TITLE: Interstitial Angel Ficlets
AUTHOR: Katriena Knights

RATING: PG13

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: None, though this occurs after Inca Mummy Girl

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.

 

 
 He wasn't sure why he was so surprised to see her.  It was the mall, 
after all, the Mecca of teenage girls. She probably spent half her 
life here.

 
  But for once he hadn't come here looking for her. For once, he was 
actually trying to distance himself from her.  Yet here she was.

 He slipped quickly behind a decorative pillar and watched her. She 
was with her mother, smiling as they walked toward the Food Court. 
They seemed comfortable together, and he almost envied their seemingly 
easy relationship. If only everything could be so simple as those 
looks between mother and daughter--

 
  But he remembered what he'd seen of her life in LA.  It hadn't been 
as easy for her then. It probably wasn't easy for her now--he had 
simply caught her in a bubble of happiness, a moment of ease that 
might never be duplicated.

 They sat down at one of the tables in the Food Court, still chatting. 
He couldn't quite pick out the words from this distance, but even 
through the roar of the other shoppers he could make out the timbre of 
her voice. He could just stand her and listen, enjoy the faint music 
of her laughter--

 
  And suddenly she looked right at him, and the smile slid from her 
face.
 
  She had spotted him so abruptly he didn't even have time to react. 
Ducking behind the pillar now would just be stupid. So he met her 
regard evenly, and waited to see what she would do.

 She leaned toward her mother and said something, then got up and 
walked toward him. Stepping out from behind the dubious shelter of the 
pillar, he watched her approach.

  
 "What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice was taut, almost 
brittle.

 "I was shopping." It sounded lame, but it was the truth. That he 
hadn't actually bought anything didn't make it any less  valid.

 She crossed her arms over her chest, regarding him coldly. "You were 
stalking me."

 
  "I wasn't."

 She rolled her eyes. "Right."

 
  "If I were stalking you, you never would have seen me," he told her 
disdainfully.

 "I would have figured it out eventually."

 
  He said nothing. She'd too obviously sussed him out too often for it 
to be worth arguing about.

 "So why did you come over here?" he said finally. "Was there 
something you wanted?"

 
  She drew herself up straight and haughty, looking up at him with 
firm, fearless defiance.  Then, just as suddenly, the façade crumbled. 
 "I don't know."

 He fought a smile. At least she was honest. "I asked you to tell me 
when you decided what you wanted.  Have you worked that out yet?"

 
  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, perhaps in an attempt to hide 
the uncertainty there. But he saw it. "No, I haven't. It's 
complicated."  He snorted softly, and she went on. "I mean you're not 
just some boy inviting me to the Prom.  You're a--" She arrested the 
word, lowered her voice. "A vampire.  And I'm the Slayer. It's 
complicated." She paused again.  "And I have a feeling you're asking 
for more than a Friday night date and a peck on the cheek."

 Maybe she did understand. Or at least a little. He barely understood, 
himself, why his dead blood ran so hot in her presence, why he wanted 
her so desperately. 

 
  He said nothing, just looked at her, into the sincerity of her green 
eyes.

 "You don't know yet, then," he ventured after a moment.

 
  She shook her head. "Not quite. Not yet."

 And then she reached a hand out to him and clasped his arm, gently. 
"I think I might need you," she said. "Your help, I mean."

 
  He nodded. "That's why I'm here."

 Her fingers dug more tightly into his arm. The utter sincerity in her 
eyes made his heart melt. "Thank you," she said, and he was certain 
she really meant it.

 
  For now, it was enough.

Angel chewed on the inside of his cheek, watching Buffy leave the 
Bronze. She paused, but didn't stop. He watched her all the way to the 
door, and after she had left, he could still smell her, the soft 
wafting of her sweet odor though the smells of coffee and teenage 
hormones.

      After a moment, he sensed Willow's eyes on him and turned to look
at her.

      "What did I do wrong?" he asked.

      She smiled, but uncertainty lingered in her eyes. "Hard to say."

      "I saved her life. What more does she want?" He meant it 
jokingly--after all, by the time he'd gotten there, Buffy had taken 
care of most of the saving herself--and Willow's deepening smile made 
him think she understood that.

      "I don't know," she said. "Women are fickle."

      Angel almost laughed. He liked Willow; she had a certain way 
about her than made him comfortable.

      Xander was a different story, but Angel cast him a look, anyway, 
as he headed toward the door.

      "Later," Angel muttered, not sure it was the right thing to say.

      "Yeah," said Xander, and Willow added, "'Bye, Angel."

      Angel headed home. He was tired, and after finishing off a pint 
or so of blood, he changed clothes and settled down to read. The taste 
of the pig's blood lingered in his mouth. He was getting used to it, 
but he still couldn't say he really liked it.

      It seemed odd, to be indoors at full dark, but he had no need to 
hunt, and for the moment he thought it would be best to stay out of 
Buffy's way. She didn't need his help, and he didn't need to be 
spurned again. He didn't like it.

      He couldn't concentrate on his book. His mind kept casting back 
to the night of the frat party. There had been several horrible, 
wrenching moments when he'd been nearly certain he'd lost her. But he 
hadn't. He had fulfilled his duty to protect her. And, by her actions 
at the Bronze tonight, that might be the only thing he could do for 
her. She didn't want him the way he wanted her; he frightened her, and 
he didn't blame her. In fact, that was good. She'd be safer that way.

      Pushing the thoughts aside, he finally managed to concentrate on 
the book, then jerked back out of his reverie when someone knocked on 
the door. Surprised by the intrusion, he pushed himself from the chair 
and headed for the door, yanked it open.

      Buffy stood in the hallway. Belatedly, he remembered he was 
wearing nothing but a pair of soft, cotton drawstring pants. They were 
comfortable, but not the best attire for meeting with high school 
girls.

      She took in his bare torso with a glance, then lifted her hands 
to display their contents.

      "Coffee," she said.

      He stared at the paper cups she held--to-go cups from the Bronze. 
Slowly, he took one. "So," he said. "You decided it's time for coffee?"

      "I did."

      The odor of the coffee drifted up to him, through the small hole 
in the plastic lid. Sweet, but bitter, tinged with vanilla. He studied 
Buffy's face. She seemed calm, at ease, but he could make out the 
slimmest edge of fear, just barely coloring her scent.

      "You totally blew me off at the Bronze," he told her, then had a 
sudden surge of panic, afraid he'd used the wrong phrase.  Blowing him 
off--did that mean--no, that was the other thing--

      She smiled. He must have gotten it right. "I did. It felt good."

      "Not so much from where I was standing." Her expression crumpled,
and he smiled. "But I understand. You want to be in control."

      She considered that, her eyes shifting to the side as she mulled.
"Yeah, I guess I do."

      Sipping his coffee finally, he turned toward the chairs in his 
living area. The apartment seemed too small, grungy and more than a 
little pathetic. But he went to a chair and sat, and Buffy took the 
other chair, perching on the edge of it, as if ready to flee. But her 
expression was open.

      "How did you know that?" She asked.

      "Know what?" He sipped the coffee again. It didn't taste like 
much of anything other than bitterness. But even mortals often said 
coffee smelled better than it tasted. The phenomenon was just 
exacerbated by his inability to taste much of anything except blood, 
flesh, skin.

      "That I want to be in control."

      He considered his answer. "You were Chosen to be the Slayer. You 
had no control over that. You're a teenager. In this society, you go 
where you're told and you do what you're told. You want to call the 
shots with me because you don't want yet another part of your life 
careening out of control." The speech surprised him, and apparently 
her, as well, because she frowned at him reflectively.

      "But I suppose you want to be in charge." Her voice was edged 
with sarcasm. "Since you're the big, strong man."

      "No." There was so much in that single word that she just 
couldn't understand. Starting with Darla, ending with a gypsy girl 
whose thighs had tasted of smoke and terror. He was as uncertain here 
as she was, relieved more than offended at the thought she might want 
to be in the lead. It made things easier.

      He put the coffee down on the table next to the chair, with no 
desire to drink any more of it. She was regarding him with surprise on 
her face, and for a long moment they just sat, eyes locked. There was 
no challenge in the way her gaze held his, just evaluation, assessment. 

      Then, finally, she rose from the chair and came to him, and he 
lifted his arms in surprise as she slipped into his lap.

      She was so slight, her weight nothing to him as she settled into 
his body. Her small hands spread flat across his chest, exploring his 
skin, and it was difficult, for a moment, to remember that those hands 
could snap him like a twig if she wanted them to.

      "Then I want to start like this," she said, and leaned into him, 
until her mouth found his.

      He let her kiss him, lost in the taste of her. After a moment he 
realized his arms were still lifted in surprise; he lowered them, 
drawing his hands across her shoulders, over her back.

      So small. So lovely. So strong. His head spun with the musk of 
Slayer-smell, with the taste of her as she deepened the kiss, touched 
the tip of her tongue to his lips.

      As he opened his mouth to her, his hand moved, seemingly of its 
own volition, and settled on the curve of her breast. She flinched, 
and one hand closed around his wrist, as if to push him away, then her 
hand slid up until her palm lay against his fingers, and she pressed 
him deeper into her.

      She just kissed him for a long time, deeper and deeper, more and 
more desperate, until finally she drew back, gasping her need, her 
fingers digging hard into his hand where he still cupped her breast.

      "Too much?" he asked, his voice soft, when she seemed to have 
regained some control.

      She seemed flustered, embarrassed. But, "Not enough," she 
answered, and shifted back in his lap, putting a bit of distance 
between them. Her eyes had darkened with desire, and her arousal rose 
in thick, heady waves around him. He wanted to let her go, but her 
fingers were clamped on his hand, holding it there against her breast. 
Her nipple was hard, taut, pressing into his palm.

      "Buffy," he murmured. "Don't do anything you don't want."

      "That's the problem." She let go of his hand, finally, and he 
let his palm slide down the side of her body, rest against the curve 
of her hip. "I want too much."

      *So do I,* he thought, but he didn't say it, because he knew it 
wouldn't help anything. He wanted her, she wanted him, and the only 
thing standing between them was common sense.

      "I won't hurt you," he said, inanely, he thought.

      But she smiled. "I know." And she kissed him again, brief and 
sweet, before lifting himself from his lap and going back to her chair.

      "Maybe we should stick to coffee," she said, picking her cup back
up. "Just for now."

      He nodded, smiling. "For now."

      Later, he thought, later, when she's ready. And if she never was 
ready, then he would be content with this--the soft green eyes 
regarding him from across the slight distance between them, and the 
warm imprint of her body on his hands

END.

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