"How was your study group?" Buffy asked vaguely, throwing a few stakes into a small shoulder bag.
"Terrible. No one actually did any of the work. Maybe I should just keep studying by myself. I feel like I'm back in high school, doing everyone else's work for them!" Willow grumbled, falling onto her mattress. "Going out patrolling?"
"Yeah, duty calls."
The night was quiet, almost freakishly so. Those laid to rest remained resting, the ground undisturbed, a fresh layer of frosty dew coating the manicured grass that lined the Sunnydale cemetery. Buffy perched on the corner of a tombstone jutting precariously from the cool ground, watching the evening settle into night. Behind her, far in the distance, the icy grass crackled, the shuffling of feet barely noticeable. She pounced down from the stone, smacking the ground with her toes and taking off for the noise, pressing a withdrawn stake at the chest of her attacker.
"Buffy," Giles' voice trembled, his hand rising to settle his glasses upon the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, sorry Giles," Buffy frowned, dropping her defensive fist and returning the weapon to her bag. "Figured you were a big bad, might get some action instead of just catching a cold."
"Regretfully, no. I was looking to discuss some demonic activity…if you're up for it."
"Got nothing else to do," Buffy shrugged, following Giles as he propped open a dusty book between his hands and walked further into the graveyard. "What's goin' on? Apocalypse?"
"Oh no, nothing that serious I shouldn't think. I've consulted the almanacs, and discovered that the next new moon will bring with it a possible prophecy. It is said that a demon will appear to rid the world of a champion."
"And it isn't serious?"
"It is serious Buffy, quite serious. But it certainly isn't the end of the world. Just, be on the look out for anything out of the ordinary. How have you been sleeping?"
"Oh…great, just great," Buffy smiled, thankful for the darkness to hide her blushing cheeks.
"No dreams out of the ordinary? Nothing…prophetic?"
"Nope, nothing unusual!"
"Good, well, keep me updated. Go home early, Buffy. You look tired."
The scent of night-blooming jasmine sweetened the path to the mansion, hollow and still with its master away. Her fingers tripped over the velvet curtain that hung loose over the doorway, then pushed it delicately aside, dipping her head as she entered. The candles were out, their wicks cold and blackened with year-old ash. Still, she could sense him here, hiding in the stony shadows, waiting, the lover and the predator. Buffy knelt momentarily on the cushions of the sofa, pressing her hand into the fabric, how cool it was without her own flesh to keep it warm and cozy. Despite its shiver-inducing lack of life, the old furniture remained infinitely comfortable. Velvety and smooth, she slid down between the cushions, closing her eyes.
His hands slid over her shoulders, digging softly but firmly into her strained flesh, massaging away the aches and pains of night after night of battle. His lips pressed delicately against the back of her skull, nudging away her thick blond ponytail, nuzzling her scalp with his nose and chin. Soft murmurs of nothingness tripped over her lips as Buffy swayed backward into his hands, her eyes half closed, squinting up into his chiseled face.
"Angel," she whispered, half dazed, half awake. "You're home."
"I could never leave you, Buffy. I'll always be with you."
"We can't, we just…"
"We've already proved the prophecies wrong, Buffy. Last night…"
"I was dreaming…"
"You weren't dreaming, Buffy. It was real. It's all real."
The stone floor was cold and hard against her back, though the friction between them sent veins of warmth up through her torso, lighting her entire body aflame. His weight pinned her suddenly fragile body to the floor, his hands roaming along her skin. Their hips moved together, a union of two souls bound into one body. Soft, high-pitched moans escaped from her throat, echoing through the empty mansion, bouncing from the walls and refilling her throat, only to be released again. His mouth, lingering only inches above hers, panting despite his lack of breath, bent down at last to kiss her, to steal the sound from her lungs and swallow it whole. His face contorted, from angelic and beautiful to demonic, angry, possessed by passion, and still he could not look more vulnerable and handsome. Her tongue slid between his fangs, searching for the soul pinned beneath that fearsome vampiric face.
Buffy opened her eyes with a small groan, peeling the comforter away from her sweating torso. The room was unbearably hot, though pangs of cold snuck up the souls of her feet as she slid onto the floor. The bedroom was empty, but surprisingly bright. The cool sunlight that flickered between the window blinds seemed to penetrate deeper than should be possible. Buffy padded slowly to the door, pulled it open, and snuck down the hall to the dormitory bathroom. Students walked briskly back and forth, some of them stopping to stare at her, still in her fluffy pink pajamas. Briefly, she peered at a clock face embedded into the wall above the fire extinguisher. Pressing her hand against the bathroom door, it took her a moment to decipher the meaning of the roman numerals and the hands of the clock. At last, her brain seemed to click on. It was half past one in the afternoon. She'd slept through half the day and through her psychology mid-term as well.
The fluorescent lights in the ladies' bathroom were almost blinding, and Buffy spent several minutes in a darkened stall trying to adjust. Pain bled into her temples, her nose, and her mouth, leaving a cotton-ball sensation on her tongue. Minutes ticked by, waiting for a raging headache to settle down. A voice echoed, deep within her brain. You weren't dreaming, Buffy. It's all real. A smile licked across her lips, sending her out of the stall and up in front of the mirror above the sink. Her fiery green eyes were swollen, puffy, and an odd, unnatural purple hue. Her hair and face sagged, more like that of an old woman than of a young and virile vampire slayer. Behind her, the door banged shut on its hinges, and in the reflective glass stood Willow, concern painted across her sweet face. Buffy watched her in the mirror, a queer smile brightening her sallow eyes and wrinkling her aging skin.
"Buffy, are you okay? You look sick."
"Are you kidding? I'm great!"