Buffy tends to Angel, and reflects on the nature of their relationship and their hearts' ties.

He's so still... so silent. If he was human, I'd be sure he was dead, but as it is...

As it is, I don't know what he is... or where. I just know that his body is here. He's solid, not dust, and that one small thing, at least, is of the good.

I sit here on the edge of his bed, watching absolutely nothing happen. He's clean, now, and we fed him as much as we could... physically, I don't think there's anything else we can do.

God, he's so thin. I can see his collarbone poking right through the skin of his shoulders. It rips me up inside to see him like this, when he's usually so big and healthy and strong. He's so pale, paler even than usual, lying there... no sign of his usual habit of breath. Not even twitching movements of nightmares. Just... nothing. And me? I do what I've been doing for years, now. I cry. I hold his cold, bony hand, and I cry.

I wonder, sometimes, if there's a limit to the number of tears you can cry for one person. You know, like, "You get 4.2 million for Person X, 5.6 billion for Person Z," and when those are all used up, you just go dry and feel nothing for them anymore at all, no matter what happens.

Well, if it's true, then I must have a pretty close to infinite supply for Angel, because I've cried a hundred oceans for him, and it never feels like I'm even close to being done.

I was the only person who made it back at dawn, and that made me feel worse. The others were still out looking, really caring about him, and screw what we agreed on. I was just so tired...tired and empty and aching inside. I spent the whole night walking from one end of Los Angeles to the other, crying and remembering, and found nothing. Came back with nothing but bruised knuckles from clocking some idiot would-be mugger on Sunset Strip, and a big, gaping hollow in my chest where I'm pretty sure Angel used to be. A perfect California day was dawning, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die.

When I walked into this place, I was just... stunned. Huge and old-fashioned, and it smelled like him -- like cool skin and spice, old books and leather, and when I stood in the lobby and looked up that the mile-high ceilings, I started shaking. I could feel him, now... everywhere. In every shadow, in the air, in my blood and my bones, and I just collapsed there on the foyer steps and cried.

A hotel...a home with plenty of space for his pain and his ghosts and his utter loneliness. How fitting. How like him. God.

I don't know how long I sat there, mourning and regretting, and letting him wash through me. It was like everything we'd been through since I was Called came and sat on my chest like a ton of the biggest, ugliest monster I'd ever battled, and even those tiny good moments that we'd shared in between just vanished under the weight of it.

I love him, God, and I would do anything... give up everything... to feel him inside me again, his strength and his love and his spirit filling me up the way it used to. I've been so empty for so long...

Somehow, I thought that once I was out on the streets, out in the smoggy air he didn't need to breathe, that I would just know where to find him. We've always been connected like that, so that I could feel his presence from a mile away -- it was like we weren't really separate people at all, it was so strong. Sometimes I imagined I could feel him even when he was here, and I was in Sunnydale. It always made me feel good... safe... just to know he still existed, even if I couldn't see him or hear him or touch him. I could always feel him. It made moving on -- even just the pretense of it -- almost bearable. Almost.

He's in my blood, and I'm in his, and nothing can ever change that.

But as I wandered a dozen streets that all looked the same, peering in every alley, at every shadow, under every fire escape, doorway and sewer grate, I felt nothing. Not even that itch under my skin that had been nagging at me for weeks. Like he was suddenly just gone.

But, no. More than anything, I'm certain I would know if his soul left this dimension again. I think his Final Death would rip me wide open from the inside, and I would probably die right along with him. And maybe (God, I hope...) we'd be together wherever it is we ended up after. Maybe that's wishful thinking, on my part. Maybe it's more of that fairy tale stuff that just won't go away. I don't know, and I don't care. When you live a life that's as outside of normal as I do, you hold on to every little thing you can to give you hope.

Like Riley...

But... I can't think about that, now. It's not important. I know I owe him a lot-- an apology, at least -- but it's too late for that. It's not too late to save Angel, and that's all I can care about. His pain, my pain, even Spike's pain -- they're all the same, and it's got to stop.

I know I felt him the last time we were close, standing there outside my dorm room with all our history screaming between us, my heart full of fury, and Riley standing like Captain Braveheart inside. I never got any closer than a few feet from Angel -- it hurt too much to be even that close -- but even so, I could feel his every movement and word and unnecessary breath as if I was holding him in my arms.

It's always been like that, with us. That pull, that irresistible draw that wrenches us together no matter how hard we try to fight it. It's like he's the sun, and I'm a planet in his solar system, eternally trapped in his gravity.

While we were standing there, making small talk meant to give us some ridiculous illusion of closure, I couldn't think about anything but the depth of his eyes... how soft and delicious his lips looked, crooked in that half-grin that is so uniquely his. I'd forgotten how big and powerful his body is... the way he commands all the space and the light and shadows around him, even when he just stands there, doing nothing but talking and being so damn sweet and beautiful and sexy...

I wanted so badly to feel his strong arms wrap around me the way they used to. I wanted to snuggle into his broad chest, and hear him tell me how much he loved me, and know, just for that moment, that I was absolutely safe and cared for. I wanted him to tell me how much he missed me, and how sorry he was for leaving. I wanted to kiss him, slow and deep... get lost in his cool, wet mouth. Tangle my hands in all that thick, careless hair. I wanted to strip him and strip me and just be naked and keep him safe inside me, where he belongs...I wanted to forget about our past, and the Hellmouth and Adam, and my friends, and yes, right then, even Riley.

I wanted a lot of things. But I didn't tell him a single one. He used to want them too, and I know that's a big part of why he left. Because if we were in the same town together, there was just no way that we would be strong enough to fight that natural gravity in our cells.

I was thinking about that when the basement door exploded inward, and Spike came barreling through it, screaming my name. As soon as I saw them...

I felt him, then. I felt both of them, in fact. Pain and anguish like getting hit by a Mack truck. Spike was crying and filthy, carrying this... broken thing in his arms like a giant, wasted infant, and God... no... that can't be Angel... can't be...

"ANGEL!" His name just ripped from my chest as I ran to them, and Spike -- "I don't give a toss, because I hate you both" Spike -- was standing there, holding him, shivering and sobbing like a wounded child.

"He...he's... he..." he spluttered, and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move. It was like a nightmare, that frozen, helpless feeling, when all I could do was stand there and stare at what was left of my heart's mate.

Then, in the next moment, time shattered, and it was like everybody appeared out of nowhere, and everything became a blur of panic and horror and time moving too fast and too slow all at once. Wesley stood there, and stared with wide, horrified eyes, saying, "Oh, my dear God," over and over again. I remember shouting orders at people... some part of me that wasn't crumpled up and wailing in pain stepped forward and gave everybody chores, tasks... something, anything to bring order to the chaos. Spike and I carried him upstairs... the others followed, and they were shouting and scrambling and crying, too. Someone built a fire in his rooms... we warmed up bags and bags of blood from his refrigerator, and forced them down his throat. We carried him into the bathroom and stripped off what was left of his clothes and tried not to fall apart to see how bloody and torn and emaciated he was. We filled the tub with scalding hot water, and Spike stripped and got in with him, still clutching him close, both of us sobbing senselessly as we washed all the blood and gore off him... We called to him, begged him, told him how much we loved him. The others came and went every few minutes, but never stayed long -- whether to give us privacy in our very private grief, or whether they couldn't handle seeing him like this either -- I don't know.

Then, when he was clean at last, we dressed the worst of his wounds and put him in his bed like a sick child, and just kept talking to him and feeding him, touching him and hoping... praying... I think even Spike was praying, although I could have been imagining it.

He has to live. He has to keep being. We need him. The world needs him. He can't give up, not now. Not when he's done so much and come so far. Please...

Now it's quiet, and there's no sound or movement but the crackling fire, and he and I in this room. The others are somewhere else... sleeping or... I don't know what. Spike finally left, cursing and saying he was bored and hungry and tired, and he was going out to get a bottle of something. He griped like he always does, but I could feel his absolute devastation at everything that had happened. He couldn't handle it, either. And I could feel his shame over his weakness. Shame that I had seen him fall apart like that over someone who's supposed to be his worst enemy. He bitched at me, and snapped at me, and then stomped out like we had done all of this with the express purpose of upsetting him.

Doesn't he know? Doesn't he know that I understand? That being naked beneath him last night opened some kind of link between us, and now we three are just one complete circuit, like that Eternity snake thing that swallows its own tail, and his pain, and my pain, and Angel's, are all the same? How could he not know?

I wanted to stop him. Tell him that I understood. That it was okay for him to feel the way he does. I wanted him to stay with us, so I could keep leaning on him... keep drawing on his strength... feel Angel through him... so both of us could bring him back together.

But... no. Spike needs his denial, I think. Just like I used to need it. In a way, he's in a far worse position than I am, because his Angel really is gone forever (God, I hope) and he can't deal with the fact that he still feels the same way about this one, who he is convinced is the symbol of everything boring and bland and bad in this world that he loves so much.

I can't even imagine how much he must hurt. So I let him play his game, and I promise to stay and take care of Angel while he does whatever he has to do (drink, probably). I don't respond when he says, "Yeah, whatever," like he doesn't care, and I pretend I don't notice that one long, last, lingering glance he gives to Angel before he turns and walks out.

I'm almost as tied to Spike, now, as I am to Angel. And, believe it or not, it's not as disturbing as it sounds. In fact... it's almost comforting.

So it's just Angel and I and the fire, and the bowl of cool water, and his bed... and this is a deja vu I never wanted to have. The last time he was dying... the last time I was wiping his brow like this, knowing that one way or the other, he would leave me.

No. He's not leaving me. Not this time. And I'm not going anywhere, either. Not until he's well and safe and strong again. Let the world go to Hell. Let Glory get Dawn... no, I don't mean that. But if I can help it, I'll sit right where I am for as long as I have to, until I know that he can stand on his own again. Until I get to tell him...

"I love you, Angel... so much..." I whisper, "I'm sorry about everything that's happened. I'm sorry about Darla and Dru... I'm sorry about Riley... I'm just... sorry...Please don't leave me."

Great speech, Summers. Where did all my words go? All the things I wanted to say... that I'd been practicing and going over and over in my mind since we left Sunnydale last night? Why can't I remember them anymore?

Words. Just words. Screw the words. They never did us any good, before. Words can't really heal... not the way he needs to be healed. Words are just words, and I think that might be why they're gone. He needs more from me than stupid words. Aren't they half of what wrecked us to begin with?

I ease down beside him on the bed. I don't know why... I just... need to be close to him. Maybe will my life force into his soul like I once forced him to drink my blood? I reach up and caress the planes of his beloved face... he's so beautiful, even like this... like his splendor really is more than skin deep... like even when he's so far away, his soul lights him from within. His beautiful, precious soul...

I touch him without fear, without reservation... just let my hands wander over his painfully thin and wounded body. Places I've only touched once... some I've never touched at all. It's not about sex... not even about love. It's just a reassurance... to me, to him... that he's still here, and his body is whole, and the rest will come, in time. He will survive. He has to.

I let my hands speak where my mouth always fails. I touch the healing wounds. I can hardly believe how desperate I am to put my hands on him... and so terrified, at the same time. Do I have the right to do this? Is this beautiful, broken body in any way mine to experience? I don't know. And here I go, being selfish again, but... I don't care. I need to feel him. I have to.

And part of me can't help but think... maybe this is what he needs. Maybe he's so far away, so defeated, so alone, because he's forgotten... made himself forget... that to be close, to let people near you, can be a source of strength. Of healing. To love isn't just about pain and loss... it's about being connected. About being part of the world. Ties that time and space and even Death can never destroy. It's about being whole.

I wonder if maybe this is a lesson I need to learn myself.

I let my hands wander softly over his mending skin... cool, smooth, pale satin, wounds pulling tight to silver scars, then vanishing before my eyes... under my fingertips.

His body is magic. A spell of flesh and blood and bone that was cast on me only once, but has never let me go for a moment since. I smooth my hands over him, spread all the warmth and love and missing and needing him over his form... He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't respond at all, beyond the slight tightening of his brow, but somehow... I know he knows.

I remember every inch of him. From only that one night, my hands and mouth and body took him in and kept him in the deepest, darkest core of my being, and now...this re-awakening of desire is like wildfire under my skin. That gravity, that pull, will always be, just like my love. I can close my eyes, pretend it's not there, but like the rhythm of breath and heartbeat, it will be a part of me until the day I die. I can live beyond it... behind it... around it... but never, never can I truly leave it behind.

I kiss him. Forehead... cheeks... lips and jaw, throat and shoulder, chest and belly... I kiss the fading hurts and wish that I could kiss the ones I can't see... I love every inch of him, inside and out, and the throbbing, soothing ache in my own body tells me:

I need this healing, too. And wherever he is, I need him to come back, because I have to tell him. He has to know...

I love you.

I touch him, I tell him... I heal him and heal me... and I cry until I finally fall asleep, curled up tight against his chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere, I am dreaming. I don't have a lot of happy dreams, anymore... not for a long time. I usually dream about the same things I deal with every day: monsters. The end of the world. Darkness and death.

Angel is no stranger to my dreams, good or bad. My favorites are ones like these... bright, sunny afternoons, birds singing, fields of green grass as far as I can see in every direction. And he's always alive, tanned and heart-beating in the sunshine... and he always wears white. He smiles a lot. We eat fruit and cheese we've brought in a picnic basket... we talk about nothing. Sometimes, like now, we don't talk at all. We don't eat, either. He just leans toward me with this heartbreaking light in his eyes...a glimmer of something... miraculous and beatific. God, his eyes... rich, and deep, like fresh earth, and I can see myself so clearly in them... and he reaches a big, gentle hand up to touch my face. His lips brush mine, and they're so warm... his tongue so wet and sweet...

Did I ever kiss anyone else? Were we ever anywhere but right here in this meadow where there's nothing but us and the way we should have been and the sunshine? I can't remember.

I never think about pain or vampires or death, when he's kissing me. I never did. I never think about being without him, either. I can't remember anything but his love...his mouth... his hands... that look on his beautiful face...

And as he lays me down in the soft grass, he sighs and closes his eyes, and we're nothing but skin and breath and touch, and it's like coming home. Like being born again. It's like... everything. No. It is everything.

I remember every tiny detail of the one night Angel and I were together. I slept with Riley a hundred times, and all of that's just a pleasurable blur I've labeled "Good Sex" somewhere in my memory. But those few precious hours with Angel... I can relive every whisper... every kiss... exactly the way his hands and mouth felt on every inch of my body. And I do, here... I remember, and I relive it in his arms... he tastes like chocolate and peanut butter. He tastes like life and love and hope... and sunshine. He tastes like dreams come true, and laughter, and he feels...

God, he feels so good. And I never want to wake from these dreams. I never want him to stop making love to me. I want that one night to go on and on forever. I never want to stop calling out his name in ecstasy, or him to stop calling mine in return... I never want his body to leave my body, or his arms to let me go, even for a moment. This is the only place in the whole world in my entire life where I've ever felt safe and whole... the only place I've ever just... been.

These dreams always come after my worst days... days when nothing makes sense, and everything around me hurts -- the whole world is just ugly and wrong. It's like the love he's given me lives somewhere deep in my heart, and when I feel like I can't go on anymore, he comes to me and makes all the pain, all the darkness go away... like my Knight... my sweet, brave Prince. He's the only thing that's ever been right... in my life... in my body, my heart, my soul. Without that love, I can't live. I can't breathe. I can't fight or laugh, and my heart doesn't beat. I can't stand to go on without these dreams of him.

When I wake from those nights, I'm so happy, for a minute. I'm okay. I'm all right. Everyone and everything is fine, and just the way it should be, because he loves me.

A moment later, my heart shatters when I reach for him and he's not beside me. I remember mornings when I rolled over and found Riley, and for a second, I hated him. The wrong arms... the wrong body...the wrong eyes, the wrong bed, the wrong "Buffy..." the wrong everything. It wasn't his fault, and I was glad he was there... but my heart didn't care.

I started thinking it was better to wake up alone, because then I didn't have to explain to Riley why I was crying.

Of course, that point's kind of moot, now.

Angel's lips... cool and soft... his hands... so gentle. When I woke, I could feel him all over my skin. Half of me rejoices that I've known something so powerful that it stays with me like that, even after all this time. But the other half... the other half is just broken, and a million years could pass, and I don't think it will ever be whole again.

When I wake from this night's sweet dream, and I feel his arms around me, for a heartbeat, I'm confused. I don't move, because I know it's him. I know that chest against my back. I know that unnecessary breath in my ear. I know those arms. And for that perfect moment, before I'm really awake, I feel tears start to well. The past two years have been the nightmare, and this... this is the only thing that's real. He's here, I'm here, and he's holding me, and yes... this is the way it was meant to be.

But then, of course, I remember. I open my eyes and see the strange, dark bedroom... the fire burning low in the fireplace. I smell all the blood we force fed him, and the antiseptic. I remember how we got here, and everything that's happened in the past few days comes rushing back.

But... I still feel okay. Because he's moved sometime while we slept. He moved enough to wrap me in his embrace and huddle close, burying his nose in my hair. He's breathing again.

Oh, God... he's alive. Thank you. Thank you.

And the tears come, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, they're tears of joy and relief, because yes, I will get to talk to him again. I will get a chance to tell him everything I never did. I will get to see him smile, and I am in his arms.

I turn over slowly, gently in that circle of love. He's still fast asleep, his pale, beautiful face still gaunt and healing, but peaceful... serene. The furrow of his brow has smoothed, and his lips are parted slightly. He looks like a little boy when he's sleeping. Like an innocent.

Like an angel...

I let those tears come, because I've held too many back... I've hidden too much of myself away for too long, and oh... I've missed this face... I was so afraid I'd never see it again.

I can't help it. I reach up and caress his cheek, and softly... so softly... kiss his lips.

He tastes like home. Like chocolate and peanut butter. Like being born again. Like hope. Like second chances. I have to choke back a sob. I don't want to wake him, he's still so weak, and he needs to rest, but... God...

Suddenly, I'm not so sure that I really am awake, because his eyes flicker open, and focus on me... and his mouth... those lips... almost smile.

I can't help but smile back, even through my tears.

Neither of us move for... I don't know how long. Forever, maybe. Forever and always we just lie there, side by side and face to face, his arms around me... so close I can feel the warmth of my breath on his skin.

Now I know why I lost all the words. His eyes say a million things, and I hear every one as clearly as though he has spoken. *I love you. I miss you. I'm so glad you're here. Buffy... I hurt.*

I do sob, then. *I know,* I tell him, *It's okay, now. I'm here. We're here to help you. You're not alone. I love you.*

We don't need speech, to hear one another. We never did.

This time, he kisses me... motion so slow, I'm sure it hurts him, and I know he doesn't care, because it's so gentle, and now we're both crying... great, gulping sobs echoing in the air, and I lose track of whose are whose. This pain is both of ours. The confusion, the weakness, all the hurt and loss of hope...

We just hold each other and cry into one another's lips. It'll be all right now. It hurts. It's hard. But we'll be okay. I know we will.

I love you, Angel. I'm so glad you came back.

*****
Part 7:

Spike thinks about liquor, love, blood, sex, and the origins of a really shitty attitude.

There are a very few things on this planet that a bloke can count on. In fact, I can count them on one hand. One: fucking feels good, no matter how much you dislike your partner. Two: there's no taste in the world compares to hot blood in your mouth. Three: liquor gets you drunk. And drunk is good. Four: If you're a vampire, and you avoid wood, sunlight, decapitation, nasty curses and Slayers, you'll be wandering the world forever. And five: You can't get over Sire issues, even after a hundred bloody years.

A hundred years. A fucking century, and I've still got that rotten bastard right down in my undead bones. After all the bullocks He's put me through since I've known Him, I still worship the piece of shit, and right now, I can't get drunk enough to wash the hollow, bitter taste of grief out of my mouth.

It's that damned Slayer. It's always about that self-righteous, beautiful bitch. Everything that's gone wrong in my miserable unlife boils right back down to Her. ('Cept maybe for my Sire's regaining His soul in the first place. That was those idiot Gypsies.) She's the one who ruined my reputation as a Slayer-Slaying badass. She's the one who brought a doubly batty Angelus back and lost me Dru. She's the one who got this chip in my Head. She's the one that turned me into some goddamn soldier for good, and now, ain't it fitting that fucking Her has turned me into a bloody poster child for the Oedipus Complex.

Christ! Look at me! Sitting here in the kitchen of some poofy hotel, drinking everything I can find in my half-dead Sire's sorry excuse for a liquor cabinet, sobbing like a fucking kid lost His mommy in the mall, for Chrissake. I'm damned upset, and really fucking pissed off about it, and I can't believe I cried in front of the Vampire Slayer, of all the bloody bints!

Now I'm really my Sire's Childe. All weepy and introspective, drunk off my ass, and still can't stop thinking about that sanctimonious sad excuse for a demon bastard rotting away in His own skin upstairs.

I wasn't a very happy human being, either. I had a damned shitty life, and the truth is, I spent most of my time trying to die. Drinking too much, fighting too much, going home with strangers, cheating at cards... guess you could safely say I had a death wish. Who says wishes never come true?

One man -- or rather, one monster -- turned all that around. Changed my life by taking it. I owe Him as much bloody thanks as I do hatred, as much as it gives me a chip-style headache to admit it.

Now... let me preface this little story by saying that I was as straight as a bloody arrow when I was alive. Chuff was the only name of the game when it came to sex, for old William. Loved women, I did. A lot of them, in fact. And with the exception of a handful of blowjobs in Whitechapel's alleyways for loose change when I was particularly down on my luck, it was never once that I took any fancy to, or pleasure from, a man.

But everything was different about that first rainy night I met the famed Irish gentleman, Angelus. Why not my sexual preference, too? I'd been lucky at the races that day -- had a pocketful of silver, and a belly loaded with the finest booze and food The Wandering Spirit Tavern had to offer. I was sittin' at the back table, watching the dancin' girls, feeling all bloody fine about myself, and here comes this-- Oh, Hell, this walkin' Greek God, truth be told--marchin' over in His fine silks like He owned the damn place.

I'll be buggered if I can remember a word He said. All I remember is those eyes looking right through me, and me shakin' down to my brand new boots with lust for Him. And when He smiled... oh, Holy Jesus on a Rubber Crutch... I woulda just let Him kill me, right then and there. Preferably after a good fuck, of course.

Now that I think about it, it could very well be that Angelus hypnotized me, the underhanded prick. Not that it matters, because I fell in love with Him in less than the time it took for Him to ask me, in that voice like velvet and honey, back to His home for a cigar and a glass of port.

Now, I knew full well that if I went to this fine gentleman's house, there wasn't going to be a whole lot of port-drinking and cigar-smoking going on. And woman-lover, full pockets and belly or no, I didn't care. I had this uncontrollable urge to run my hand through all that thick, shining hair, over those obscenely broad shoulders... see if there was as much muscle and cock under that suit as I was imagining as we rode through London in His fancy carriage.

Done, is what I was. A goner from the moment He said, "Good eve to ya, young William." Never bothered to ask how He knew who I was -- found out later that He'd been following me about for weeks. Never even noticed Him everywhere I went, drooling over me and planning my grisly seduction and death.

His house was like nothing I'd seen before or since. Room after room full of junk that screamed, "I'm a fucking filthy rich bastard, and don't you forget it!" But... this street urchin was impressed. And surprised when we actually did sit down in front of the fire with a drink and a smoke, while He told me that He was looking for an apprentice, or some such bullocks.

Was I interested, He asked me. Hell, He could've told me He was looking for a human toilet and I would have been interested. He sat there and promised me everything in the goddamn universe -- a home, money, women, all the fine clothes and booze and food I could handle, more power and influence and adventure than I could shake a firepoker at. And He was just so unbelievably fucking beautiful, all smooth and suave and cultured, sipping at His port there in the firelight, and I couldn't say, "Hell yeah, I'm interested!" fast enough. To which He just smiled that fucking smile, and said there was a bit of a catch.

A bit of a catch. Damn if I can remember just how the Hell He made dying and coming back as a bloodthirsty demon so sod-all attractive, but He must have, because the next thing I knew, He was kissing me... I'll tell you, I'd never kissed a man before, or another since, but SHIT. It was the finest kiss I've ever had. His mouth was cool and firm, insistent, demanding, dominating, loving and tender all at once, and He tasted like wine and cigars and blood, and He was... fucking magnificent.

"Eternal life, William. Free from care. Free from pain," He whispered as He stripped me bare, "Ye'll live with me, and be mine... have everything you've ever dreamed of... forever."

FUCK ME! Which He did. He laid me right down on that monstrosity of a featherbed, and sucked my cock until I was squealing like a little pig, begging Him to let me come. Which He didn't, naturally. One of Angelus' favorite methods of torture, where I was concerned. Probably some transference thing from the way His Sire did Him all the time. But, anyway...

Instead, He stood and took off all that silk and linen, and when He was naked, standing over me... I fucking knew He'd be beautiful, and I was right. I never wanted anything before the way I wanted to touch Him right then.

Angelus slid down beside me, and I couldn't get my hands on enough of that body fast enough for my liking. He licked me, nibbled me, felt me and stroked me with those huge hands... He was everywhere on me, and while that was going on, I forgot all about who I was an hour ago. I didn't care anymore. He was so good, all I cared about was never being away from Him ever again. I didn't give a shit how it happened. Gotta turn me into a pile of dog crap? No problem. Just don't. Stop. Touching. Me.

I have absolutely crystal fucking clear memories of my Turning. I remember His enormous body spooning me from behind... His thick cock easing into that place where no one had ever gone before... one of those hands... Jesus Christ, those hands... stroking my dick just right, and my body was exploding, on fire from that absolutely pure sensation of it, and then... His fangs in my throat... those sweet, sweet sucking sounds as He drained my pathetic life away. He fucked me and jerked me off and I came like you wouldn't fucking believe as I died in His arms.

But the best part of all... that moment that brought me right here to this sorry moment... His huge wrist gashed open... Him holding the bleeding appendage to my mouth. He kept fucking me... harder, even... deeper... His cock impaled so deep in me that it probably would've killed me if His exquisite feast didn't first, and the last thing I remember before everything went black was the ungodly sweet taste of His Blood in my mouth. Pouring. Gushing. Pumping down my throat. And the way He grunted, driving into me as He came, and Jesus Christ, the Blood...

Son of a bitch, it was good. If I could recommend a way to die, I'd put being fucked and sucked dry by the hottest, meanest demon on the face of the planet right up there at the top of the damn list.

Not that I've experienced any of the others, mind you.

So now, here I am. It's a hundred goddamn years later, He's got a soul, we've both fucked the same Slayer, and I'm weeping like a bloody pansy in His kitchen.

Jesus fucking Christ, I still love Him, as much tonight as a hundred and some odd bloody years ago, and as it turns out, I love His fucking stupid bitch mate, too. If vampires had a Bible, this would be one of the goddamn seven bloody signs of the Apocalypse, I'm sure of it. I'm drunk out of my gourd, crying, nursing a hard-on that just won't quit, and I can smell the bastard. Her too. Smell them both like they're standing right next to me. Him like sadness and memories, and Her like love and fucking la-di-da sunlight, and I'm so goddamn horny I could fuck this steel table.

Yup. Pain, misery and sex. Just like my bloody degenerate Sire taught me. And now I'm all full of goodness and tenderness and caring-goddamn-bloody-white-fucking-light, wanting to take Him in my arms and feel Him, just to reassure myself that He's still here...

Thinking about losing Him makes me cry harder than anything. Did I cry this much when He disappeared in Romania? Or when I found out about His soul? Or when Dru left me? I don't think so. I think something's really, really gone wrong with me, this time. Something that maybe can't be fixed even if I ever get this chip out of my head.

A little hand on my shoulder. Oh, good. No, Slayer, don't leave me with even one tiny little shred of dignity or anything. Just come right in here and wrap your warm little arms around me and hold me like I'm your kid and I've skinned my knee, and oh... yeah... that's good, too. Kiss the top of my head and tell me you love me, and He's going to be okay, and then thank me for staying and for being your friend. Yeah. That's wonderful for my self-image. You go right to it.

Me... fightin' real hard, too. I burrow into Her soft breasts and cry. Tangle my hands in Her hair and sob His name. And She's kissing me, now...

Oh, fuck. She tastes like Him. She's been kissing Him. Like in the last few hours. I taste the salt of Her tears and His... This pain that rocks through me, it's in Her mouth... from His mouth... and I plunge my tongue into it... She whimpers and presses that body against me and sod all if I'm not just a wreck of a fucking demon.

So I push Her right up onto that table, and I kiss Her like I haven't kissed a human being... well... ever, honestly... I take in the taste of Her, and this knowledge that I never wanted that She's my blood, too. Can you believe it? A Slayer... not my enemy, but my lover, my sister, my mother... She's every woman in the universe, and She's part of my flesh and my Sire's flesh, and I just want to bury myself inside Her and never come out again. I kiss Her slow... deep, and I take it all in... my hands follow the lines of Her and fuck, I love Her... I love Him. We saved Him. We brought Him back, together, Her and me... I touch Her breasts, and She sighs... I slide Her nightshirt up, and my hand beneath and touch Her heat... plunge my fingers in, and I feel His pain for thinking about how this feels and never being able to do it... but why can't He do it? Fingering Her isn't Perfect Happiness... but, oh, shit... that whimpering noise She makes is. Yeah. I get it. I understand the Curse, because She tastes better.

For Him... for Him... it's all for Him. I'm making love to His mate because He can't... I make Her come... I make Her come again, and She sobs and bites back a shout as She does, and when She's still trembling from it, I thrust my cock inside Her... His place... like His fucking surrogate... literally, and I don't care, because She's part of me, and I love Her. I love Her. I love the goddamn Slayer.

Fucking Her transports me right back to that night when He killed me, and yeah, this is fucking good. It's fucking bliss, and Her body feels fantastic, throbbing around me... but She's not Him. She'll never be Him. She'll never be able to stick it to my ass like the world's coming to an end... She'll never be able to put Her teeth in me and give me new life. The only thing She comes close to Him in is making me all scrambled in the head, and kicking my ass from here to Tuesday.

But I bury my face in Her neck and breathe Her in and come like a shot anyway, pumping Her full of all of it. Of Him, of me... of who we were and where we've been and where the fuck we're going next, and damnit if I don't just start crying again. My Sire wants this more than anything, and I have it, and shouldn't that make me happy?

It doesn't. Buffy holds my close to Her, and we're both just quiet and still there, in the dark. I kiss Her ear... Her throat... Her shoulder. I kiss Her and hold Her, and I can hear Her heartbeat. She's mind numbing. My poor Sire.

"It's not the same, is it?" She says, so soft that, if I wasn't a vampire, I never would have heard it at all.

I pull away and look down into Her face, caress Her cheek, look into those eyes that I know Angel dreams about every damn night, and I say, "No. But... nothing is."

She gives me a sad little smile. "I know, believe me."

I get up and help Her down off the table, pull Her tee shirt back over Her soaking crotch, and brush my hands over Her. She really is beautiful. A symbol of life and light and spirit, and I gotta say... my Sire's got damn fine taste in women. If not the wisest, maybe.

She takes my hand, and leads me upstairs to His room. He's asleep... but He looks so much better, it almost sets me to blubbering again. No, goddamn it. Be a man. Pull your sorry ass together.

We stand there and just look down at Him, holding hands...

This is a moment I never imagined in my worst nightmares. Worse than that? I'm glad of it. I'm standing here with my family, and whether my soul's electronic or not, I have a very human feeling of warmth and security to have them both there.

Buffy looks up at me with something in Her eyes... I couldn't even begin to put words to it. But She smiles, and She kisses me, She squeezes my hand...

And She leaves. Turns around and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my Sire and a hundred something years of History. For a long time, I just stand there, staring at Him. He's healing... His flesh is filling out... He's breathing again. I stand there and stare at that beautiful naked body, and think:

How did I ever believe I hated Him? I mean... besides the fact that He used to abuse me fit for a Hard Copy Special Report, or that He used to abuse my Dru, or that He's tried to kill me more times than I can count, or that He hates me. He regrets me. That one perfect, exquisite night in all my existence, and I bet He wishes every day that it never happened.

Okay, so... maybe I do hate Him, just a little. Actually, a lot of me fucking hates Him so much I want to puke. Then kill him myself. Then puke some more.

I sigh and sit in the chair beside the bed, facing Him. Isn't this just a scene out of Masterpiece Theater meets Skinemax? Me, sittin' here with no shirt on, stinking like Slayer musk, and my lover naked, unconscious on the bed, and the room with that same damn decor as His alter ego's always had... the fire, the rich antique furniture. Everything dark and dramatic, just like Him.

I wish I didn't have so many damn feelings about all of this. I can blame it on the chip or the Slayer, but I know that's not it. Blood boiling, that's what it is. Angelus set my blood on to simmer a hundred years ago, and He left the pot on the stove when He disappeared--not even turning it down, first, the bastard--and now, at last, I guess it's boiling over.

I look down at Him, all peaceful and quiet, almost healthy-looking again. He was beautiful then, He's beautiful now, and whatever the reason, I'm so fucking glad that He's here, I could jump up on the bed and do a jig like some drunken mick.

It wasn't all about pain and domination, Angelus and me. That's The easiest stuff to remember, of course, because pain is what sticks with you. But we were lovers, too... He loved me as much as a fucked up, sadist Hellbeast probably can love, and sometimes... Yeah, I can remember tenderness. I remember Him being gentle when that mob in Barcelona creamed me. I remember Him making love to me, and telling me how beautiful I was, and how glad He was He made me. I can remember Him fighting tooth and nail with Darla over who owned my ass. So... maybe this isn't such a bloody bizarre thing, to love Him as much as I do. To want Him to go on existing, just because He's my Sire.

He made me. I loved being a vampire for a good, long time, and this man... this body, and the demon somewhere inside of it... those teeth and those hands created me, molded me out of street filth and desperation and His blood and not much else.

So, yeah, I love Him. So fucking what. That makes me a queer, that makes me a fuckin' poufter just like Him, so be it.

"Yeah, so... I fuckin' love you, ya bloody ponzy. So what?" I growl at Him.

I don't know who I'm challenging anymore. I was a goddamn Master in my own right, you know. I was way beyond the fledgling stage when He reappeared in my life. But... it's true what they say, no matter how many you Sire... no matter how big your territory gets or how much power you have... you could be a thousand fucking years old, and if your Sire walks into a room, you get down on your knees and put your eyes to the floor, because that's the way it's done. The One That Made You is always due respect, even if you're planning on dusting Him the next second.

I've never been much good at it, but still. If I was one of those vamps who bothered with tradition, I'd care about all the rules I've broken when it came to Him. But I guess He raised me like that, too. He raised me to be contrary and defiant. If He didn't love it, He would've just staked me like His Sire was always saying He should, and been done with it. He didn't. Yeah, He bitched and snarled and beat the ever lovin' shit out of me... but I'm sitting Here right now, and that means that some part of Him was indulgent.

I guess even demons have a special place in their... whatever... for their First Made.

I don't understand the mechanics of it... I don't know what it is about the demon Blood that pulls us together. All I know is that it's like gravity... a connection so strong, even me at my most pissed off can't fight it. And right now... right now I'm all squishy and weak, and I can't even pretend well.

I move over and sit beside Him on the bed. He still smells sick... but that stench is gone, and now I can smell the Slayer on Him, too. I wonder, for a second, if maybe it'll be Angelus that'll wake up... wonder if Buffy gave Him that all-consuming Happy everybody's so afraid of. Wonder if when those eyes open, if they'll be amber or brown. I wonder how I feel about that possibility. I wonder what will happen if I touch Him...

Just for a second, I reach out and brush His lips with a fingertip. Got a lot of memories of those lips, good and bad. That fine, smooth, soft, cool mouth...

I blink, snapping back like He bit me... which He didn't. I was about to bloody kiss Him again! Oh... Oh no. No. I'm not going there. I'm not gonna lie down beside Him and close my eyes and be His little bitch, or pretend He's my Master like I sometimes did with Dru (and always did, with Darla). Uh uh. This demon's done being anybody's whore. I hate this souled fucker, and I'm going downstairs right now and getting my shirt, my fucking ruined coat, the rest of that gin, and telling the Slayer to go fuck Herself. Then I'm getting the Hell out of this loonybin, once and for all. Fuck the chip, fuck the Hellmouth, fuck my fucking Sire and His bloody...

"Will?"

Every square inch of me -- mind and all -- freezes solid. It takes all my energy to make myself not turn around and respond to that soft call.

(Ignore Him. Pretend you didn't hear Him. Pretend you didn't just spend the last two days worrying about Him like some woman who's husband's gone off to war. Keep walking. Don't say anything. Just...)

"Yeah."

(Damn it.)

"Are we... is this...Hell?"

Oh, Jesus H. What a fucking drama queen. He's been there, what the Hell's He asking me for?

"No. It's your damn froofy foof hotel, ya wanker."

"Oh."

He quiet again, but I can still hear Him breathing.

"Are you really here?" He asks, all soft and quiet, like a wounded puppy just waiting for me to turn around and kick Him, "You're not... here to... you..." He swallows so hard, I can hear it, and God only knows what the Hell He was about to say.

I still can't look at Him. If I turn around now, I'm good and fucked.

He tries to move. And fails, if the pained noise He makes is any sign.

Oh, buggering bloody Hell. I turn around and march over to the nightstand, pour Him a glass of water, and sit down beside Him on the bed again. I manage to lift His carcass upright enough for Him to gulp down one glass, then another, and another, and then ease Him back down to the pillows, all without looking at His face even once. I focus on His half-hard dick, instead. Believe me, that's a Hell of a lot easier.

But not quite easy enough, my body tells me. "Should be covered up, mate. You're sickly," I mumble, and start tugging the coverlet over His legs.

He stops me. "Too hot."

When He does that, our hands touch, and now, damnit, I have to look at Him, because there's literally a current of something running between us, and I can feel every damn bit of His pain. When I look into His eyes, for the first time in a hundred goddamn years (the last few of which I've been trying my hardest to hate Him... and doing pretty well, I might add.)...

I look into them now, and in a split second, I'm a bloody lovesick fledgling again.

NO, DAMNIT! I'm not going to be this do-gooder's DOG! I'm the Big Bad! I'm the Master, and I don't fucking CARE ABOUT HIM! I'm a DEMON! I'm EVIL, and...

And then He reaches up. It looks so hard because He's so weak, but He does it anyway. He touches my cheek and He says,

"My Will."

Two words. Two stupid fucking words. Last time, it was six.

"Yeah, Angel. I'm here." I even call Him by that fruity-ass name.

That's when it really hits me. Feelings born from Blood aside, I love this tosser in His own right. Him with His damn honor and Destiny and His friggin' Slayer soulmate and eyes so full of ghosts, it's like being eviscerated just to look into them.

Angel just lays there and stares up at me... and it's something all new, this feeling. Bigger than the love of things I've always counted on in this world. Something bigger than the universe. Than everything. Than eternity. A hundred years apart, and look at us -- right back where we started. But now when I see His tortured soul in His eyes...

Now I see me in it.

"Will, I..."

I put my hand over His mouth. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. Just... keep your piehole shut, okay?"

There's a lot more in me than that. Lots of cussing, mostly. Insults. Nasty nicknames. The usual. But underneath is this new thing that I just don't think I'm ready to look at yet, and I'm sure as Hell not ready to talk about. Especially with Him, considering it's all I can do to admit to myself that maybe I don't hate Him so much, and I'm actually glad He's not dead. More's a whole lot too much to ask of me, right now.

He nods, so I take my hand away.

"You hungry?" I ask Him.

He nods again. Boy's awful literal about His instructions.

"I'll go heat ya up a pint," I say, and start to get up. He grabs my hand with a surprising strength and stops me, forcing me to look at Him again.

"Thanks," He whispers, those damn puppy eyes getting all wet and soul-ly.

I don't know which of a hundred painful things that've happened to me in the past hundred or so years that are His fault that He's talking about, but... Hell, I'll take it.

"No trouble, mate."

I can't help it. I squeeze His hand before I walk away.

Bloke's got to give His Sire some kind of due, I guess. Even if he is a wanker with a soul.

*****