TITLE: Interstitial Angel Ficlets
AUTHOR: Katriena Knights
RATING: PG13, language
SUMMARY: Bits to go in and around, after, before or during episodes.
NOTES: This is a WIP. I don't normally post WIPs, but I didn't really 
see any other way to do this one, since it'll be going on for a while. 
SPOILERS: Mild for "When She Was Bad."
MORE FIC AND ART AT: http://www.bewellweb.com/dknights/fanfic.html
ARCHIVE: Ask it nicely and it'll follow you anywhere.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, just playing.
 
          
 
 
 
    Buffy cried on Angel's shoulder for a long time, while he just held 
her, conscious of the eyes of the others on him, conscious of exactly 
where his hands lay on Buffy's small body.  The smell of her tears 
filled his head, and he wanted to kiss her, kiss her hard, take away 
the pain that wracked her.  He felt as if she were literally breaking 
to pieces in his arms.
 
    After a time, he heard the others finally gather themselves and 
come down from the upper level where they had been watching.  Xander 
eyed him warily, and Angel flinched, remembering the way Buffy had 
ground herself into him at the Bronze.  Xander hadn't taken advantage, 
though.  He was, perhaps, more perceptive than Angel was willing to 
give him credit for.  He, too, had understood that Buffy wasn't 
herself.
 
    Giles touched Angel's shoulder.  "Let me take her home," he said 
gently.
 
    Reluctant, Angel loosed his embrace.  Buffy moved back, looking up 
into Angel's face.
 
    "I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
 
    He touched her cheek.  "It's okay."
 
    She smiled, vaguely, and turned to Giles.  Xander gave Angel one 
last, hard look as they walked away, leaving him there alone.

#
 
    He walked home alone, hands shoved into his coat pockets.  Did she 
care anything about him at all?  There was a time when he'd actually 
thought she loved him.  Then she had left for the summer without 
telling him, and come back someone other than herself.
 
    Her spurning would have hurt more, more than he could bear, except 
that he had smelled the fear on her.  She had been terrified.  Of him, 
of what he represented.  Of her own death.  She had faced and conquered 
that, but she really hadn't.  How could a sixteen-year-old girl of this 
era be expected to handle that kind of burden?  The knowledge that her 
life was numbered by days, hours, that in all likelihood she wouldn't 
live long enough to die of comfortable old age.  And one of his kind 
would likely be the source of her demise.
 
    He understood that.  But it still hurt.  To see her turn away from 
him, to see the flash of revulsion in her eyes. *You're a vampire.* 
 
    Slowly, he pushed the door to his apartment closed behind him, 
walked toward his bed.
 
    Yes, he was.  Not one damned thing he could do about it.  She would 
never be able to understand all the implications of that.  He had 
slaughtered his own Sire for her, had helped her slaughter the leader 
of his Order.  He wasn't sure even he understood everything that meant.
 
    He sank down onto the edge of his bed, rubbed his face. If he had 
known where it would take him, would he have gone with Whistler that 
day?  He wasn't even sure.  But he did know that, until that day, when 
he had seen Buffy come down those stairs, bathed in sunlight, he had 
not understood what it truly meant to own a soul.
 
    A knock suddenly sounded through the small room, and he jumped, 
looked up.  Someone was knocking on his door. No one ever knocked on 
his door.  Except Xander, when he had come to tell Angel Buffy had 
gone to face the Master.  And a girl once, selling cookies.  He'd 
bought a box, but they hadn't tasted like anything to him, and he'd 
thrown them away. 
 
He pushed to his feet, wondering who it was this time.  Had he paid his 
rent?  He wasn't even sure.
 
    "Angel? Are you there?"
 
    He froze at the voice, small and a little shaky from the other side 
of his door.  For a moment he considered not answering at all.  It 
would be easier on both of them if she left, now, immediately.
 
    He went to the door.  Opened it, looked down into Buffy's face, her 
wide, green eyes, makeup still smeared from her tears.
 
    "Buffy," he said, numb.  She smelled of tears and catharsis and 
hot, female blood.  Her heartbeat was a little faster than usual.
 
    Her shoulders shifted as she shrugged on her usual cloak of 
impudent bravado. "Can I come in?"
 
    Saying nothing, he stepped aside to let her in.  She took in the 
spare surroundings, his cluttered desk, the paintings and the glass 
cabinet of miscellaneous artwork.  "Nice," she said.
 
    "It sucks," he answered.
 
    She spun toward him, taking him in, everything about her defiant.  
"Better than the sewers where your brothers and sisters live."
 
    "Stop it," he said, not thinking, just blurting.
 
    "Stop what?"
 
    "Stop fucking talking to me like that."
 
    She recoiled, as if he'd slapped her, and tears rose to her eyes, 
but she squared her shoulders and almost sneered at him. "Like what?"
 
    "Like you don't give a shit about me."
 
    "Maybe I don't."
 
    "Then cry on Xander next time. Leave me out of it."
 
    He spun away from her but there was nowhere to go in the small 
space.  He could hear her heart speed up, smell her sudden fear--but 
this time the fear was thickly mixed with arousal.  No wonder she 
lashed out at him.  Undoubtedly the intensity was as disconcerting for 
her as it was for him.
 
    "I'm sorry," she said then, quietly. "I just-- I--  This is so hard 
for me. I don't understand..."
 
    He closed his eyes, gathered himself.  His forehead and his teeth 
ached from the thick, rich smell of her blood, her arousal.  Slowly, he 
turned around.  "Don't understand what?"
 
    Her wide, green eyes devastated him. "I don't understand what I'm 
feeling," she said.
 
    He moved closer. She matched his step forward and they met in the 
middle.  He closed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her.
 
    Gentle, careful.  He had held her close and comforted her--this was 
more of the same.  But she pushed hard into him, and her tongue touched 
his lips.
 
    His face and his teeth ached, and he fought hard to keep the demon 
back. He'd frightened her once already, with his loss of control. But 
he opened his mouth to her, let her hesitantly feel her way into him. 
She tasted sweet and edible, and she was so, so hot.
 
    Finally she drew back, looking up into his face. "I just...I don't 
get it. You're a vampire."
 
    Involuntarily, his fingers dug into her shoulders. She flinched a 
little and he made himself release her. Then, anger bitter in the back 
of his throat, he let the demon have its way. She took a startled step 
back as his face changed.
 
    "Yeah," he said, "I am. And as soon as you figure out what the hell 
you want to do about it, you let me know."
 
    He turned away from her, fists clenched. She couldn't just play 
with him like this, but she didn't know any better. Behind him, he 
heard her draw a breath, but she said nothing. Finally, the door 
opened and closed, and he turned around, and she was gone.
 
 
END.