to tilt her body back so she could see him, Buffy said, "You have more important things to think about, right now, Angel."
"More important than this?" Angel said, moving his face nearer.
Buffy's heart began to race. She wasn't sure she could stand this much intimacy without spontaneously combusting like a Spinal Tap drummer.
"Angel," she said. "I…"
"Listen to me, just for a minute, before you try to talk me out of doing anything," Angel said, taking Buffy's hand and leading her to the couch.
Seated across from him, her hand still held protectively in his much larger one, Buffy was struck with a thought. 'I would have loved you anyway. Even if I weren't the Slayer and you weren't a vampire, I would still love you.' Drifting back to the sound of Angel's voice, Buffy was acutely aware of the heat of him, of his thumb pressing lazy circles on the back of her hand, of the longing in his hooded eyes.
"Kiss me," she said.
Angel smiled, a small smile that tugged at one corner of his wide mouth just a little; a smile that was almost a smirk and so familiar Buffy almost cried. Without letting go of her hand, Angel leaned forward and pressed his mouth firmly against hers: a chaste kiss, a promise.
Buffy could do nothing to prevent the tears, now. She felt them slide down her cheeks, into their joined mouths, felt Angel's tongue slip from his own mouth discreetly, to lap at them delicately, felt his fingers on her face trying to stem the flow, felt his body shudder with recognition as she pressed her own aching body closer.
"Buffy," he moaned into her mouth.
"Please, Angel," Buffy said against his mouth. "Don't try to talk me out of this."
Small, nimble fingers worked their way up the front of Angel's silk shirt, releasing buttons as they went. Slipping her hands inside the material, Buffy marveled at the heat where she half expected to find cool, hard flesh. She took a breath and bent forward to place a wet kiss at the hollow of Angel's throat.
Sliding the shirt over muscular shoulders and arms, Buffy felt panic well up inside her. How would Angel ever be able to choose if they went any further? She banished the thought. How can I not touch him? Her hands reached for the snap on his pants and it was there that Angel's hand stilled her own.
He tilted her head up, kissed her tenderly and shook his head. "Not here, Buffy. I am not going to make love to you on a couch, like some teenager."
"I don't care, Angel."
"I do."
**
In the bedroom, naked, they were solemn. They stood, illuminated by the twilight, fingers touching fingers, eyes searching for proof. Not a word was spoken. In silence, Angel lay her down. In silence, he adored her. He had the chance to make up to her all his past shortcomings: that he hadn't been man enough, hadn't been strong enough, hadn't loved her enough to overcome.
So now, as she lay vulnerable to his fingers and lips and tongue, as he pushed his own need away, as he worshipped her, pulling her along a path to release and salvation, setting her down gently and then pulling her along again, Angel had only one thought: I can't go back. to the darkness.
**
Blinded by tears, Buffy cried out, not when Angel entered her, but when she could no longer feel him inside.
**
He watched her for endless minutes, after she had finally fallen asleep. He could barely bring himself to leave the warmth of their shared bed, but he had to leave, while he had the strength. If he dared to touch her; place his palm across her supple back, or cup her rounded breast, or run a finger along her love-swollen labia he would not be able to go. He lay on his side, breathing in the air she exhaled as though his life depended on it.
"Buffy," he whispered to her sleeping form. "I think I once told you that in 243 years you were the only person I'd ever loved. You. Just you."
Kissing each eyelid, Angel rose quietly from the bed, grabbed pants and shirt from the floor, and left the room.
**
The crystal and pouch were in his jacket pocket and Angel retrieved them and went into his study. Switching on a little light over his desk, he opened the pouch and reached his fingers inside. Powder of some sort and a piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and read:
"Pour a counter clockwise circle with the powder and sit inside of the circle holding the crystal in your right hand. Patience is a virtue."
Pushing his reading chair out of the way and lamenting, for just a second, about the powder sinking into the deep pile of his Oriental rug, Angel followed Willow's instructions.
Folding his long legs into a classic yoga meditation pose and holding the crystal in his right hand, Angel waited.
**
He must have fallen asleep; that's what he thought when he opened his eyes only to discover that he was sitting in a circle of salt in his den. He felt stiff all over, his hand a cramped claw around the crystal.
"I must have done something wrong," Angel said to himself, unfolding his numb legs and pushing himself off the floor. "How could I do something wrong? The instructions weren't exactly rocket science."
Angel left the den and made his way back to the bedroom. Stifling a yawn, he pushed open the door for a look at Buffy to discover:
No Buffy. No evidence of Buffy. A bed made so snugly a quarter bounced on the spread would have easily hit the ceiling. No smell of Buffy. No. Buffy.
XVI
It occurred to her, as she made yet another heartless pass through the cemetery, that this was getting old. While most teens couldn't wait to grow up, move on, Buffy felt as though her high school years had flashed before her eyes: a train wreck.
She had nothing to hold on to and the one person she thought she could count on was gone. Left her. But Buffy couldn't think about that, not now, not when she needed to concentrate on the silent night.
She hadn't been sleeping well. She'd been having such weird dreams. Detailed dreams, where she was just a normal girl and he was a normal guy and they walked together in the sunshine. And last night…Buffy blushed just thinking about the way he'd split her open like fruit, sucking the very last bit of nectar from her until she'd screamed for him to stop. And, God, he hadn't stopped.
But it had only been a dream and Buffy had awoken feeling even sadder than before. Before the sewer talk and before the prom and before he had told her that when it was over, he wasn't even going to say goodbye. And now he was gone and there was only one thing Buffy knew for sure: that old 'time heals all' thing was crap.
**
Angel called the Hilton and asked for Buffy's room.
"I'm sorry, sir," a sterile voice informed him, " there's no Buffy Summers registered at this hotel."
Angel swallowed his panic. 'You mean she's checked out."
"No, there has never been a Buffy Summers staying here."
Angel called Wesley. "Where's Rupert Giles staying?"
"Angel are you aware of the time," Wesley said, sleepily.
"Wes, this is important, where is he?"
"Angel, he's not even due in LA for another week. Are you alright?"
"No. No, I don't think I am," Angel said, placing the receiver softly in its cradle.
Grabbing a jacket and his keys, Angel flew out the door.
**
"I'm coming already," Cordelia said, making her way from her bedroom to her front door and yanking it open after checking the view through the peephole. "Angel," she said. "What are you doing here? It's three o'clock in the morning."
"Cordelia, I need to ask you something. I'm not trying to embarrass you, but I need you to tell me the truth."
Cordelia clutched her robe tighter and nodded, "Okay. Shoot."
"Did you come by my place a couple nights ago, drunk?"
"I thought you said you weren't going to embarrass me. I thought we'd put that little…miscalculation behind us," Cordelia said with a frown.
"So, you did come by? You were drunk?"
"Well, yes. But only a teensy bit drunk and only a teensy bit…okay, way out of line," Cordelia said. "I don't understand why we have to talk about this now, at three o'clock in the morning, when I'm all sleep-ugly."
"Did I tell you why I wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with you?" Angel asked.
"No, as a matter of fact, I told you."
"You told me? How's that?" Angel said.
"You know, I …touched you…inappropriately, my hand slipped…" Cordelia started. "Then I knew. I had like this premonition or something...of this girl, this blonde girl…and I knew," Cordelia hung her head and whispered, "I knew you weren't available, not to me."
"Okay," Angel said. "I'm sorry to put you on the spot. And I'm sorry if I hurt you."
Cordelia shook her head, "I'm alright, Angel. I should be apologizing to you."
Angel reached out and took Cordelia's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "I am sorry."
Cordelia smiled. "Don't be, Angel, things aren't meant to be different. Things are what they are."
**
On the street, Angel consulted his wristwatch and decided that he didn't have any time to spare. Climbing back into his sleek Tercel, he headed north.
**
"Alright, already. Holy Mary Mother of Merciful…" and the door opened to reveal, Lorne.
"Okay, something really freaky is going on," Angel said, pushing his way past Lorne and into the room beyond.
"Yes, indeedy," Lorne said. "You woke me up. There's nothing more freaky than that."
"Do you know what's going on?" Angel said, stepping menacingly into Lorne's personal space.
"Dollface, I see all…well, not all, but most. What did you think…poof, it would all just magically right itself?"
Angel shrugged, "Well, yeah, sort of, I guess."
Moving to a small bar and uncorking a bottle of scotch, Lorne said, " Oh, if only life were that simple."
"But my life was that simple, Lorne. This life. Not that life."
"Ahh, well, there's the rub," Lorne said with a small smile. "In this one instance, you can't have your cake and eat it, too."
"But I was going to go back. I was going to set things right. I had the crystal and the powder for the circle…and I did the circle and nothing happened."
Lorne shook his head, "Pffft. That magic wasn't gonna get you anywhere. And besides, that's not quite all you did is it, lover?"
"What are you talking about?" Angel said. "You can't mean that there was a no sex clause in this life, too."
Lorne shrugged and swallowed his scotch. "I don't make the rules."
"Well, who in the hell does?"
"That would be me," said a voice from the dark hall.
"Angel, I'd like you to meet Fred, an emissary for the Oracles."
XVII
She was a small, wisp of a thing: a twig Angel felt he could snap in two with his bare hands. Her long brown hair was twisted haphazardly into one long plait down her back. She stood, regarding him with extreme interest, occasionally pushing her glasses back up her nose with a skinny index finger.
"You're an emissary? For the," he looked back at Lorne.
"The Oracles," Lorne whispered.
"The Oracles," repeated Angel to Fred.
She shrugged delicately. "It's a temporary position, really."
"Shall we sit?" Lorne suggested.
Fred nodded and moved to one of several chairs grouped around a low, glass table piled with magazines.
"I'm sure you have questions," Fred said, before Angel had even settled into his own chair. "And I'm sure I can provide you with answers."
"You're not the first person that has made that particular promise," Angel said, tightly.
Fred rolled her eyes and pushed at her glasses again. "We did have some unexpected interference."
Angel shot a look at Lorne.
"Oh, not me, dollface," Lorne said, swirling his scotch and smiling broadly.
"Willow?" Angel asked
"Yes. Her intentions were good. She apparently decided to conjure her own alternate reality, but it undermined what we were trying to accomplish. Wiccas, they're all razzle dazzle, no substance."
"So are you saying all this has been a dream?" Angel said, incredulously.
"No, not exactly," Fred replied.
"But some of it?" Angel asked.
"Some of it, yes," Fred conceded.
"Who in the hell am I?" Angel said, with no small measure of exasperation evident in his voice.
"You're Angel, of course," Fred replied, as though that fact should have been the most obvious thing of all.
"Which Angel? Vampire Angel or…human Angel," he asked with a hint of desperation.
"Oh," Fred said. "Oh." She looked over at Lorne and he smiled encouragingly.
"Nothing like getting to the big questions first, I suppose," Fred said. "Like I told you, this is a temporary thing for me…I'm supposed to be somewhere else, really, and so are you."
Angel stood up and then, immediately, sat back down. "Can't any of you people talk in English?"
Lorne reached over to pat Angel's knee. "Honestly, Fred, could you put the man out his misery?"
"Oh, yes, sorry. It was silly of me to hedge," Fred said, sliding her glasses up her nose once more.
Angel slumped miserably in his chair and waited.
"You asked if you were human. The short answer is no," Fred said without preamble. "You are, in fact, a vampire."
"That doesn't make any sense," Angel said. "Why do this? Why make me human?"
Fred regarded him sympathetically, "It's what you wanted most in the world…so it's what we made for you. From the moment you thought you saw Buffy on the street, coming here to see Lorne, dinner, all of it…a waking dream. You see, Angel, you left Buffy and no one thought you would. You weren't meant to. We diverted you from the path you chose and we gave you the path you dream about most often…a life, a human life with Buffy."
"All this because I left Sunnydale? I left to protect Buffy. I wanted her to have a normal life, " Angel protested.
"Yes, but, you see, your life will get very complicated."
"More complicated than this?" Angel scoffed.
"Considerably more complicated," Fred assured him. "And not just for you, but for Buffy, too."
"Is this a dream?"
"I'm not comfortable describing this as a 'dream,' actually. But there's really no other word. It's more like existing on two different planes of reality, they run parallel to each other but they never touch."
"Why can't I stay here?"
"Because that's not your destiny. And would you really want to leave Buffy forever?"
"Of course not," Angel whispered. "But you put me here without any knowledge of her. What was the point of that?"
"It was a manipulation, of sorts."
"What were you manipulating?"
"You, of course. But that's where Willow entered things, going all happy with the spells and the potions, giving Buffy these incredible dreams about you. At that point we took a step back."
"I tried to go back tonight. Willow gave me a crystal and some powder and I was going to go back," Angel said defensively. "But I'm not sure I understand what difference it will make. Nothing's changed. I mean, I left so Buffy could have a normal life."
"No. You left Sunnydale because you couldn't…" Fred hesitated.
"What Fred wants to say, but is too polite, is that you left because you couldn't make love to her,"
"That's not true," Angel argued.
"It is true. After the first time, you were worried about your soul, and rightfully so. But you should have trusted in Buffy's feelings for you, which were pure, and didn't come with any strings attached."
Angel shook his head. "Buffy is okay, right?"
"For now. Yes. But now you need to make a choice, Angel. If you stay here, you risk losing a great deal. If you go back, the road isn't likely to be any easier. You have faced many impediments on your journey. What made you think that Buffy was ever an obstacle you could walk away from?"
**
Angel awoke with a start. The room was eerily gray and unfamiliar. His head felt fuzzy, his tongue felt swollen. He needed a drink and he pulled himself out of bed and wandered toward the door.
Something wasn't right. This wasn't his apartment. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the flesh of his palm and still; something was wrong. Stubbing his toe on the corner of a chair he hadn't noticed in the gloom, Angel swore and then yanked open the refrigerator door. Hanging in a neat row were six bags of blood.
XVIII
In the pool of light thrown by the frig, Angel paused. Tentatively, he reached out a finger and poked one of the little bags. It swayed heavily and Angel could smell the blood beneath the plastic.
Angel sank to his knees and sobbed.
**
Hours later, Angel moaned himself awake. He hadn't moved from his spot in front of the refrigerator and his body felt cramped. He was hungry, hungrier than he could ever remember being and he reached for a bag of blood, tore it open and drank deeply.
Pulling himself off the floor, he walked back into the bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. The past couple of days filtered through his mind like a movie replaying in slow motion. He didn't pretend to understand the machinations contrived by the powers or Willow, but he did understand the result. The powerful illusion that the powers had constructed had fallen apart like a spider's web caught in a hailstorm. Already the filaments of his other life were receding into the distant past.
Angel went to the closet and took down a battered box. Despite the fact that Angel loved fine things, was a creature of comforts, he'd rarely kept personal mementos. How could he store decade after decade of his life? He had, however, kept these few things: a leather bound volume of sketches he'd done, one photograph of Buffy from the night of the prom and the claddagh rings; his, and hers. He'd found hers on the floor of the mansion when he'd returned from hell. He slipped his on his finger and hers into his pocket. Then he waited.
At dusk he did the only thing he knew to do. He climbed into his beat up car and headed for Sunnydale. He didn't spend the drive home trying to unravel the gnarly web the powers had caught him in: part dream, part sub- conscious yearning. He knew only that he had done nothing honourable here. He wasn't sure how returning to her was going to make anything any better, but he was sure that staying away was no longer the right thing, either.
He had no idea where he would find Buffy. He had no idea which day or week or month it was, or how long he'd been gone. It felt as though a century had passed since he'd last seen her, standing in the steaming rubble that had been Sunnydale High School. Would the Powers have interfered so much that he would find himself standing across the parking lot with the courage to walk toward her instead of away from her? Would he have the opportunity to quell the fear and sadness and heartbreak before it made its way to her eyes? Angel knew one thing for certain: he didn't deserve that kind of second chance.
Fred, Willow, Lorne; none of them had said anything to indicate what was to become of them. Worse, in this "dream" state, he had made love to Buffy, again. And he would have made love to her again. And again, had he known that she would be stolen away from him.
He pounded the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. His eyes glowed amber in the rear view mirror. Los Angeles behind him. Buffy in front. Miles and miles to go.
**
The Bronze was a bust. Buffy always let Xander and Willow convince her that 'this time' would be fun, but it never was. Never. Her eyes were constantly drawn to the shadows even though she no longer had the familiar feeling that he was lurking there. She missed that feeling.
"You should come dance with us," Willow said, energetically. "You should be in dance mode."
"I should be in patrol mode," Buffy said.
"Oh, we could go with. If you want," Willow said.
"Nah, it's okay. It's been quiet," Buffy said, with a forced smile.
"Well, I'd better go rescue Xander before he steps on any more toes. You know there's always a risk that Anya will have a relapse and reek vengeance on him," Willow laughed.
"See you later then," Buffy said, sliding down from her stool and heading for the exit.
Fresh air hit her face and she sucked it in gratefully. She had no intentions of patrolling, not tonight. Tonight she wanted a bath, Mr Gordo and her bed, in exactly that order. She walked briskly to her house. She was met with silence; her mother was away on business.
She stopped in the bathroom long enough to plug the tub and start the water, adding a capful of lavender bubble bath. Retrieving her pyjamas from the hook on the door in her bedroom, she paused only long enough to give her face a cursory glance in the mirror on the front of the closet door.
"Brutal," she said, shaking her head.
The bathroom was steamy and fragrant and Buffy undressed and crawled, with a sigh, into the hot water. Why did it seem like a tub full of bubbles could solve anything, she wondered. Closing her eyes, she drifted.
**
Instant replay.
Images of Angel crowded behind her eyes almost every time she closed them. Things he'd said. Things he'd done. The way he touched her like she was something precious that might break, even though he knew she was stronger than him. His voice: velvet.
Buffy never tried to push the thoughts away. She never tried to stop the tremors that rolled through her body; tiny, rippling waves on an empty shore. She never tried to pretend, even for a moment, that he wasn't the most important person in her life. Even though he was no longer in her life.
Instead, she let herself be carried away by the memory of…the way he smelled of clean skin. The way he looked at her, through her, as intimate as any touch. The way he touched her, with intent. The way he held her, his strong arms full of steely tenderness. The way she knew that he loved her, even when he couldn't say the words. Even though he couldn't stay.
That was always the point in the fantasy when Buffy would feel the wild panic rise up into her throat like gorge. Gone. Then, the cooling water in the tub was no comfort anymore and Buffy would have to get up, wrap herself in her towel and move to the safety and comfort of her bed and her stuffed pig.
**
The school was gone. Angel slowed the car and let the impact of the razed lot wash over him. It must be strange for those left behind to have the constant reminder of chaos always around the corner from them. Accelerating, Angel headed for Revello Drive.
**
The Summers' house was dark, except for a dim light burning in the upstairs bathroom window. Angel parked the car and got out. He felt calm, sure, terrified.
Walking around to the back of the house, Angel climbed the trellis on the side of the house and edged himself over the window ledge. He knew in an instant that, while she wasn't in the room, she was close. He sat in a chair in a shadowy corner and waited.
**
A fluffy white towel wrapped around her, her hair pinned on top of her head, the weariness in her face, blurred, Angel was quite sure that she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. He felt her hackles rise, her sixth sense kicking in, as soon as she entered the room. She reached immediately for the light switch.
"Leave it," he whispered and thought to himself, 'I may as well get used to it again.'
"Angel?"
"Yes," he said, simply.
"What's wrong?" Buffy asked, taking a small step toward him.
Her question broke his heart. "Everything is wrong, Buffy." he said, rising to his feet and closing the distance between them in two long strides.
She shook her head and stepped back. "You're not here. This is a dream. You're not here."
"No, not a dream," Angel assured her, reaching out to place his hand flat against the curve of her cheek, holding it there while it drew in the heat of her skin, flushed from the bath.
Placing her hand on top of his, she raised her eyes and met Angel's. "It is a dream. It doesn't matter that you can touch me," her voice cracked. "You touch me all the time in my dreams."
"I have those dreams, too," Angel said. "I dream of you. I dream about how it feels to hold you, how you fit perfectly under my chin. I dream about your mouth and how kissing you is like slaking an incredible thirst. I dream about…" Angel stopped.
"What?" Buffy whispered, still convinced he wasn't there.
Angel dropped his hand and knelt before her, his head pressed into the flat of her belly. "I dream about making love to you." Angel tugged on the towel and it fell, a puddle at her feet. His arms snaked around her and he held her close, the stubble of his chin rasping gently against her. He didn't know why it was so important to feel her warm, naked flesh; didn't know why he felt it necessary to torture himself with what he knew he couldn't have. It had simply seemed the most natural thing in the world and he'd done it: instinct.
He felt the first tear hit his head. Then another. "Please, Buffy. Please don't cry."
She wound her hands through his thick hair, and whispered, "Stop. I can't do this anymore. It's too much."
"I am here, Buffy. Here in Sunnydale, here in this room," Angel said.
He stood and led Buffy to the bed, wrapping her dressing gown around her shaking shoulders. "Look at me," Angel said. "I need you to look at me."
Buffy opened her eyes and fixed them on Angel's chin. He took a finger and gently tilted her head up until her eyes met his own.
"You know, they say that the eyes are the window to the soul. I've never really appreciated the gift that my soul is until this moment."
Buffy sniffed. "Why are you here, Angel, if you really are here. And if you really aren't, go away. I'm tired."
Angel smiled. "I drove all the way from LA. I guess I was hoping for a better reception."
"Oh, really?"
"I don't blame you for being mad. It's been a while."
"It's been a week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours," Buffy said, dismally.
"Gee, when the Powers play with time, they don't mess around."
"What are you talking about?" Buffy asked.
"You were in my dreams. I saw you in LA. We had dinner. We went to see a funny guy who read our auras…"
Buffy's eyes widened, drawing Angel into their depths until he felt as though he was drowning.
"We'd never met, you didn't know me…Willow was there…" she said
"And Spike and Wesley and Xander…"
"Delivered us a pizza." Buffy finished. "I had those dreams, Angel. I was in those dreams. We…"
"Yes, love, we did."
"I thought I was going crazy."
"Turns out, it is even more complicated than that. The Powers set about to make things right between us and, Willow, independently, set out to do the same…so we were sort of having a dream within a dream…bizarre."
"What do you mean, set things right?" Buffy asked.
"Do you believe in fate, Buffy?"
"Of course," Buffy said.
Angel nodded and stood. "Of course you do. But if I believed in fate then I would have to believe that it was my destiny to become a vampire, my destiny to torture and kill innocent people."
"And then your destiny to make it right, to make restitution."
"Yes, "Angel agreed. "And then fated that I would meet you."
Buffy nodded. "Yes."
"And then, what, fated that I couldn't have you?"
"But Angel, you do have me. Every single moment, in all the ways that count, I belong to you. Even without this," Buffy pulled the collar of her dressing gown away to reveal the scar on her neck. "I would still belong to you."
"I know that. I knew it when I walked away from you. But you understand why I did, right? You understand what I wanted for you, what I couldn't give you? I thought it wasn't enough, Buffy."
"It was for me," Buffy said, softly.
Angel nodded, contritely, "It should have been for me, too. But I thought I knew more, knew what was best for you and I made the decision alone, without consulting you. I was a fool for not seeing what was right under my nose."
"So, why couldn't we have just stayed in the other world?" Buffy asked.
"It was an illusion. Fake. I guess I might have been able to stay, but not with you and I…couldn't stay, especially not after…" Angel stopped, his mind suddenly filled with images of tangled limbs, soft lips, golden hair, moans.
"I don't get it, then." Buffy said, interrupting his thoughts. "Nothing's changed. We still can't be together that way. You're still a vampire and I'm still the Slayer," Buffy said, bitterly.
"You're wrong, Buffy. Everything has changed."
"Your soul is bound?"
"No. That hasn't changed," Angel said, sadly. "In the dreams we did something we could never do before… and I don't mean just the sex…we walked in the sun. All I ever wanted was to be with you in the light, Buffy. The emissary for the Oracles told me that they created a world that gave me what I wanted most, to be human and to be with you. How will I ever get that chance if I walk away from you now?"
Buffy felt fresh tears flood her eyes.
Angel sat next to her and pulled her close. "You are my salvation, Buffy. You are my destiny." He pulled the Claddagh ring from his pocket. "Remember this?" He slipped it onto her finger.
Buffy nodded, tears coming in earnest now, her fingers tracing the Claddagh's hands, heart and crown.
"You belong to me and I belong to you," Angel said.
"Always." Buffy whispered. "But I don't understand how it will be any different this time, how, knowing what you know, you could give it all up."
"I gave up nothing, Buffy. Nothing compared to what I'd be losing if I lost you. We'll fight together, until the end."
He kissed her then, his lips lingering, smoothing their way over hers. And when he broke the kiss, he stayed close and murmured against her lips, "I love you. In this life. In the next."
Angel lay down on the bed, and pulled Buffy into the safety of his arms. He could feel her warmth, her breath against his neck, her heart thumping next to his own chest and he closed his eyes. No longer lost, Angel was home.
Beside him, Buffy watched the smooth column of Angel's throat, felt his cool body leeching the warmth from her own and whispered, "I love you, too."
**
In LA, Fred and Lorne clinked martini glasses and smiled.
"Well, for your first kick at the can you did okay, Fred," Lorne said.
"Why, thank you, kind sir," Fred smiled. "I feel sorta bad for them, though. You know, all that angst. All that…"
"Lust?" Lorne laughed. "Imagine how great it'll be when Angel finally gets his shanshu…oh, the walls are gonna come tumblin'down."
"He'll get it then, his reward, his humanity?" Fred asked.
"Honey, it's written in the stars."
The End