The vampire's mouth shut with a click. "Yes."

Disgruntled that he didn't seem very disturbed by her use of his name, she huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "So you really are Angelus?"

He turned his back to her, walked a step, then turned back. He raked a hand through his hair. "No," he said, finally. "I'm not the same as I was then."

"Because with the chip you're not violent? Is this a vampire thing? I've noticed how you guys get a kick out of names and titles. Like Spike?"

"No, it's—You know Will?"

"Who?"

He waved an impatient hand. "William. The Bloody." He rolled his eyes. "Spike."

"Again with the titles."

"Whatever. You know him?"

She clicked her tongue. "You keep forgetting. Slayer, here? You know, I slay?"

The mask schooled his features again. "You slew Spike?"

"Slew? Is that even a word?" He remained very still, expressionless. She was having fun with this. "Oh! I forgot! Spike was your chylde, wasn't he? At least, that's what Giles said. Well, grandchylde, anyway. Drusilla—"

"Did you slay Drusilla, too?"

"Why Angelus, you sound as though you actually care."

"I do."

"You didn't care about Darla."

"I cared about Darla," he said quietly. His face remained impassive.

"Well," Buffy said, "I didn't slay her. Her chip slayed her. And I didn't slay Drusilla. She was sickly and Spike couldn't find her a cure—though, to give him credit, he did try. A church fell on top of her. She was too weak to escape. Rafter probably lobbed off her head or something. You know the whole beam in thine eye thing.

"Anyway, I didn't slay Spike, either," she quickly added, because Angel's eyes were blank and unfocused. "He kinda lost it after Drusilla died, I think. Blamed it on me. Raised this Judge guy to kill me, 'cept the Judge killed him first. The Judge needed energy and said the Spike's grief made him righteous or something like that. Made him human-er, I guess, or as human-ist as you can get for a vampire. Actually, it was kind of . . . poignant. He died because he loved her." Buffy shrugged and pulled her legs up onto the bed. "Are you sorry?" she asked. "About Spike and Drusilla, I mean."

He sat down in the chair across from the bed heavily, his eyes closed. When they opened, they were impenetrable. "I am sorry about Drusilla. But not for the reasons you think."

"Sure," Buffy said. "You really loved her. You would've destroyed the world to keep her, but it was still true love. That's how Spike was."

"That was Spike," the vampire said darkly. His eyes bored little smoking holes into Buffy's green ones. "I've never loved anyone."

"Until?"

A spasm crossed his face. "What do you mean?"

"Oh. You had an until-face. It was just a pretty end-all statement, you know, with the melodrama and the woe. Perfect for an 'until'. I just thought—"

"There is no 'until,'" the vampire breathed out between clenched teeth. "There can never be an 'until.' There won't ever be."

"Talk about melodrama," she said, gathering up her legs and putting her chin on her knees. "Lighten up. Though I guess that might be difficult," she conceded, "for a vampire."

He was silent for a long time, and then a trace of the trademark smile wisped across his face. "Well, it's not every day I get to be at the stake-end of a Slayer, learn that both my Sire and greatest chylde are gone, and am forced to wear Fruit of the Loom."

"It's cotton. It's good. Why was she your greatest?"

He turned his head away. His neck was thick, but there was an elegance in it, in the cord of muscle and artery that marred the smooth column of it and met his jaw. His elbow was on the chair's arm, the broad palm languid in the air, the ever-so-long fingers meeting his lips in an unconscious way. No hand had a right to look that sexy when it was just sitting there. Buffy shuddered at the thought.

"Okay, so you don't want to talk about it," she said finally, after a long spell of silence. "Fine. Let's talk about Angelus. Who are you now, if not him?"

He moved his head toward her slightly, his fingers lightly tapping his lips. When she sucked in her breath, he turned to face her head on. The smirk was deep, and sinful. "They call me Angel," he said.

"Creative," she offered, trying to control her pulse.

He stirred, crossing his legs. He looked annoyed. "I didn't come up with it."

"Okay," she said slowly. "So who calls you that?"

"People."

"You mean vampires," Buffy corrected.

"No, I mean people. Humans. Living ones."

"Yeah, but what kind of people would name a vampire 'Angel'?" He remained still, silent, those long white fingers still doing indecent things near his lips. "Maybe it's easier to pronounce, without the 'us'," Buffy offered, trying to be light. "Giles and I were debating between the An-GEL-us and the AN-gel-us option."

Angel did not look at her, or appear in the least amused by her suggestion. Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Why haven't you asked me how I knew you were Angelus?" she asked.

His hand came away from his face in a negligent movement. "I suspect it was the tattoo," he said dismissively.

Buffy closed her hands into fists in frustration. He was a know-it-all and cryptic to boot. She still didn't know where she was coming from with this guy, and it was deeply confusing. "So, you knew I saw it; you gave me credit enough to have researched Angelus and recognize the mark; you ripped out my radiator to escape, and yet you stayed."

"I said I would pay for it."

"Will you stop it?" she yelled. "I don't care about the radiator!"

At that, he was suddenly inattentive no longer. His eyes met hers and held them. It was impossible to look away. "What do you care about?" he asked.

The silkiness of his tone made her shudder again. Why was he doing this to her? Why did he make her feel so young again, so lost and confused, so helpless—oh! She hated him. "I care about the end of the world," she said at last. "I care about the fact that the Immortal wants you and some demon is going to end everything. Isn't that enough?"

The smile fell away and both hands were suddenly clutching the arms of the chair very, very tightly. "The Immortal?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

He looked away for a moment and when his eyes settled back onto hers they were sharp, piercing. Where before his posture had been languid, he was now tightly-strung, on edge. "Did you . . . Have you . . . Have you met him?"

"Sure. Once or twice. He's the big bad down the Vatican way. He particularly enjoys midnight strolls through the Non-Catholic cemetery, and really likes some dead poet there—what's his name? I—"

"Have you . . . . He likes midnight strolls," he repeated, latching onto her words, ". . . with you?"

"What, do I hang on his arm on romantic turnabouts through the graves?" She rolled her eyes and took on a sugary, sing-song voice. "Oooh Mr. Immortal, you're so . . . immortal. And so . . ." She trailed off at his shudder. "Hey," she said lightly. "Hey, I'm not serious. I mean, ew? He's a vampire."

If it had been possible, his expression would have grown darker. "Just an animal, right?"

"No," she said absently. "Animals I like." She scooted back on the bed, grabbed a pillow, and folded it up under her chin. "I mean, come on," she said finally, because he was angry about something and she didn't want him to be, because . . . because he had to explain to her what the thingy with the Allcatholic demon was. "Were you implying that I'd actually let that slime-ball put me in its thrall?"

"He seduces women."

"Ew! Yuck! You mean you thought I'd—"

Angel's voice was loosening. He settled back into his chair, templing his fingers before him. He seemed amused by her disgust. "He's done it before."

"Gag me. To who?"

"To whom," he corrected, absently. "Darla, for one. Drusilla, for another."

"Oh. But they were vampires," she said dismissively.

"Yes, but some vampires do have loyalties. William did."

"Sure, but Drusilla didn't. Neither did Darla."

He looked away again, and said at last, "You didn't know them, not like I did. They loved, in their own way . . . . There was a time when . . . ." He trailed off.

"Darla never loved anyone," Buffy interrupted. Angel didn't seem likely to finish the statement anyway; it would've actually told her something about himself and apparently that wasn't his thing. "Except maybe Xander," Buffy added, watching to see if he reacted to her addendum.

He merely raised a brow. "Xander?"

"One of my best friends. He and Darla had a thing. For about two minutes. It was a spell, I think. But it wasn't love."

"Darla loved me," Angel said simply.

"Huh," Buffy replied, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "You like to think. Why would she love you?"

"Because I was her greatest creation. As Drusilla was mine."

"Modest, much?"

"It's the truth," he told her, looking slightly offended.

"Funny. In all the time I spent with Darla in my hair, I don't think she ever mentioned you, not even in passing."

"No," Angel replied. "I should think not."

"Why not? If she loved you so much?"

"We parted ways," he said simply. "Not pleasantly."

A sudden light bulb turned on over Buffy's head. "Because of the Immortal? A lover's spat?"

"No. Nothing like that."

The light went out. Angelus—or Angel, or whatever—appeared to be the missing link between Darla and Spike and Drusilla. Buffy wondered why Angel had been cast out of the loop for so long. Did he resent it? Did he miss them? Had he tried to return to them, and was that why he had ended up a prisoner of the Initiative with Darla? But while he had said he had cared for his Sire, he didn't seem remotely as moved by her dusting as Spike had by Drusilla's. Despite her better judgment, Buffy was beginning to believe Angel's implications the he and Darla really had been over.

Buffy yawned. The whole vampire lore thing was really interesting, especially after all that time she had spent with Darla, but she was getting tired; the sun was coming up, and she still hadn't figured out what the deal with the Alleycat demon was.

He shifted in his chair. "Dawn is coming," he said at last.

"No shit, Sherlock," she said.

He was silent for several long moments. "May I ask a question now?"

"Sure," she said, and yawned again.

"What's your name?"

"That's it?" she asked in surprise.

"Well . . . right now, it does happen to be my most pressing query, yes."

"I'm the original. The trend-setter. You know, before slaying and potentialing became a fad. I'm even pre-Kendra," she added brightly. Recognition did not cross his features, and Buffy was surprised. She didn't know whether she liked it that her reputation didn't precede her everywhere. But Angel was tensing up, and she realized, with a sudden hop of her heart, that it wasn't just a curiosity thing for him. He really wanted to know her name. Badly.

"Buffy," she said gently, into the still air. "Buffy Anne Summers."

She found herself wanting him to repeat it. She wanted to hear her name, spoken through those lips. But he was silent.

"I came here to stake you," she said conversationally, after a bit. "I would have thought your 'most pressing query' would be why I haven't done it yet. Or maybe you think I'm not going to do it, and you're wondering why?"

"Perhaps. I was more interested in your name."

"Why?" she asked breathlessly.

"Maybe because, as you said, vampires think names are important."

"Maybe?" she asked. "Was that the real reason?" When he was silent for several minutes, she sighed. The sigh turned into a yawn. "There you go with the cryptic again. I could still stake you, you know. I'm probably going to." She crawled up the bed and pulled back the covers. "But for now, I'm not, because I don't think you're in cahoots with the Immortal or are trying to destroy the world. Not yet, anyway."

Silence from the chair in the dark corner. At last: "Thank you."

"Well, it's not a favor, or anything," she said, turning away from him and burrowing into the bed, pushing the pillows under her face. "It's only because I found you starving and smelling like rat crap. If you'd been wearing Versace or that stuff you mentioned, whatever it was, I'd've definitely staked you. No questions asked."

"That's good to know."

"And don't think you're off the hook or anything just because I'm going to sleep," she mumbled, closing her eyes. "I still don't trust you. I sleep with an eye open. I'll know if you try to escape. Or try anything funny."

"Naturally."

She pulled the covers up. "Oh yeah," she said, though he hadn't moved from where he was sitting. "Sorry about the one bed thingy." She wasn't, not really, because he was a vampire, but she was kinda sorry about the images popping into her head regarding both of them sharing it that the one bed thingy was giving her. "You'll have to sleep on the floor."

"Believe me, I've had worse."

"Yeah, but there's not much room down there. Here," she said, and threw a pillow aimlessly into the room. She heard him moving, and guessed he was settling down on the floor. When the rustling stopped, she said, "Angel?"

"Hmm?"

She was probably giddy with exhaustion, but it pleased her that he did not sound in the least bit annoyed that she was still talking at him. "Do you snore?"

"I don't know. It's been a long time since anyone's been in a position to let me know."

Buffy liked that answer. She snuggled up in the covers, already beginning to drift off. She was just on the brink of deep sleep when she remembered. Vampires couldn't snore.

A/N: Thanks so much for reviewing; it's nice to read people's opinions. Criticism is also welcome ;o)

Special credit to a2zmom for beta'ing this chapter. A couple lines were directly rewritten by her. Thanks for helping me spiff it up!

Lines stolen from S1.7 "Angel", and some twisted from AtS epi. 108 "The Girl In Question." Don't own 'em or anything. Inspirational credit goes to the infamous picture of David Boreanaz seated with his hand near his face.