He could feel the bass pounding in waves inside his body, each beat accentuated by the rumble and ripple of dead tissue, and he realized why these kinds of clubs were popular with the undead crowd. If he closed his eyes and pretended, he just might be able to believe that the vibrating movements deep inside his chest cavity were from the beating of his own heart. The fantasy was tempting, but he couldn't forget why he was here.

Buffy.

Angel quickly scanned the interior, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the crowded club where the sea of undulating bodies moved in riotous synchronicity-- flesh pressed up against flesh, groin grinding against groin, hands exploring bodies that were slick with perspiration and want. The pulsating white light that illuminated the room in waves and bursts of shocking brilliance did more to obscure his vampiric vision than enhance it and he didn't see her.

It didn't matter—not yet anyway. He could feel her.

The knowledge of her presence was thrumming along his spine, pulsing just a little faster than the beat of the music. It was intoxicating and he wondered at the seductive fingers of unreality that tinged the edges of this night. For a few seconds he considered the possibility that this wasn't real, that he hadn't actually found her after a week of searching every dive and alt club in the city, after a week of giving up and waiting for her at her apartment until the dawn was coming and he'd had to admit she wasn't.

The night after he'd found out she was alive, the night after she'd closed her door in his face with a sneer on her beautiful mouth and a blank look in her usually-expressive eyes, he'd gone to see Wes. He had meant to find out everything he could about Buffy's resurrection and then do what he should have done over a year ago—kill him.

When the door to Wesley's apartment opened, Angel was confronted by a man who bore little resemblance to the person he had known. Gone was the man who looked like he was born with glasses perched on his nose and a book in his hand. In his place was a being who exuded a level of dangerous threat of which Angel hadn't thought Wesley capable.

"I'd ask what you want, but somehow I can't quite bring myself to care," Wesley said as he opened his door to see the glowering vampire filling the frame. Angel tried to push forward into the apartment, but was stopped by the invisible barrier.

"Let me in," he growled, his eyes burning into the man who had betrayed him on even more levels than he had thought just two days ago. Angel stood in rigid stillness, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He radiated a powerful violence that made it seem like he was vibrating with an unseen energy.

Wesley made a short, barking sound that grated harshly in the stagnant air and only vaguely resembled the laugh it was meant to be. "Why, so you can finish what you started the last time I saw you? I don't believe I'm interested."

"Actually, first you're going to tell me what the hell you've been doing with Buffy, and then I'm going to finish what I started—whether you're interested or not," Angel returned, glaring dangerously at the other man. He noticed the guilt that quickly flashed through Wesley's eyes at the mention of Buffy before it was gone and replaced by cool indifference. They stood on opposite sides of the doorway, eyes clashing in silent battle, for several long minutes. Then Wesley turned and disappeared from his line of sight, and Angel struggled against his urge to throw himself against the barrier, despite the knowledge that it would get him nowhere.

When Wesley returned to the open door, he carried a crossbow in one hand and a drink in the other. He took a slow drink of the amber-colored liquid in the glass as he contemplated his former friend. Angel waited, silent and glowering, and watched as Wesley took another drink, shrugged, and sat the glass down on an end table. He swung the crossbow up with a fluid, practiced motion and pointed it at Angel's chest.

"Old friends are always welcome to come in," he said.

Angel's jaw clenched in renewed anger at the words, but he stepped inside the apartment with the grace and speed of the predator he was, not stopping until the tip of the arrow in the crossbow was just inches from his heart. His nose flared slightly at the smell of alcohol that spilled off Wes in waves. He didn't know how he'd missed the scent of stale liquor before, but it was obvious that the man had spent the hours since he left Buffy's drinking.

"You're drunk," Angel said with more than a touch of derision.

"Not so drunk I'll miss," Wes replied, and Angel could see the truth of that statement in the hard glare in Wesley's eyes and the steady hand that held the crossbow.

Backing off, Angel turned to shut the door behind him and then moved to the living room window that overlooked the street. His eyes roamed over the room as he looked for signs of Buffy. He didn't see anything that looked like it might belong to her, and gauging from the trace amounts of her scent present in the apartment, he didn't think she had spent much time here. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to will the jealous tension out of the way. Now was not the time for jealousy—he had to find out how the hell she was alive before he could give in to his urges to seriously hurt the man who used to be one of his closest friends.

"So I guess you know the Slayer's alive." Wes's statement was quickly followed by the sound of tinkling ice and a long swallow. Angel slowly turned around to find him sitting in a chair by the door, the crossbow lowered but not forgotten.

"What. . ." Angel stopped and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. His mind had been churning violently over the past day as he waited until night fall came again, running over the potential explanations for Buffy's return to life and trying to deal with the fact that she hadn't told him, that no one in Sunnydale had called to tell him. Part of him dreaded learning the answers to these questions, but he knew he must ask anyway. Out of habit, he took a long deep breath before continuing. "How? Was it Wolfram and Hart?"

At the mention of the law firm, Wesley raised his glass and emptied its contents, his eyes hard and distant. Focusing once again on Angel, he shrugged. "I don't know if they had anything to do with her resurrection, but I don't think so." He picked up the bottle of whiskey on the end table and refilled his glass. "She died. She came back. I'm not sure what else you'd like for me to say, and besides, it's not my story to tell," he finished.

Angel scowled at the lack of information. "When did this happen? When did you find her?" he continued, pushing to get something out of Wes that might help explain this miracle.

"She was resurrected about 2 years ago . . . we became . . . reacquainted almost a year ago," Wesley intoned.

The words hit Angel like a hard punch to the gut. He fought against the urge to take a deep, gasping breath in response. He couldn't stop himself from slowly shaking his head, trying to make sense of all the warring thoughts and protestations pounding inside it. In the day he'd known she was alive, he never once imagined that it had happened so long ago. Struggling to hide the combined pain and shock, he addressed the other man again.

"You've known Buffy was alive for a year and you didn't tell me?" he said, the anger in his voice still present, but softened by a confusion he couldn't manage to completely hide.

Wesley shot him an incredulous look. "We haven't exactly been on speaking terms."

The gut-wrenching pain turned into pure anger as Angel was reminded of why Wes wasn't in his life anymore. The memories of hearing Buffy's cries of pleasure and pain with Wesley the night before surged into his mind, despite his desperate attempts to suppress them. The thread of control he had managed to maintain thus far snapped, and he lashed out.

"I was there last night. I know what you did to Buffy and I will kill you for it. What's the matter, Wes? Kidnapping children isn't enough for you—you have to beat up women to get your jollies now too? You disgust me," Angel seethed, his eyes flashing gold as he advanced on Wesley. He heard the man's heartbeat quicken, but there was no outward sign that Wes was frightened. Instead of fear, it was guilt and self-loathing that flashed across his face and settled his mouth into a grim line.

Wesley pointed the crossbow at Angel with a speed that belied his drunken state. "The Slayer is not the same woman you used to know, Angel. You'd do well to remember that. As for last night, well, I'm equally disgusted with myself but in my defense, I didn't do anything she didn't want," he said in a soft, measured rhythm.

A tiny fraction of Angel's rage eased. "Buffy deserves better than that . . . how could you do that to her?" He hated the plaintive note in his tone, but he couldn't help it any more than he could help the urge to kill his former friend.


Another mirthless laugh erupted from Wesley's lips before they settled in a smirk. "It's not always about holding hands, Angel. I would think that someone with your . . . romantic history. . . would recognize that."

Angel didn't struggle against the change as his anger pushed the demon forward. His face morphed and he welcomed the sharp prick of his fangs and the surge of bloodlust that accompanied it.

"You're not going to live to touch her again," he warned.

Standing up, Wesley pushed the chair he had been sitting in back with his foot and moved to the side, keeping the crossbow trained on the snarling vampire. "No doubt," he drawled, "but it's not going to happen tonight. I do think it's time for you to be leaving, old friend."

A quick assessment of the situation told Angel that if he advanced on Wes, he could very well end up a pile of dust before ever getting to see Buffy again. Forcing himself to back up a step, he struggled to regain his human features as he slowly angled toward the door.

"Where can I find her?" he asked, his voice rasping with his effort not to yell.

Wesley kept his eyes trained on Angel, tracking him as he backed toward to door, refusing to give him an opening to attack. He sighed, shaking his head slightly before answering. "You won't find her unless she wants to be found."

"That doesn't answer my question," Angel grit out.

A sigh and quick shake of the head preceded Wesley's answer. "The Slayer spends her nights in any number of garish clubs around her neighborhood. If it's loud and not too trendy, she's likely a regular," he supplied.

Reaching the door, Angel turned his back on Wes and opened it, preparing to leave.

"Oh, and Angel?"

He turned around and glared at Wes.

"Don't presume to think I won't revoke your invitation the second you leave. I won't make my murder easy on you."

The glare faded from his face and was replaced with a slow, menacing smile that did not touch the hard darkness of his eyes. "I always enjoy a challenge," Angel said. Then he turned and retreated, eager to find Buffy, see her again, feel her and make sure she was real and not a figment of his imagination.

And so he had scoured the city for her, visiting each of the clubs in her neighborhood and then circling outward in an ever-larger search area. Night after night he looked for her, sometimes finding people who said they'd seen a woman fitting her description, but she was never there and she didn't return to her loft during the night. Angel's frustration increased each night, his worry that she didn't actually exist outside his own mind blooming as the days ticked by.

But now he knew he had found her. His eyes continued to search the blinking interior, skimming over the sea of bodies draped in black, the intermittent strobes of light illuminating the inhabitants with their pierced faces and black-lined eyes. Angel scanned the bar, table, and dance areas and found no sign of Buffy. Pushing his way through the crowd, he moved toward the dance floor, sure that's where he would find her. A woman with bright pink hair and a tight black vinyl dress moved in front of his path, flashing him a seductive smile as she held up a little baggie of blue pills. Pressing up against him, her breasts crushing into his arm, she spoke close to his ear.

"You look a little tense. I could take care of that for you . . . in more ways than one," she promised, pushing the hand that held the baggie under his leather duster and trailing it over his chest. Angel ignored her, still searching the interior. Finally, his eyes tracked up a staircase in the far corner to a balcony that overlooked the main floor.

And there she was.

He drank in the sight of her, not wanting to miss a single detail. Buffy was facing the iron railing of the balcony, her back pressed up against a man as she danced with an abandon he'd only seen in her once before. His eyes narrowed as he saw the man's hand snake out to wrap around the bare expanse of waist that was exposed between her tiny, pleated red-and-black plaid mini and the tight white tank top that was cut off so short that he caught glimpses of her black bra as she moved her arms over her head. Her hair was longer than he remembered and ran over her shoulders and back in tousled waves. She wore a winding silver band around one of her upper arms and a silver cross around her neck that reminded him of the one he'd given her all those years ago. Then his eyes were sliding up to rest on the face that had haunted his dreams for years.

Her eyes were trained on him, and she smirked as their gazes clashed.

"Hmmm, feels like someone's more interested than he's acting." At the sound of her voice, Angel's attention was drawn back to the woman pressed up against him. He hadn't noticed that her hand had moved down his chest and stomach, and was now resting over the outline of the bulge beginning to form in his black pants.

"Not in you," he bit out, removing her hand and stepping away from her. Angel ignored her pout and looked back to the balcony, only to find Buffy gone. Moving quickly forward, he pushed through the crowd, determined not to lose her now that he'd finally found her. He continued to scan the mass of people above as he approached the stairs, his hands absently pushing anyone who got in his way aside. As he reached the bottom step, Angel saw her slowly and coolly descending them, her eyes never leaving him.

She stopped two steps above him, the added height making her gaze level with his. Angel itched to reach out and touch her, pull her close and assure himself that his rioting senses weren't playing any tricks on him. This felt unreal, time moving so slowly he felt like his body and brain were surrounded and suspended in honey. Everything that he had felt when he saw Darla after she was brought back from the dead was magnified a thousand-fold and punctuated by the intensity of feelings he had for the woman who stood in front of him.

"Stalker, much?"

Angel saw her glossy lips moving, knew that she had said something sarcastic, but it was gone before his memory could process it. All he could concentrate on was the sound of her voice, the scent of her sweat, and the sight of her so close to him again . . . within touching distance. He reached out tentatively, his fingers grazing the flesh of her cheek before sweeping down to make contact with her slightly parted lips. He felt her breath catch and saw her eyes flash with the same electric awareness he was feeling at the touch.

"Buffy. . ." he murmured, so softly that there was no way she could have heard him in the loud club. Still, he saw her eyes harden once again as she stepped back up a stair, out of his reach. Then she was planting her hands on the stair railing and vaulting over it to the floor below, circumventing the need to brush past him and come within his reach again. Angel spun around and moved swiftly after her retreating form. She was moving fast, nimbly weaving her small body through the crowd, and he couldn't catch up with her until they were almost off the dance floor on the far side of the club. Reaching out, he grasped her roughly around the upper arm and spun her around to face him.

"Buffy, stop. . ." he tried again, his warring emotions of anger and longing sounding in his voice.

She glared at him for a split second before grabbing the arm that held her with her free hand and twisting her body. Angel felt his feet leave the floor as she spun him around, felt his grip loosen as his back rushed to meet the ground. In the next moment he found himself staring up at her booted foot planted on his chest. The crowd immediately surrounding them stilled their movements and looked at the small blonde overpowering the large, muscled man.

When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled, meant only for him with his vampire hearing. "Don't touch me, Angel. I'm not the person you think I am. You really don't want to fuck with me."

Angel's anger won out as he pushed her foot off his chest and gracefully leapt to his feet. He moved close, allowing only a sliver of air to separate them, but he didn't touch her.

"Do you really want to do this here?" he hissed in her ear. Angel watched through narrowed eyes as she glanced at the audience surrounding them before giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He felt her hair brush against his face and he breathed in the scent. Even in his state of anger, he rejoiced in the tangible signs that she was alive.

"Come on," she ordered as she moved toward the exit, not bothering to look back to see if he was following. There was no need. Angel wasn't going to let her out of his sight if he could help it. He silently stalked behind her, glaring darkly at anyone who dared to look at him wrong. Soon they were stepping out into the cooler night air and the bright street lights. Angel took in the sight of Buffy as she walked confidently in front of him, leading him to whatever destination she had in mind. The impressions he had gained from his brief glimpse of her a week ago were confirmed as he noted her more tightly defined biceps that led into feminine but muscular shoulders. His gaze traveled further down her body and everywhere he looked he saw a woman who was strong and lean. Buffy had always been thin and she had always been strong, but she had managed to maintain a deceptively small and dainty-looking build. Now no one with a trained eye could look at her and not see the athletic fighting machine she had become.

Once again, he wondered what in the hell had happened to her.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod

The refrain had been sounding on a continuous loop through her head since the moment she had seen him in the club.

Felt him, really. Damn slayer senses only seemed to work on Him.

Knowing that he would be looking for her and not wanting to be found, she'd spent the last week staying a step ahead of him. She'd needed time to think about what she was going to do without having her head clouded by his presence and his questions. Unfortunately, he didn't have to actually be present to throw her off—she'd been fighting off the feelings that had suddenly hit her at his hotel ever since. No matter how much alcohol or drugs she consumed, she was in a state of turmoil that she didn't know quite how to deal with. Even her fighting technique was a little off—a regular vamp had been able to get close enough to leave bruises the night before and she honestly couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Slayer didn't know what the hell was happening to her, but she did know whose fault it was.

His.

Slayer shook her head and shot a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her—hadn't moved his eyes off her since they'd gotten into her car. At first he'd tried to ask her questions, calling her that name. When she continued to studiously ignore him as she concentrated on the road and feigned indifference, he sighed in frustration.

"Buffy, please. . ." he said, and shook his head when she continued to ignore him.

Now he was just staring and her skin was crawling with awareness and she just wanted to. . .

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod