Dedication: For Emily. Emi this was written just for you, thanks for being the best table sis a girl could ever ask for. Looots of angst and woe, as well as a bit of b/a hope. grin The Internet is sooo my friend for letting me get to know you and all our weird coincidences. Love you. Sorch xx

Heat was holding my flesh tightly, in a sweaty grip that teased and made me writhe in my own skin, slowly, oh, so, slowly evaporating me away. I was becoming part of the smog that hung over Los Angeles, darkened and filthy.

My bones ached with the need to be cracked, lying face down in the same position for so long had taken its toll on my fragile frame, the body I destroyed. My face remained mottled over the left side, scratched deep by the sidewalk, my chest crushed from the body weight that was over me, I could still feel it. I still couldn't breathe, God, I couldn't breathe.

A fingertip light touch fell on my shoulder, a reminder of violation, crying out I pulled away, the strangled sob tearing itself from my throat before I realised who was behind me. A shuddering gasp refilled my battered lungs and I let the tears fall down from vacant eyes.

"Buffy?"

Warm and rich, my name slipped off his tongue, flowed like blood. Naturally, like it was my life that ebbs away. The lifeline he gives me, my IV, my life-support. I tried to speak, but the salt had dried my lips together, too sore to pull them apart I merely moved my head, a nod. Warily his hand moved closer to my face as he sat along side me, sinking into the warm, soft bed beneath. When I didn't move, his fingers did, reaching out for my painted eyelid coloured black and blue by make up and bruises.

They trailed to my mouth, leaving lines, like war paint. Was I a champion anymore? Did I deserve the camouflage of an honourable warrior? The red - my blood, my lipstick - began to mix with the blue 'shadow stains but I leaned my face into his palm, he was cool, he was water for the thirsty and food for the starved. He was an angel for the faithless and bread in a war.

"You okay?"

I don't know why he asked; there wasn't any visible skin that had its original colouring. There wasn't anything inside me that hadn't been stripped and degraded and left to rot. He couldn't see inside me so I can't blame him for that, one time maybe he could have, but you can't read a book when the pages are covered in dirt. I let my head fall in shame, averting his gaze and shook my head, so slightly, hardly discernible as a movement; but he caught it.

"What happened?"

I gave him a pained look, as if to say, you know what happened, please don't make me say it, please. I drew my gaze to my hands, anything but his eyes, until I noticed the shaking there. A sigh of the fear that had come afterwards, worse than before. The fear that still built in my gut even as I sat within reach of the only man that had ever made me feel safe, made me feel understood. I suddenly felt insanely esoteric as he pointed his gaze; fingers of his right hand wrapping round those of mine. The left raised my chin and I involuntarily made eye contact with him.

His voice was just as calm as when he first asked, but it prodded. He intended to make me say it. He intended to make me face it, ironic really, cause I wasn't facing it at the time. Frustrated humour, I know I'm sickened now.

"What happened?"

I gritted my teeth, prising apart my salt-stuck lips to speak. I whispered the words, almost mouthed them and was surprised he heard them at all.

"I was raped."

His face softened, he looked surprised, angry - but not at whoever did this, he was angry with me. I didn't know what to say next, so I said nothing. Cool fingers wrapped around the edge of the bed as if they were wrapping around his rage. His face a mask, his body let it all away. I never mean to hurt him, because to be honest when I was where I was I didn't think of him anymore. I tried not to think of the things that had made up my life and lead to that place. All I thought about was how to get out, but there wasn't a way anymore. Tears clung to my lashes and I clung to his hand.

One hand found my face again, and I relaxed into the touch.

"How? This?"

I looked down to his other hand, which emerged from the pocket of my jacket with a small package. I swallowed roughly, my throat hoarse and dry.

"Yes…"

He didn't say anything; we both stared detachedly at the paper packet between his long, pale fingers. He looked so solemn, as if he was concentrating, trying to see through the paper to the substance inside a small plastic bag. The powder I put in my veins.

"Why?"

"I left. Without permission."

He looks at me incredulously, a hand silently intertwining with mine. I know he wonders what happened to the girl that gave the orders. Why suddenly she's treating herself like a whore, abusing her stamina, and filling her blood with toxin. Maybe in some perverse way I wanted to make sure that I wouldn't be taken down by a vampire. With all the poison tainting my blood they wouldn't drink me, far less turn. I would be safe from the undead's claws. I would be left to end at the hands of my lover pushing metal under my skin.

Slowly he raised his hand to my face again and wiped the tips of his fingers over my lips, pulling off the smudged red. His voice was low, like a reverent whisper.

"I'll be right back."

My head was tight and hot, my fingers and toes felt too long, to well used, my mouth was dusty and my thighs bruised. My stomach and face were gashed my cheeks are bloodstained. My eyes were heavy and plastered with blue. The rouge on my face was flaky and my foundation was patchy, it stung the cuts on my face. The cover up over my bruises was gone, and the ache in my left cheekbone was throbbing and pulsing.

I swallowed hard, my tongue rubbing a piece of broken flesh in my mouth, nursing the sour, copper taste. He sat down next to me again and quietly commanded I close my eyes. I obeyed, possibly from habit, or possibly from some world-weary desperation that he'll send me to Hell, if this wasn't punishment enough.

Warmth, a warm, wet flannel touched my skin gently but firmly. I opened my eyes carefully to see him looking down at my skin, washing away the make up and dirt. Making me clean.

Once the cloth had covered every dip of my face, he followed with his fingertips, a caress that longed for the memory of my skin. I still didn't look fresh and radiant. My skin was still dull and yellowed, the dark circles under my eyes remained and the bruises and gashes that marred my sallow complexion were still there as a painful reminder of what a man that had given me nothing other than an addiction could do.

He let his fingers linger in the hollow of my cheek, whispering hoarsely.

"There you go."

I leaned forward slightly, letting my forehead rest on his until we were nose to nose, the most intimate contact I've ever had with anyone, not because of the position, but because of the person. Thick tears spread themselves over my eyes at the overwhelming feel of his skin, the soothing quality as it smoothed over my own, like a balm.

"I'm still dirty."

I choked out.

"All over… Inside… My mind, my heart, my veins. You can't erase it with soap."

He looked at me helplessly, as if he was drowning in my sorrow rather than his own for once. When he spoke it was almost silently, the light brush of air on my face like he was talking to my skin, trying to plead with it to become clean.

"I can't take it away, Buffy. I can't make you forget about it and I don't have the right to. I don't have anything profound to make you okay again and I can't be as hypocritical as to judge your life. But I can try… I can try and clean your skin. It's the only dirt I can take away, the only part I can help you with, Buffy."

I frowned slightly, half to myself. Watching the patterns his eyes traced over me. Stocktaking, it reminded me of a shopkeeper checking that everything was okay and in the right place. That nothing had been damaged. But I was damaged.

"You still get left with the scars though."

"That's part of life."

"Having all your dignity stripped away until you depend on white powder to get through another day of abuse to your body?"

"It's not what happens that's important, Buffy; it's how you react, it's how you cope. Everyone is allowed to make mistakes and everyone is allowed some help and a second chance."

The tears I was desperately holding in began to run down my throat, the salty water making me gag. Running fingertips worriedly through the ends of my hair I looked away from him, turning slightly to break any physical contact.

"I don't want your pity, Angel."

"Buffy…"

I continued to talk before his interruption could continue into a fully formed sentence. It hurt to let the words scrape their way up my throat but I couldn't take his charity if it was purely for pity's sake, because he felt like I needed it. I could only take it if he thought I deserved it, no matter how much I needed his help at that point my pride still stood in the way. It didn't matter that he had found me half-naked, half-dead, face down on a sidewalk. It didn't matter that he had found powder in my pockets and holes in my arms, or that I had knuckle marks on my face and a man who wanted my blood for very different reasons than the one who sat in front of me.

If he didn't truly think I deserved another chance, outside of pretty words and conveniently forgotten promises, then I would leave him with his pity.

"I don't need it."

He looked me in the eye and lied to save my pride.

"I know."

His fingers laced with mine and I yawned softly, heaviness pulling on my eyes and my bones. He moved so that I could curl down on the soft duvet, so forgiving, the way it cradled my body like a mother's arm and caressed my face like a lover. He folded the excess over the top of me; waves of soft, cool fabric cocooned me in his presence.

His lips pulled gently on my right cheek, avoiding the mottled left, and he breathed over my skin.

"You deserve it."

"Thank you."

I let my paper thin lids close over eyes that had seen too much and let the ache inside fade away for a few hours of unconsciousness. And I let him hold my hand. And he let me pretend to be immaculate.