Friday night

Buffy should have known it was a bad idea. But the way Angel flinched from the stray shafts of light that made their way into the office was too much like the way he flinched from her angry and hurt glances. The tension in the room was intense and rose steadily after Cordelia left, dragging Doyle with her. It was her suggestion that they speak somewhere darker. Besides, seeing him in daylight, as she had so rarely in Sunnydale, reminded her too much of her many, many fantasies of him whole and human. Or at least wearing the Gem of Amarra and immune from danger. The fact that he had destroyed the ring, throwing away the possiblity of sharing the sunlight with her, pissed her off more than she could have imagined. He caught her glance at his empty finger and looked away, shamefaced.

Angel had not considered her feelings when he had destroyed it, and that extra undercurrent of resentment and betrayal heightened his feelings of misery more than he could have imagined.

He had imagined her here in his space so many times, and the reality was a sad substitute. He offered her tea or chocolate, and she declined, which he took as a bad sign. She questioned him. Why had he come to Sunnydale? Why could he see her but she could not see him? Why didn't she rate more highly? Why didn't he care? The questions stung, and he stammered, the eloquent replies that had flowed so freely during his daydreams twisting around themselves and he wilted under her angry stare.

"Damn it Angel, this isn't fair!"

Something in him snapped.

"No, it isn't fair," he shouted. "It will never be fair. Go, at least take your freedom while you can."

Buffy's face crumbled and a tear stole down her cheek. "But I want you."

He control broke and he strode over to her, lifting her in his embrace.

"God, Buffy, I missed you, oh I missed you."

"Every day, every night," she crooned, hugging him back. "Whether you're lurking or not. I want you — in my life, by my side, in my bed."

At that, something fractured inside him, came apart completely as she touched his face. Neither his mind nor his heart could bear the pain, the burden of self-enforced responsibility and discipline. That part of himself was rudely shoved to the background as something else, infinitely more primal, came forth. Buffy felt it as a softening of his body against hers, then a surge of force as he grabbed her close and began tearing at her clothes. Panic gripped her and she looked desperately into his eyes, but saw no one in those dark depths, no more than when he had newly returned from Hell. The maddened and wild creature tore desperately at her clothes, brushing aside her resisting hands. When his seeking mouth found the mark on her neck, she realized the gravity of her peril. As the last shreds of her clothing fell from her, he flung her to the floor, shedding his clothing in a moment, and fell upon her like a starving man upon a feast. His hands left bruises on her flanks and scratches on her back as he strove for a union that surpassed passion — even obsession. His teeth found their mark and sank in. The rich, delicious taste electrified his being and he drank deeply. He was beyond happiness, beyond joy into perfect, mindless urgency.

Buffy gasped in his embrace, feeling her life being squeezed and drained from her as he pounded relentlessly into her. She tried to call him back, calling his name, to recall him to himself, but he remained oblivious to all but her body beneath his and her blood in his throat. When he did not respond to her cries, she began to struggle. He gripped her tighter, slowing neither his relentless pace nor the frenzy of his feeding. A moment later he reared his head back and roared. She felt her body's response, but was too weak to do anything but lie limply in his grasp. He picked her up and fell into the bed with her. As he began all over again, Buffy felt consciousness drift away.