Authors note: God its been a while! But you guys aren't reviewing!! Come on how am I to right if I don't get some feedback!! Hehe. Anyways, here you go, hope its ok... Let me no!!!

Here goes...

Chap 7

He found her no problem. Her scent was distinctive and something that sparked yet more recognition that he couldn't quite understand. Who was she?

He shakes his head as he creeps inside the room, his bare feet padding noiselessly across the wooden floor towards the bed.

She slept soundly, her body curled in a foetal position the sheets pulled up high on her body. He paused for a minute and breathed in sharply, hatred started to fade and he cocked his head to one side to look at her from another angle.

An eyelid shoots open and he freezes to the spot, not knowing if she's spotted him.

I sensed him before he even entered the room. I know that feeling anywhere. I laid still trying to figure out what he was doing until he breathed in and I couldn't help myself any longer. I opened an eye, and stared at him, watching as his muscles tensed and his body froze to the spot.

What do I do now?

I sit up slowly, using all my slayer instincts to concentrate on his precise position and what I would do if he attacked. He stood still, straightening slightly as I rose in the bed but never taking his eyes off me.

We both stared for what seemed eternity, neither of us moving from our positions, neither of us saying anything. Adrenaline pumped through my blood as I focused on his chocolate eyes, looking for the Angel I knew and loved.

"Angel?" I finally broke the ice.

A growl issued deep in his chest and he shook his head, as if trying to shake free a distant memory.

"Its me, Buffy?" I hold on to the hope that he remembers me.
Buffy. Familiar.

He shakes his head and looks up slowly, focusing on the woman before him. Her smell. Her blonde locks and green eyes. Buffy.

Two steps forward and the gap is closing between them. Fire burns inside as he fights the anger and the need to kill. He knows her, but how?

A finger traces along the top of the sheets as he feels the soft cotton between his fingertips, his eyes never leaving the woman on the bed. More hatred burns and he struggles, trying to shake loose the need to rip the young woman limb from limb.

Why does he try to stop it?? Its not like he hasn't killed before.

Then there's the fresh feeling inside that wills him hard not to kill, tells him not to touch her, tells him that he mustn't touch her. It fights the feelings of hatred and for sometime remains in control.

I can see he's fighting something. Maybe he is under a spell or enslaved by some hell-ridden demon intent on killing the slayer. Maybe he has lost his mind.

I scan a look at his body once more and I am horrified at what I discover. Large scars run laterally across his strong chest, dried blood clots the newly received cuts that run over his left shoulder and across his right cheekbone.

What the hell is going on?

My instincts kick in once more as Angel steps closer, causing my slayer sense to start ringing in my ear. He is so close now I can see his well-defined masculine features and hear his rough ragged breathing.

Memories flash through my head like fire and I feel the tears begin to well up in my eyes at the thought of what I have done.

I can see us, leaned against a tombstone, discussing the latest demon that we slayed together. His body is close to mine, I can feel the coolness of his skin against mine as he takes my hand in his and smiles that sweet smile at me. He leans down and gives me the sweetest kiss, innocent and deadly at the same time.

I am snapped back to reality, Angel is stood before me, hasn't said anything to me but stares, fighting unconsciously something strong inside.

A memory flashes before him and he struggles once more with the hatred.

He sees the blonde, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight, her smile warm and friendly. He sees himself take her hand and hold it to him; bringing it up to his lips to kiss and smile back in return. She giggles slightly and he feels himself smile in return, the warmth of her hand in his is intoxicating.

She leans into him as she walks and he feels the slight pressure of her delicate body against his and feels a sudden rush of protectiveness for her, like he would literally die for her if he had to.

He blinks and finds the blonde still staring at him from the bed, her eyes filled with confusion, her hair tousled from her sleep.

"Buffy?" The roll of the word over his tongue is extremely familiar.

He squints and steps closer, more and more memories of the blonde flooding his head and surrounding his body, invigorating his senses.

A Necklace of a cross. A ring. A warm summer night spent wandering the park. A sword. A sword slicing through flesh of the blonde one. A sword slicing through his flesh. Green eyes meeting Brown.

"Buffy?" It echoes in the night air, as he collapses to his knees hatred fighting with truth.

His voice is deep and rough like he hasn't used it for a while. It cracks in the air like a broken twig and I jump at the sound. Silence no longer remains.

I remain stock still, watching as he steps closer again. Two feet touch the floor and I find myself standing in front of him, dangerously close as he continues his fight.

A tear travels down his stained cheek and I want to reach out for him, I want to let him no I am here. I know if I make a move towards him it could end my life in seconds.

Then he utters my name again and falls to his knees before me, looking up at me through tear glassed eyes, and I have to hold back everything within me to stop myself from reaching out and touching him. Touching my Angel.

I feel a tear start its journey down my cheek. Here is my lover, back from hell in a state that seems beyond repair. His head drops and he pulls me to him, hugging my legs to his body and wailing piteously. I look down at his scarred back, deep welts run across his skin diagonally, red raw with pain. Bruises lay where scars do not making a patchwork image on his back of red and blue.

I can't hold back any longer. Tears finally spill, cascading down my skin and onto my T-shirt. This is it, all those months of running for what, to find that my lover is still alive. That there was no murder. No reason to leave Sunnydale.

What have I done?

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