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Her door was ajar. He closed it quietly behind him, and turned. Moonlight flooded the room, surprisingly bright yet also gentle, blurring the contrast between its cool glow and the shadows created by objects in its path. Objects like the tree branch outside the window that thrust dark, wavering fingers into the silvery beam across her bed. Objects like his figure crossing that bright path when he walked over to the bed.

His shadow passed over her face, and she stirred, then, as he sat on the edge of the bed, awoke. "Angel?" Her voice was fuzzy with sleep.

"Yes." He could see her blinking, forcing herself to wake more fully.

"Is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I've been thinking."

Two days had passed since they'd come to Buffy's house, during which both of them had almost fully healed. A bit of soreness remained from Angel's injury, but not enough to hamper his movements, as he'd demonstrated earlier that evening in a training session with her - a session that ended with Buffy flat on the living room floor, pinned there by his weight. She could have thrown him off - they both knew it - but instead she'd looked into his eyes and the next thing he knew they were kissing.

How far things might have gone remained in the realm of the unknown, since Xander and Giles had interrupted them to let them know they were going to Willy's Place to seek information on the vamps who'd attacked Buffy. No further attempts had been made after she left the hospital. When the two men returned they'd reported that Willy had only looked blank when asked about a plot to kill the Slayer and had given them none of his usual bluster, so apparently it had been an isolated attempt after all.

"About what?" Buffy turned slightly to see him better. In the moonlight her eyes looked even larger than usual, shadowed and mysterious.

"About us." One of her hands lay across the extra pillow, palm up. Angel placed his hand over it, twining his fingers in hers. Her skin was warm, of course, and slightly damp. They'd talked about many things during his stay there, things both good and bad. A few old hurts had been reviewed, many past joys remembered. At times the atmosphere had grown tense with resentment and anger, and tears had been shed - but apologies had also been given and accepted, on both sides, as well as explanations that helped clear up misunderstandings.

One of the subjects discussed had been the Day That Never Was. To Angel's surprise, Buffy had accepted the fact of its existence without much persuasion. She'd also understood his reasons for going to the Oracles to have them take back his humanity, although she wasn't nearly as accepting of the Higher Beings' solution. At least, not part of it.

("They were wrong," she'd flatly stated. "We could both have remembered. Knowing what was at stake, we wouldn't have repeated the same . . . events.")

("You were crying just before it happened," he'd told her. "Asking me how you could go on with your life, knowing what we could have had. It would have been too painful, Buffy.")

(Her chin had firmed in that stubborn gesture he remembered so well. "Only at first," she'd replied. "But later I would have had the joy of remembering what we'd had. They had no right to take that from me.")

"What were you thinking about us?" she asked him now. Her breath came a little faster as hope began to rise, and Angel could hear the increase in her heartbeat. She began stroking his hand with her thumb.

"I was thinking that I need to go back soon, to L.A. And I was thinking that maybe you could come with me, just for a few days. And then maybe next weekend I could come back here, or whenever I could make it."

Buffy sat up. Even at this intense moment Angel spared a mental smile at the memory of the ridiculous pyjamas he'd seen her in at various times. The black-and-white ones that made her look like a petite Holstein calf in an XL skin sprang instantly to mind. Tonight she had on a thin tank top made of T-shirt fabric, and matching shorts. Blue, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the pale light. Her breasts were plainly outlined by the clinging fabric. A definite improvement.

"Funny," she murmured, bringing his attention back from the past. "I was thinking the same thing, earlier; that we could take turns commuting, so to speak."

"Right now I don't see another solution."

"Neither do I." She slid closer.

Angel took a deep breath. "You have to be here in Sunnydale, just as I'm needed in L.A."

"Yes." Now she stayed where she was, watching him, her eyes shining. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, then opened it up and placed a soft kiss in the palm.

Angel licked his lips. "But there's no reason that we can't - " His words ended in a gasp as her tongue flicked out and brushed his palm.

�No," she breathed, and pulled his head down.

The instant their lips touched, all words fled Angel's mind. All that existed was this moment and the softness of her lips and the heat rising from her body as her heart sped up. Then he was lying beside her and they were kissing again, and her hands were caressing his chest and shoulders and back and even through the T-shirt he was wearing her touch inflamed him. He felt a rush in his groin, felt himself begin to thicken, and marveled at how quickly she could arouse him.

His own hands weren't idle. He caressed her back, her shoulders, cupped her head for a deeper kiss, then stroked down her neck and over her breasts and between her legs. She made a little sound and pulled away just long enough to tug his shirt off and allow him to do the same with hers before launching herself against him, pressing close, inserting her leg between his so that her thigh gently nudged his growing erection.

It was Angel's turn to make a sound, in his case a soft groan. He held her tightly and rained kisses on the smooth column of her neck, following it to her silky shoulders, then down to her shadow-tipped breasts. He took one deep in his mouth, suckling it gently, rolling his tongue over the satin tip and feeling it slowly contract to a pebble-roughness. Releasing it, he drew back and admired the glistening nipple, standing out as hard and erect as he was becoming. He bent his head to her other breast.

Buffy clutched at his head, pressing it closer, and closed her eyes. God, how could she have forgotten this, even for a moment much less for two years? But then she knew that she hadn't forgotten anything, not the magic of his cold kisses, or the passion that his slightest touch inspired, nor the completion she felt just being in his presence. No, she'd merely pushed the memories away, *chosen* not to remember it, any of it. Because if she hadn't she never could have gone with Riley, and then where would her "normal" life have been?

Angel's tongue worked her nipple, each motion sending a thrill shooting along some unknown connection directly to her groin. �She could feel herself swelling down there as blood rushed to engorge sensitive tissues, making them even more sensitive. �Angel's hand pressed between her legs in a rhythmic, caressing motion, and she gasped out loud. �

Feverishly she kissed his head, the only part of him she could reach at the moment, for he stubbornly refused to relinquish her breasts, moving back and forth from one to the other. �His tongue brushed and probed, again and again. �His hand crept beneath her pyjama shorts and knew just the right spot to touch and the right amount of pressure to apply. �He pulled her shorts off, urging her legs apart, and one long cold finger slid inside her and then out again, using her own moisture to lubricate his caress of her already throbbing clitoris. �She trembled.

The blood sang in her ears; her breath faltered. �"Angel!" she cried out. �"Oh God!" �And then the explosions began, deep inside her womb first and expanding upward and outward until her entire body convulsed in orgasm. �Blindly she arched and shook and gasped, and just as the tremors began to subside and she was beginning to catch her breath again, Angel rose to his knees and lifted her onto his lap, impaling her on his rock-hard length, and it began all over again.

Angel groaned out loud. �God, how could he ever have left her, left this completion, this other half of his soul? �He'd intended to draw out their lovemaking, make it something they'd never forget . . . long hours of slow hands and tender, burning caresses so that their passion would build gradually, each touch, each kiss heightening the intensity, deepening the fire, until at long last they would reach the peak. �But the reality of being with her in her bed, both of them half-naked, the never-forgotten feel of her body soft and silky and hot against his bare chest and the scent of her arousal in the air . . . it was overpowering. �Before he quite knew what was happening his sweatpants were down below his knees and he'd buried himself to the hilt in her steamy depths, shaking with the intensity of his need.

He heard her cry out once more. �Her hot, wet tissues clenched around his erection as another orgasm claimed her, sweeping him along with it. �"Buffy! �God!" �His cry echoed through the room along with hers. �Flames raced through his body, and he crushed her to him, burying his face in her neck and holding her in place as tightly as she held him so that his involuntary thrusting only pushed him deeper within her body, where his barren seed spewed forth. �

It was a long time before either of them moved, floating as they were in a sea of complete and utter satiation. �They still held each other, though not as desperately. �Buffy's head rested on Angel's shoulder, her arm loose around his neck. �Angel's sweatpants remained bunched uncomfortably around his lower legs but he lacked the initiative to do anything about it just then. �Dreamily he stroked her hair, smiling to himself as he carefully avoided the bristly patch around her old injury.

Actually, it wasn't that bristly anymore. �Apparently her healing ability also included her hair, for it was growing at a phenomenal rate. �Less than three weeks after her injury, the shaved area already sprouted a growth of over an inch. �It looked pretty strange, he had to admit, but at least it had stopped Buffy from talking about getting a "butch" cut. �Instead, she planned to keep it chin-length until the new growth caught up.

Finally Buffy sighed. �"Angel, that was . . . unbelievable." �Her voice was husky.

"Mmm," Angel murmured in drowsy agreement, still stroking her hair with long, lazy sweeps. �

Another period of silence, then, "I'm sure glad my mom is out of town for the night."

Angel burst out laughing, breaking the mood. �Grinning, Buffy tilted her head just enough to see his face, then she too broke into laughter. �"We *were* a little loud," Angel admitted.

"Mmm," was all Buffy said, mimicking his earlier response, but then she gave a contented sigh and put her head back on his shoulder, absently caressing his chest. �He was still buried in her body. �A moment later she said, "Angel?"

"Hmm?"

"You're still hard."

He smiled a little. �"I know."

"Is that . . . normal? �For vampires, I mean?"

"Not that I know of."

"Oh. �Is it normal for you, then?"

Angel chuckled. �"Only under the right conditions."

"Oh." �A beat. �"What conditions?"

Angel looked down, tilted up her chin and gave her a kiss. �"You."

She smiled happily and nestled against him. �"Angel?"

"Hmm?"

"It seems a shame to let it go to waste."

"It does," he solemnly agreed. �"So what are we going to do about it?"

Buffy sat up. �Without speaking she gently pushed him down onto his back, still joined to him, and straddled his hips. �"I have a few ideas."

"I thought you might," Angel murmured as she leaned down to kiss him. �He lifted his face slightly in anticipation, closing his eyes. �When the kiss didn't come, he opened them again in surprise. �She was gazing down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Angel."

He raised his eyebrows in query.

"Lose the pants."