Angel followed her up the stairs to her loft, fighting the urge to grab her and shake her until she talked to him. His senses were rioting after being so close to her after so long apart, the car ride over here a blur of frustration, confusion and longing that set his already frazzled nerves on edge and his temper even closer to the surface. He couldn't help but notice that she avoided the elevator in favor of the stairs and wondered if she was feeling the same intense itch being confined with him as he was with her. They reached the heavy steel door, and she unlocked it, entered, and punched a security code into the box next to the door before turning to look at him. It was the first time she'd looked directly at him since leaving the club.

"Come in and make yourself at home. I'm going to take a shower," she said with a sigh, waving him in absently before turning her back on him and heading further into the apartment. He was only able to look into her eyes for a moment, but it was long enough to see the dilated pupils and slightly dazed look that softened them just enough to explain the rapid heart beat and increased body temperature he'd noticed in the confines of her car.

He snarled and grabbed her waist, his hand making contact with her bare skin and sending a jolt of awareness through his body. He ignored it as he spun her around to face him again. "What the hell is going on here Buffy? What happened to you?"

In an instant the dazed look in her eyes was replaced by a hard glitter as she planted a hand in his chest and pushed him back out of her personal space. Something flickered and then, just as quickly, her hard look melted into one of tired resignation.

"Look, shower first, then talk. I'm sweaty and I smell, and frankly, as much as you seem to be enjoying the naughtier version of Darla's school-girl outfit here," she looked down at the fly of his pants before continuing, "I'd rather not have this conversation with you while you look like you're going to make me your next meal."

Angel cursed his body's lack of control, and decided not to mention the signs of her own arousal that coursed through the air even as she spoke. It was true, though, that he had been struggling with his body's response to her since he first saw her in the club, moving like that in the tiny skirt and tinier shirt. He'd managed to regain some modicum of control on the ride here, but touching her bare skin had evoked another reaction in his lower regions. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this uncontrolled without the influence of magic. Taking a step back, he nodded, neither his face nor body betraying that he was anything but calm.

"Fine, take a shower. But Buffy? Then you talk."

Something dark and dangerous flashed across her face and he suddenly felt very much the vampire to her slayer. Then it was gone and she was turning toward the enclosed room in the middle of the loft. He watched her glide away, the pleats of her skirt barely covering her from his prying eyes and long expanses of bare legs ending in black lace-up combat boots. Her hair lay in long messy waves down her back, like she'd simply finger-combed it after a long, hard day in bed. . .

Gritting his teeth, Angel turned abruptly away and cursed himself for the direction of his thoughts. Buffy was miraculously alive, but something was clearly wrong with her and he couldn't seem to get a grip on his lust. He knew he needed to pull himself together so he could find out what had happened to her and what had caused her to change so much.

He couldn't quite believe how much she had changed. Of course there was the way she looked—a little more Faith than the Buffy he remembered, more muscular, paler, edgier. But there were other things, too. The way she had downed him in the club, fast and efficient, had surprised him. She'd always been a little stronger than him, but the differences were miniscule and it had taken much more thrust and parry for either to gain any real advantage. Angel hadn't been taken down that fast in centuries.

Then there was the expert way that she handled her very expensive sports car, a definite change from the girl who once claimed that she and cars were "un-mixy things". Not to mention the car itself. Unless she was stealing them these days, it had to have set her back enough money to completely support several middle-class families for a year. He refused to think about the other things that had changed. During his waking hours, he studiously avoided the memory of the sounds she made when Wesley struck her flesh. He couldn't quite manage to keep them out of his dreams.

Hearing the sound of the shower starting, Angel took the opportunity to take a good look around her loft. It was large and spacious, with ceilings at least 20 feet high and a smooth polished concrete floor. There wasn't a lot of furniture on this side of the open space—just a large steel dining table with matching chairs, and a glass and steel drink cart in addition to the stainless steel kitchen appliances. The counters were covered in expensive black marble and were bare of the touches that usually adorned and personalized kitchens—no pictures, no overfilled bread baskets, no candles, no canisters or cookbooks. In fact, with the exception of a single piece of art that graced the interior wall, there were no decorations of any kind. The space seemed cold and impersonal to him, despite the clearly expensive items that made up its bones.

Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened it, feeling slightly guilty about intruding on Buffy's privacy but needing to know everything he could about her current existence. Angel frowned, his brow furrowing together in displeasure as he saw that the only contents were two dozen bottles of water, two jars of peanut butter, and several plastic containers of some colorless food. Taking one of the containers out, he opened it to find spirals of plain cooked pasta. A quick perusal of her freezer and cabinets revealed empty space that belied the fact that a human being lived here.

Angel's displeasure deepened and the worry that had been eating at him bloomed into near panic.

Something was seriously wrong.

Pacing over to the other side of the space, Angel saw two black leather chairs and a steel console holding a clearly expensive stereo. In the opposite corner, he saw the first signs of warmth and comfort in the loft. Her bed was large and covered in a white down comforter and a multitude of fluffy pillows. A wide window seat in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and a small enclosed space that he guessed to be a closet were the only other structures in the huge apartment.

Running one hand absently through his hair, Angel turned around to face the bathroom and the sound of running water that was still filling the air. The sight that met his eyes made the blood that had been teasing his cock all night rush in and tighten him to nearly painful fullness. This side of the bathroom was enclosed only with glass blocks that muted but did not hide the woman standing under the spray of water that was so hot the steam billowed out of the open ceiling of the room into the larger loft space. Buffy stood facing the spray, her arms spread in front of her and braced against the shower wall, her head bowed. He could see the lush curve of her breast and a hint of the shadow between her legs through the dense glass and he swallowed back the moan that threatened to rend the air. As he watched, unable to look away, she slowly stood up and turned off the faucets.

The movement jolted Angel back to reality and he moved quickly to the other side of the loft, not wanting her to catch him devouring her with his eyes. He stopped in front of the painting on the wall and stared forward without seeing it, concentrating instead on taking deep breathes that, out of habit, often served to help him relax and regain his composure on the rare instances when he lost it.

He was still standing there, taking deep, measured breaths when he felt her approach. Turning slightly to the side, he watched as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye on her way past him to the refrigerator. Opening it, she took out a bottle of water and a container of cold pasta before grabbing a fork and coming back to perch on the edge of the table.

"I'd offer you something, but I'm fresh out of blood," she said, smirking at him before lifting a forkful of the bland looking food to her mouth.

Angel grunted and turned back to the painting in front of him, not quite ready to look at her despite her more modest attire of black yoga pants and baby-tee. He studied the abstract painting for the first time since noticing it gracing the wall. Angel didn't consider himself an expert on modern art, but one real look at this piece and he knew what it was. The only adornment in her sterile space was Kandinsky's Composition V, an abstract representation of the Resurrection of the Dead, and it wasn't a reproduction. Angel was disturbed by the morbidity of her choice at the same time his fears about the source of her obvious extravagant wealth grew.

"Nice painting," he commented, looking over his shoulder. "Seems kind of out of the price range of a Vampire Slayer, though."

Her eyes met his, unflinching, as she brought the bottle of water to her lips, took a deep drink and then shrugged.

Angel stalked slowly towards her, refusing to look away from her intense, challenging stare. There was a hard, aching knot in his chest caused by her seeming indifference and the knowledge that she had been here for well over a year without letting him know she was alive. He tried his best to suppress it, somehow knowing that sentimentality would not get him the information he wanted, needed from her.

"In fact, it seems like you've been doing fairly well for yourself. For a dead girl." Angel used all of his control to suppress the wince that threatened to accompany his harsh words. He wanted more than anything to pull her into his arms and whisper his joy at seeing her again in her ear, but it was clear that, as always was the case with her, his wishes were futile exercises of his soul. So instead he matched her hardness with his own.

A shadow passed over her face so swiftly that he couldn't be sure he had seen anything but the cool mirth that now shone in her eyes and was matched by the languid upturn of her lips.

"Angel, Angel, Angel. You haven't seen me in years and the first thing you want to talk about is my income? That's a little tacky, don't you think?" she drawled, tilting her head to the side, her shower-damp hair swinging and grazing over her the flesh of her forearm. He could see a fading ring of bruises around her wrist and anger flared in him at the thought of someone hurting her. If Wesley had touched her again. . .

Angel closed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat, not stopping until he was standing between her swinging legs. Unthinking, he pulled the bottle of water out of her hand and set it down before gently lifting her wrist and running his thumb gently over the bruises. She sat perfectly still, her breath coming in shallow, fast puffs as she let him touch her. Angel's eyes glittered with anger and concern as he took in the sight of the finger-shaped stains that marred her skin. Raising her wrist to his lips, he felt her harsh intake of breath disturb the still air around them as he pressed them gently to her flesh for a split second.

"Did Wes do this to you?" he grit out, his lips moving against her skin with each syllable spoken.

His words broke the temporary spell that had held her still as he touched her, and she ripped her arm away from his hand and mouth.

"It's sweet of you to worry, Angel, but don't. Wes doesn't do anything to me I don't want him to," she bit out, planting her hands on the table and sliding back until Angel was no longer standing between her thighs.

"That doesn't answer my question," he growled, glaring at her as the anger and emptiness at the loss of her touch warred for dominance in him.

"It's none of your business," she countered, hopping off the table, and grabbing the now-empty pasta container and fork. Buffy stalked to the sink and rinsed the dishes, ignoring the seething vampire behind her.

Angel clenched his fists in an effort to stop himself from punching the nearest wall, and struggled against the anger that was quickly consuming him. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone and he sagged under the invisible weight of his thoughts and emotions and the feelings of being with her, in the place she lived. Pulling out a chair from the table, he sunk down and stared out the bank of windows that made up the outer wall in front of him at the L.A. skyline. The multitude of thoughts and feelings that had been inundating him with constant stimulus over the past week faded and he was left with a deep, empty ache in their wake.

A minute, perhaps two, passed as he stared silently out the window and then she was in his line of vision, standing in front of the windows and looking out as though trying to see what held his attention. Standing, he slowly made his way next to her, making sure he kept some distance between them in spite of his urge to ease the ache by touching her again.

The silence was almost companionable as they continued to take in the sites of the city, and Angel was loathe to disrupt it, but he had to. He had to know how she was here.

"How . . . how did this happen? Did Wolfram & Hart do this? Did they bring you back?" He hated the plaintive note that crept into his voice, but he couldn't control it any better than he had been able to control anything in her presence this night.

Angel felt, more than saw, her flinch at the mention of the law firm. He spun to face her, sure she was going to tell him that they had brought her back to life to torment him, that they were the ones who were financing her extravagant, if empty, lifestyle. The thought that they would do this to her, after all of their failures with Darla, made the rage begin to bubble to the surface once again.

"No, it wasn't Wolfram & Hart," she answered, her voice low and almost touched with an emotion other than anger for the first time. . . something he might have identified as shame if it made any sense to him to do so. He studied her face carefully, could see that she was telling the truth.

"Then . . . what? How Buffy? Please. I need to know," Angel prompted, unable to care any longer that he was betraying his confusion and longing in every sound that left his throat.

She glanced away, studying the night for another moment and he watched her in the glass, wondering if he was imagining things or if he could actually see her eyes cloud in the reflection.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Angel. It happened. I was dead, then I was alive. I dug my way out of my grave, 'cause coffins? Pretty satin interior but not too much in the way of oxygen. Now I'm here. End of story."

"Oh, god. Buffy," he breathed, his pain at hearing how she woke up buried alive more poignant because he himself knew how that felt. He tensed to reach out to her, but she sensed his movement, and turned to face him with her palm held out to stop him. Angel watched the emotions play across her face— terror, agony, and confusion that nearly crushed him with their intensity. For the first time since she had emerged from the shower, scrubbed free of makeup and without the mask of indifference she seemed to wear with ease, he saw just how drained and tired she looked. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making them stand out in sharp relief against her beautiful face and he wondered when the last time she got any sleep was.

"Buffy. . ." he murmured again, the quiet invitation for comfort evident in the timbre of his voice.

Her eyes flew to his, naked longing on her face and he opened his arms as she took a step toward him. Then, just as quickly, her body went rigid and the longing was replaced with panic. His heart wrenched as she backed away from him, the hard mask that he barely recognized as belonging to the woman who held his heart settling back onto her face.

"Buffy. Is. Dead," she grit out, emphasizing each word as it slid past her fury-clenched lips. "I've been cutting you some slack because I realize this must be difficult for you, seeing a walking ghost, but I don't answer to that name. Don't ever call me that again. You can call me Slayer, or Diana if you absolutely insist, but never call me Buffy."

Angel stared at her, his thoughts whirling as he tried to understand what she was telling him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he choked out.

She made a face and backed up further until she had cleared the table and made her way over to a kitchen drawer that, he knew from snooping, held a jumble of papers and mail. She wasn't talking, though, and he was desperate to know what she meant. Slayer? Buffy dead?

"What do you mean, you're dead?" he repeated.

Turning back toward him with a large manila envelope in her hand, she rolled her eyes and held it out to him.

"No, I'm alive. Buffy's dead," she said again, as though speaking to a child who was willfully misunderstanding a perfectly logical statement. "And really, Angel, you're spending way too much time asking the wrong questions. What you should be asking is what I was doing lurking outside your hotel that night." Handing him the envelope, she continued. "What you should be asking is if Wolfram & Hart isn't paying my bills, who is?"

He opened the envelope and read the single sheet of paper inside:

Target: Vampire

Home Location: Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

Deadline: 11-21

Angel's eyes flew back to hers, darkening with the burgeoning understanding of the answers to all of his questions about her and the life she was leading.

"What you should be asking, Angel, is how we're going to stay alive when the government agency I work for comes after you and your friendly assassin when I don't meet my deadline in a week."

The crinkling of the paper as Angel balled the hand he held it in into a fist was the only sound that disturbed the silence in the wake of her revelations.

Oh Buffy, no.