Author's Note: Thanks to Sheena for helping to edit this chapter. I changed the two main things you suggested, but I couldn't remember where you had suggested I put those extra 'had's…Here it is people! A little taste of Methos/Buffy numminess!

She walked back slowly at first, trying not to think of what she had just been through, trying to tell herself that she couldn't save everyone and that it was ridiculous to feel so much for those she failed. Spike had tried to tell her that once when she thought she had killed Warren's girlfriend Katrina. Faith had the same attitude as well when she accidentally killed the Mayor's aid while out on patrol. Each felt that the slayer's wins outscored their losses, like somehow within the cosmic balance of things, they ended up canceling each other out, or putting the slayer on the winning side if she did her job well. Buffy wanted to believe them. She wanted to be able to think that way, but she couldn't.

She had thought at first that it was because she knew more, because she had gone through more. Faith had been relatively new to slaying when Buffy first met her. In comparison, she was a veteran. She had thought because she had done it longer, she had all the answers. She had her own personal morality sewn up tight; solid and unchangeable. Killing was wrong and accidents could not happen…not to slayers.

But Faith had challenged that. She had broken every rule there was, and some that hadn't been invented. She had traveled to hell and back and lived to tell the tale. Through it all, Buffy had always believed that her trials had been a lesson Faith had to learn on the personal responsibility of the slayer. She told herself that she had just been without guidance…alone too long, without a mentor.

Then she thought she killed Katrina and Spike tried to talk her out of turning herself in using the very same logic Faith had. He told her that she had inevitably saved more people than she had lost and that accidents happen. He thought it ridiculous that she should want to throw her own life away because of a mistake. But Buffy had felt responsible then to. She rationalized Spike's wisdom as being faulty on the account of the fact that he had no soul. What was a hundred years or so of life experience when it was all on the evil end of the spectrum?

So she had ignored him, but it was getting harder and harder to see her own morality as unchangeable. How did slayers live this way? How could she go on night after night, knowing that the lives and well being of every slayer that she had created were her responsibility? Losing people on patrol was hard enough. It had happened once or twice before, and no matter how much her friends told her it wasn't her fault, that it couldn't be helped, Buffy would carry their memories and faces with her until the say she died. She felt she owed them at least that.

But what about these girls? These children that she had turned into warriors were all her charges now. She hadn't even gotten to know any of them for the most part. She had avoided them at first, not wanting to connect, too afraid of the soul wearying pain she would experience if she let them down. Even now, she was guilty of that. She was in Italy while the slayers she had created trained in England. She could send for them if she wanted, but instead she hesitated not only because she felt they might not be ready, but also because she did not want to lose them if she were right. She didn't want more faces to add to the list of ones that haunted her nights. She didn't want their deaths on her already battered conscience.

And tonight she had added one more. One more innocent who had been lost to the night. One more victim of her own inadequacies. One more girl whose name she barely even knew.

Francesca.

She was so very tired of it all.

She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be back at Methos' villa, where she felt safe and sheltered, away from everything out here that reminded her of her violent existence. She walked faster, wanting to reach her destination as soon as possible, but she couldn't escape the image of Francesca's blank glassy stare. She tried walking faster, tried running, but it followed her, refusing to let her go.

The streets flew by her as she raced back to the villa. The tears were flowing freely from her eyes now, but she barely felt them. Nothing mattered except getting back to the villa, back to the one place she felt safe and the man who had come to mean more to her than she ever thought possible.

She needed him tonight. She couldn't face this on her own. It was too much…too hard. She thought she could do it, but the idea of closing herself off, of seeing Francesca, and the mentally troubled slayer as well as all those they had lost in the fight against the First without anyone to understand terrified her more than anything else ever had. She needed to forget about it, to allow herself to be taken away with him to a place where nothing mattered.

She wanted him to hold her, to tell her that she had done all she could, that she wasn't a failure. Even if she didn't believe it, she needed to hear it, she needed to know that he believed it…that he believed in her. She didn't know if she could do it anymore without that to hold on to.

It frightened her to realize that so completely, but it also made her more determined. She had treated him badly, had pushed him away because she was afraid of getting to close. She was afraid she couldn't be what he needed, but she had never once thought that maybe he was exactly what she needed…that maybe he hadn't professed his feelings to her to get something from her, but rather to give something of himself.

She hadn't been in a relationship that selfless and giving in so long that she had forgotten what it felt like. Spike had loved her, but had always wanted more from her than she could give. He'd always wanted her to fill what was empty inside of him. He hadn't realized that parts of her were just as empty until it was too late. By the time he had gotten his soul and Buffy was beginning to realize what a good man he could be, she had come to value his friendship far more than she ever thought she would and refused to risk it with another potential disaster that almost always accompanied a deeper relationship.

Spike had understood that on some level, she was almost sure of it, though she would never get over the regret she felt at not being able to convince him that she did truly love him before he died. Even then, the love had not been completely selfless for he had wanted to hear that from her above all else.

Riley had been someone that she could never fully satisfy because of his own insecurities. She had tried to love him, but had known deep down she never could. He needed too much from her and she just wasn't capable of being what he had needed.

But Angel had not wanted anything. He had never demanded anything. He had tried his hardest to keep from loving her, because all that had mattered to him was her own happiness. His love for her had been enough to recognize that as much as they wanted to be with one another, all he was doing was hurting her by staying, so he left.

She had not thought she would ever find someone who cared about her as much as Angel had until now…until she found herself racing through the darkened streets of Rome, to the man who possibly shared that distinction. He loved her. She had known that on some level ever since they parted ways in Seacouver five years before.

What she hadn't known was how much and in what way. And how much she realized she loved him back. But she did now. It all came to her as she reached the villa and raced up the stares, grateful that both Xander and Dawn were out as she rapidly knocked on his door.

He opened it, but before he could say anything, she was inside, reaching behind his neck to pull his face to hers, and gasping as their lips made the contact that she had been craving.

He responded instantly and without hesitation. She wasn't sure if it was because he had been waiting for this, assuming it would happen or if he was operating on pure primal instinct and at this point she didn't care. All she cared about was forgetting, drowning herself in a sea of pure sensation that only his mouth, his touch, his scent could arouse.

She ran her hands through his closely cropped hair as she backed him up against the wall. Nothing else mattered but the way their tongues met, the way he moaned when she deepened the kiss, and the way his hands felt as they traveled from her neck over her breasts with feather-light gentleness and down to her waist where they clutched her hips fiercely.

He was everything she had imagined he would be. Firm, and yet excruciatingly gentle, passionate and yet sensual. As she pressed herself against his chest, she was surprised at how solid he felt underneath his innocuous trade mark sweaters. His body was warm. She could feel already despite the layers of fabric between them. It was a bit of a shock as she was used to the relative coldness of her past two lovers, both of whom had been vampires. Riley had possessed human body heat, but he had never excited her the way Methos did.

She wanted to be closer to that heat, that source of warmth. She wanted to run her hands down his chest, to press it to her. She needed his heat. Needed it to warm her again-body and soul.

To that end, she reached towards him and grabbed the hem of his sweater, inching it up, desperately trying to get past the blasted fabric and touch the man beneath. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close against him as she did so and making it even harder to lift the shirt.

"Methos," she murmured, too lost in his kisses to properly form a sentence. "Help…help me lift…"

"No…" his voice was ragged with passion, barely registering in Buffy's mind. She reached for him again, but he pulled back, turning her around so that she stood against the wall and pushing her forcefully away, ending the kiss as abruptly as it had began.

Both faces were flushed and their breathing laboured.

"What…why did you…?" She broke off, still very much affected by his kiss. When her eyes met his, she saw that the intensity and sensuality of what happened was still very much with him, though he was trying desperately not to feel it.

"This isn't right." He spoke quietly, but his voice quivered with both emotion and physical frustration. "You're…crying. And you're bleeding."

"Bad night on the job," she whispered, clenching her fists and trying to block out the image of Francesca's stare.

"Talk to me," he spoke with heartbreaking tenderness, reaching out to cup her face in his and drawing her close once more. She gasped at the depth of love she glimpsed in his eyes. Instinctively, she reached up and touched his lips ever so softly.

"I…I just want to forget." She leaned toward him again, needing his touch more than she ever had before, but he pulled away, denying the connection she craved.

"You can't. It's not healthy. You need to talk about it. What happened?"

"Why are you doing this?" She asked, feeling the frustration creep up on her. "You want this, I know you do! You told me you wanted to be with me, that you were waiting for me….that you cared about me."

"I do," he said hoarsely, looking away and backing up to sit down on his bed. "And I have for a long time, but the reasons are wrong. We both know it. I don't want to be some momentary distraction from your pain. I don't want to be used that way."

"That's not what this is!" She exclaimed quickly…a little too quickly maybe. His head snapped up and anger flashed in his eyes.

"Oh no? You treat me like dirt for the last few weeks, tell me to stay the hell away from you when I save your life and now that you've had a bad night you suddenly wanna cuddle?" He his voice lowered and became hard and cold. "It doesn't work that way child."

"I'm not a child." Her voice was now equally as icy and the pain she had felt earlier was now replaced by rage.

"You are," he said with a soul weary sigh. He looked away and swallowed heavily. "You all are."

"Methos…" She felt her heart drop into the bottom of her chest at the defeat she saw in his eyes. The anger evaporated like smoke and her voice was soft and pleading. "Don't…please don't turn away from me."

She hated that she was begging. She hated that he had that power over her…that she needed him so much. She hated herself for being so weak to begin with.

"What do you want from me?" He looked back at her, echoing the question she had asked him months ago when they danced together at Joe's bar. She tentatively stepped towards him.

"I want…" she took a deep breath. "I want you. I want to be with you. I need you. I…" she broke off, choking back a sob and turned away, not wanting him to see how badly she was shaking.

He stood up, taking her small hand in his and guiding her over to where he sat on the bed. When she sat down beside him, he folded her into his arms and pressed her head gently against his chest as the tears overtook her, his soothing accent whispering incoherent words of comfort in her ears.

When she had finished, he reached over to a box of Kleenex he had on the table beside the bed and used it to dry her eyes and wipe off the blood that remained as evidence of her night.

"I'm sorry." She finally said when he had finished. "I didn't mean to…I must look like hell."

"You look beautiful." He murmured, his gaze intent.

"Yea, well after five thousand years I think you've probably learned false flattery when a girl's been crying all over you." She smiled and drew a shaky breath, her confidence and strength returning like a comfortable and well worn blanket. "Seriously though…thank you. I needed that."

"You want to talk about it?" He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead, not wanting to let go of the intimacy they had shared before, even if it had been fighting. "I know you're hurting Buffy. Tell me what happened…let me in."

"I fought some vampires tonight." Her voice was stronger now, but her eyes remained haunted. "They had two kids hostage. They couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. I saved the boy, but the girl…I failed."

"She died." Methos finished for her. Buffy bit her lip and nodded. "It's not your fault."

"I know," she told him with a shake of her head. "Somehow, on some level, I know, but…"

"You can't save them all." He said with a wistful smile. "Believe me, I wish you could, but you're only one person."

"Yea, I've told myself that a million times." She said ruefully. "But I don't feel it. And every time I mess up…every time I get there too slowly, or miss the mark…it hurts. And I see those people. It never goes away does it?"

"No," he whispered regretfully. "It never does."

"I just wanted to block it out for one night." She shook her head sadly. "I wanted to forget."

She stood up and squared her shoulders. Methos almost reached out at the lack of closeness between them, but refrained from doing so.

"I'm sorry I used you." She smiled sadly, wondering if she had blown whatever chance they might have had at a relationship before it even began. "I won't bother you again."

"No, wait." He reached out and grasped her hand before she could leave. "I don't want you to go. What happened before…"

"Was a mistake." She finished heavily, not wanting to be reminded of it. It was embarrassing enough to think of how much she had wanted him and how he had pushed her away.

"Then it was the best damn mistake I've had in a good long while." He said with a raw chuckle that lightened the mood slightly. She felt relief course over her as she realized that while he might have pulled away physically, the desire had not once left his eyes. "I want to do this Buffy. I want to have a relationship with you, but I need to know that you are doing it for the right reasons."

"What about love?" She asked him, meeting his eyes and taking a deep breath of courage. "Is the fact that I love you a good enough reason?"

"The best," he murmured, his eyes softening with relief as he pulled her close to kiss her deeply. When he pulled back once more, she could see the tears in his own eyes and wondered how long they had been there-threatening him beneath the surface of his own normally closely guarded emotions.

"I love you Buffy." He told her stroking her hair almost reverently. "And what happened a minute ago, was….wow. And I do want that to happen again, but now just yet. Let's take this slow, one step at a time. Minute, by minute. Kiss, by kiss…"

He pulled her close once more and this time their lips met with unbelievable gentleness. Buffy savoured it before pulling back and smiling at him.

"Slow is…is good." She finally said with a nod. "Maybe tonight we could just sleep? Maybe you could just…hold me?"

"I'd like nothing more," he whispered as their hands clasped almost of their own volition and the door to the bedroom closed.