Chapter Two

Her breaths were coming quicker now, falling into affinity with the regular drum of her feet against the tarmac. The bitter night-air brushed against her face and on the bare spot on her neck where her sweatshirt did not cover the exposed skin tingled with the sensation of the breeze's icy touch, and every deep gulp of air felt sharp and piercing as it entered her throat and lungs.

Her body was working fluently, going through the motions like some higher form of living, breathing mechanism. Buffy felt strong, fit, freshened and very much awake – all of which were rather welcome assets when it came to demon slayage. Most people would fix her with an incredulous stare if she was dim enough to let slip her passion for running, but it was this she loved; the freedom, the feeling of strength surging through her.

She crossed the empty street. The cemetery lay quiet and imposing in its solitude, the hissing whisper of wind amongst leaves murmuring eerily between the shadowy outline of the gravestones. A familiar prickling sensation erupted at the back of her neck and she gradually slowed her steps before coming to a halt beside the old wall that girded the quiet graveyard. All of a sudden the night had become layered in its silence; Buffy felt the waves ripple softly against her cheek, her eyes burning from the strain of her run, as she sought to look beyond the veil that shrouded everybody else, kept them from seeing what none should ever see.

her stake brushed comfortingly against her thigh as she bent over to shield her face, resting her palms against her knees as though she was out of breath. She was hardly breathing at all, but as she stood arched forward she felt the muscles down her back tighten, twisting like snakes beneath the skin, and she waited.

Waited for the attack she knew would come; waiting for the tiny mistake that would give her foe away. And it came, the soft rustle of clothing, so quiet that a normal human ear would never have picked it up. But she was not exactly normal.

The world melted into one indistinct blur as she spun on her feet, her body directed partially by her brain but chiefly by instinct, adrenaline that flowed through her veins like fire and the thunder of her own heart in her ears. The Slayer took over and for once Buffy allowed her to.

Until the haze before her eyes shifted and Buffy found herself sitting awkwardly across her assailant's muscular form, her knees pinned firmly against his sides and Mr Pointy hovering a mere inch above his chest. His right hand was wrought tightly around her wrist, his arm shaking from the strain of keeping her from ploughing the weapon into his chest.

Recognition and realization registered simultaneously and Buffy slowly relaxed her shoulders and let out a trembling breath, once again becoming aware of the chilly breeze that washed over her. Angel shot her a calm half-smile from his uncomfortable position between her and the pavement.

'How dare you point pointy sticks at people?'

His hand moved slightly as if to pluck the weapon from her grasp but Buffy stubbornly maintained her hold, smiling a little as she did so.

'What gives you the right to stalk people?' she retorted, tapping him playfully on the chest with the tip of the stake.

Angel sighed, the shift of his body between her legs sending tingles dancing painfully down Buffy's spine. 'Not people,' he corrected, 'You.'

She snorted. 'Suck-up.'

He did not look too perturbed. 'You're not the one about to get stabbed by your girlfriend. Guys will say a lot of silly things in that scenario.'

'I bet.'

He chuckled. Buffy could not help but smile at the sound; laugh was something he rarely did. Shame really, because somehow it always made him seem so much younger. When he smiled, some of the pain, some of the darkness etched into his face seemed to ebb away...she liked him when he smiled.

'Buffy?'

His words pulled her out of her reverie and she blinked sheepishly at him. 'Huh?'

The stake had moved with her as she leant forward and Angel gave it a gentle push so it pointed away from his eye. 'Ah...wanna move?'

'Nah.' Buffy gave a casual flick of her hand and the stake did a dodgy somersault. Angel's eyes widened slightly as it strayed rather close to his face. 'Quite comfortable. You?' she added teasingly, only too aware of his awkward position. Not that she saw that as any reason for moving.

He shot her an odd look, before throwing out an arm and catching her wrist midair. 'Point...that...the other way,' the words came out slightly slurred as he calmly ignored her playful struggles and forcibly plucked the stake from her hand, 'and I'll be fine.'

The light from the single lamppost fell upon the left side of his face, carving the lines of his cheekbone and brow in stark contrasts of pale light and utter black that fell in one with the darkness of his eyes. His skin was cold and smooth as she traced his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. He shifted his head slightly, pressing a light, uncertain kiss to the tip of her finger. Buffy felt him tighten under her as she moved her hand to his jaw, gently turning his face to hers.

Her skin grew hot as his dark eyes searched hers, an odd and yet vaguely familiar expression burning in them. Blood was pumping in her ears as she slowly arched forward, her eyes never leaving Angel who had suddenly grown strangely still, and their lips met hungrily as Angel drew her in like a drowning man does air. A familiar burning sensation erupted inside her and Buffy pushed down on him, with the result of slamming the back of his head somewhat brutally against the tarmac.

'Uh – sorry-'

Angel's hand closed around her arm and pulled her to him once more. 'Don't matter...' He kissed her again, his lips moving from her mouth to the skin beside her jaw and her throat and deep inside her the slayer began to stir, the screaming protests drowned out by whirlwind of emotions and sensations that surged through her body.

And suddenly she only had the time to become dimly aware of someone grabbing her roughly by the back of her neck before the world become one indistinct blur as she was sent soaring through the chill night air. The situation became all too real when she slammed against the tarmac, the collision sending waves of pain and nausea surging through her. Instinct guided her back on her feet before her head had taken any notice of what had just happened; she blinked the blood out of her eyes though her vision remained blurry at best. Underneath the stale light of the streetlamp she saw Angel, back on his feet by now and sparring with a colossal figure whose shape was near impossible to define. Buffy blinked. Short legs and a bulky body met her hazy eyes and in its left hand it swung a heavy club with lethal precision at Angel, whose every attempt at getting nearer or even past his attacker was halted by a thrashing swing of the weapon. He was in game face; his furious growling betraying the animal within but his valiant efforts was dulled somewhat by him being armed with nothing but a stake. He flung himself at the creature with a roar, clearly aiming to bury his weapon in its thigh but the club caught him by the side of the head and Buffy felt her head go light as the stroke sent Angel crashing against the wall that surrounded the cemetery with a force that made the stones crumble to the ground, raining down over his lifeless form as he collapsed at the foot of the wall.

She screamed and ran at the demon, the dizziness and the world's sudden tendency to tip sideways forgotten as scorching rage rose inside of her. Also forgotten was the fact that she was merely five foot three while her assailant stood at half the height of the streetlamp behind him. Angel. He had hurt Angel and that was something she could not forget.

She did not know how close to it she was when she did not see the club swinging towards her. She did not hear Angel's inhuman cry as it struck, nor did she see the streetlamp coming at her before she slammed against it.

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Cold.

Cold and hard.

And rough. Cold and hard and rough. She tried to move her hand, her fingers brushing over the coarse surface. Tarmac.

She felt heavy and hurt and tired, and a strange numbness was fighting with the soreness of her back for possession of her body. She did not want to open her eyes.

Tarmac.

It came back slowly. Flashes. Images. Sounds.

Angel. Angel was hurt by some big demon guy. Buffy forced her eyes open. It did not make the greatest difference though, her eyes meeting nothing but pure blackness.

Maybe I've gone blind. She shivered involuntarily. Ugh, not nice thought. She forced her head to turn despite the sharp pain that flared briefly in her neck before disappearing as swiftly as it had come. The street was dark and very empty. The streetlamp no longer spat its synthetic lighting across the street but stood dark and marred, its formerly rigid form bending strangely where something had struck it. Buffy's eyes travelled upward to find the few remains of broken glass that was the only hint of the lamp that had shone from it not so long before.

There was no sign of either Angel or the demon. The stonewall sagged more than she remembered it to, random stones lay scattered across the street and in places the material had been assaulted with such violence the entire structure had crumbled to the ground.

Buffy pushed herself onto her elbows and darkness swam before her eyes as dizziness washed over her at the motion. As the situation dawned on her, doubt and fear began to rise with it.

There really was no sign of Angel. Buffy blinked. He would never leave her lying comatose in the street that much she felt certain of. She pushed herself to her feet and leant against the lamppost for support as the world sagged beneath her. The creature had sent him crashing into the wall, but Angel had had worse than that. She took a staggering step nearer to the place where she had seen him fall. Angel had been wounded badly before. Another step. He would be alright. She sunk into a crouch beside the wall, her fingers frantically turning stones, tossing them aside. He would be alright. She ran her fingers through the dust and dry mould. Not ash. He would be alright.

Her mouth was dry and she felt faint. Maybe he had chased the creature away. Clutching a handful of dust, Buffy got to her feet stiffly and glanced down the street, which lay darker than before. The nearest streetlamp had died as well and the one beyond that was giving off the odd flash of pale light; the streets were strewn with litter and every house was shrouded in total darkness. With her fingers still closed tight around the dry powder Buffy forced her uncooperative legs into a run, which soon made her head swim, the regular rhythm of her feet against the rough surface striking a drum against the inner side of her skull though it was nowhere near as comforting as it had been only hours before.

She screamed his name as she turned down the street leading to the school, calling him again and again but hearing nothing but her own panic and the distant shrieking of a police siren. He had to be there somewhere. He had to. He could not be gone.

He would be alright. Sobbing with fear and frustration, Buffy slowed to a walk, allowing the full realization of the fact that she could not feel him as she usually could to strike her.

'Angel!' A plastic bag scurried across the street. 'Angel!'

Despite her best attempts, she felt cold. Cold to the very core and completely unable to think clearly, the sight of the club connecting with Angel's face and his body crashing into the wall replaying itself over and over before her eyes. Buffy cradled her head in her hands, shutting her eyes tight in terror and frustration.

Giles. She would go to Giles. He would know what they had faced. He would know where Angel was. She would rescue him and he would be alright.

It was a good plan.

'Buffy?'

She spun on her feet. Angel.

Only it was not Angel. Or Xander or Giles for that matter but a complete stranger. A young man, clad only in black but for the greyish-green jacket he had slung over his shoulder. A wooden stake and a strange-looking firearm hung from his belt. He was staring at her as though she was a ghost.

'Buffy? – God, it can't be – you can't –' And to her shock and utter bewilderment his eyes darted over her body taking in her appearance, her face, before grabbing her arms with shaking hands as though to prove to himself that she was real. She went rigid as he pulled her into a hug, pushing him away before taking a couple of quick steps away from him.

'Who are you?'

His face contorted with confusion, shock and hurt. 'What – what do you mean?'

Her head was swimming. 'I mean like front name, surname, address of residence and proof of parole?'

His eyes narrowed. 'You don't recognise me.'

'No. Should I?'

He blinked, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before finally finding his voice.

'Buffy – I'm Mark - your Watcher.'