"Thunder - Shelter From The Storm"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Shelter From the Storm, by Bob Dylan. Also, a snippet of 'Love, Rescue Me' which has been recorded by many artists, too numerable to mention. I was listening to U2's version.
The Usual Suspects: Esmerelda, Serena, Kaz, and Dru -- < sigh > You guys... There are no words. (And you *will* get thank you gifts in the form of more fic )
Dedication: For everyone who still believes in love. < GROUP HUG > Pass it on. trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com: Oh... and this is really, REALLY long.

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Angel sat in the rose garden, next to the little bush Xander had planted for Anya, tasting the air that told him a storm was coming.

The weather fit his mood. Churning, tumultuous, but too angry to let it out until the skies literally screamed with rage. He'd always felt storms were like that. His mother once told him that when it stormed, it meant that God was angry.

< If ever God had a reason to be angry >

His hands shook. His entire body shook, but mostly, it was his hands. He'd been literally trembling from the inside out the moment his memories of those two terrible days spent without a soul came back to him.

Two days. Two goddamn days that burned every good thing in his life to ash. Two days wherein he'd killed another member of his family < they were all dead so long ago, why did I let myself have new family to kill? >, physically and emotionally devastated his life's only love, and saw final death come at last to his greatest < until what I did to Buffy > sin.

And they said it took centuries to shake the world to its very core. The evil inside him had managed to rock the foundation of his world off its axis in two short days.

"You've been out here so long, you're starting to collect dust. Don't make us cart you off to a museum where they =like= old things to collect dust."

Flinching, Angel stood and stepped away from Anya's bush. Xander raised an eyebrow, but took the seat Angel had vacated, reaching a hand out to lightly finger a red, white and silver petal.

Watching the soft, bittersweet smile that curved Xander's lips, Angel felt irrationally guilty. He chastised himself for the emotion. He'd brought a lot of pain to the lives of all the people he cared about, but he hadn't killed Anya. For that, at least, he wasn't responsible.

< Aren't you? > a voice in his head taunted. < Didn't the way Buffy killed her, the savagery she used, come from you? You schooled her in cruelty without knowing it. That's talent. >

< At least you've at last got talent fer somethin', boy. >

Eyes shut tightly, Angel desperately chanted in his mind that he had =not= just heard his father's voice. After a few unnecessary (but calming, nonetheless) breaths, Angel opened his eyes again and was immensely relieved to see that Xander was the only other person with him in the garden.

"You don't look so good," Xander said. "You going to hurl?" He thought for a moment. "Can you hurl?"

Angel winced and crossed to the other end of the courtyard. Putting as much distance between Xander and himself as possible seemed like the wisest thing he could do.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He hadn't spoken much over the last week.

"Just checking up," Xander said easily, rising as well. As though he'd read Angel's intent, and sought to do the exact opposite of his wishes, he chose to cross his arms and lean against the wall a couple of feet from the vampire. "Buffy's been worrying about you."

"She shouldn't," Angel said shortly. After everything he'd done, Angel couldn't understand how Buffy managed to still care about him. He was briefly reminded of the look that had crossed her face when he told her he wouldn't be sleeping in their bed.

"What?" she'd asked, her face crumbling. She'd looked like he'd just struck her. Like he had before, because of -- =for= -- Faith. Like he had the first time he'd lost his soul, when he'd thrilled in how hurt and afraid she was of him, of the way her heartbeat tripled with that terror. Like he had not a day before, when he'd tied her to a bed and raped her.

No, he would not allow her to simply invite him back into their bed.

"I think it's best if I sleep in another room," he'd repeated, focusing his gaze at a spot somewhere above her shoulder. He hadn't been able to look into her eyes since the moment he'd remembered it all and forcibly pulled his body from the sheltering comfort of hers.

"But," she'd said, then stopped. It was as though she'd forgotten how to speak. The words just dried up in her mouth, and he'd been so grateful at the time, because it afforded him the opportunity to slip away from the inevitable confrontation.

He felt as though he'd been avoiding her ever since. For a week he'd managed to avoid having it out with her. Buffy was patient, and he was sure that in her mind, giving him time to reconcile his thoughts would eventually lead him back to her. But even Buffy had her limits, and a week with barely any contact, a week of nothing but silence from him, he knew, was about to take its toll.

He could smell the storm approaching.

< And what do you plan to do about it, lad? Time was, ya would've curled up into a bottle or a whore until the storm passed. >

His father's voice had never really left his head. When he'd been human, the old man had been a constant presence in his life, pushing, pleading, disapproving, trying the best he knew how to mold the lush he'd been given into a man. Liam had resented him for it. Angelus had killed him for it. Angel would sell his soul for five minutes to beg his forgiveness for it all.

Sometimes, when he killed (back when he'd done that sort of thing for fun), it was his father's voice he heard echoing inside his head, emptied of everything but the ceaseless need to decimate what stood in his path. His father, who would never approve of him, never forgive him, never love him.

Every time he hurt Buffy, he thought of his father. Once, he'd believed with a boy's innocence he'd thought long lost to him, that by finding Buffy, by making her happy, he might finally bring pride to his father's memory. That dream had faded, like all the rest, with memories returned to him before a side-trip to hell and he'd suffered so many crushing blows that the loss of such an old fancy seemed to pale in comparison.

One thing he now knew for certain: the other blows surely seemed to pale in comparison to this -- abomination of love -- he had committed against Buffy. He felt like the culmination of every hateful word, every dashed dream his father had ever had for him. His father had always made him feel like a worthless bastard, but now, with all the pain he'd accumulated over his long, long life, he finally had to consider the possibility that he simply =was= a worthless bastard.

How else could he account for the memories he held in his mind? The look on Buffy's face, the way her skin had torn beneath his hands and his fangs, the way he'd made her bleed as he pounded her into the mattress. There was a visceral thrill, an echo of the demon's rapture at possessing her so totally, that remained with the memory. His soul's horror was nearly overshadowed by the demon's pleasure, and because both entities shared his skin, he felt like the worst kind of monster.

Why did Buffy still care?

"Because she loves you, man," Xander said, and Angel realized he must have asked the question aloud. "Hell if I can figure out why. You haven't bothered to apologize. Of course, apologizing requires speech, and you're not exactly Joe Small Talk lately."

"Apologize," Angel said bitterly, testing the feel of the word in his mouth. How did he begin to apologize to her? He was reminded of Faith. He'd understood her pain at the time, but right that second, he felt as though he were living inside her skin.

< Buffy, I'm sorry I fucked you until you bled, then lapped up your blood like cream. I'm also sorry I couldn't leave it at that. I'm really sorry I kept waking you up to do it all over again. I'm sorry I went through my mental Rolodex of ways to torture a woman and applied each and every one to you. I'm sorry I have a mental Rolodex. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to stay away from you in the first place, and I'm sorry you had to love a worthless bastard like me. I'm sorry I couldn't be the man my father wanted me to be; I'm sorry I couldn't be that for you.

Hey, Cordelia? Sorry I killed Gunn. I'm sorry you've lost another man you never really had a chance to know. I'm sorry I've hurt you again so deeply. I'm sorry I didn't let you all stay fired. Gunn, wherever you are, I'm sorry you had the misfortune to meet me. I'm sorry I didn't leave you alone like you asked. I'm sorry I tried to help. I'm sorry I tried to be something I'm not.

Dru, I'm sorry for stalking you and killing everyone you ever loved. I'm sorry I made you believe your gift was a curse, and I'm sorry I drove you insane, then turned you, so that your torment would be eternal. And I'm really sorry it was Spike who staked you, when it was only ever my responsibility. I'm sorry there was never a chance to save you. >

"Buffy wants you to come have dinner with us," Xander said, breaking into his thoughts again.

"No," Angel said automatically.

"She said that if you don't show, she'll take it to mean you aren't sorry and that you obviously don't love her anymore." Xander winced as he said it. "Harsh, I know, but she made me say it. She's got stuff on me. Very embarrassing."

"Get out of my way," Angel muttered.

Xander looked around for a moment. "Uh, not in your way over here."

< I was never in your way, boy. >

Angel flinched, then focused on Xander, a good three feet away from him, and in no way blocking his exit. Forcing a breath through his dead, aching lungs, Angel stepped away from the garden toward the hotel.

"Tell her I'll be there," he said quietly as he disappeared inside.

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Okay, we have to get Angel back to normal NOW, because we're all going to die of some horrible food poisoning disease if we have to eat your cooking for another night," Cordelia declared.

Willow blew the hair out of her eyes with an impatient breath, glaring at Cordelia all the while.

"Cordelia, if you don't like it, you don't have to eat it," she snapped.

The two women were alone in the Hyperion's kitchen. Willow had been working nonstop on cooking something edible for the peacemaking dinner Buffy had planned. Chicken was supposed to be relatively easy to make but for some reason, Willow's always came out dry and tasteless. She was tempted to use magic, but it had only been a week since she'd performed the Soul Blessing and she was still drained. Tara was the one who'd always cautioned her about overdoing it.

While holding Angel's soul inside her body, Willow had used reserves she hadn't been aware she had. It was kind of neat, knowing that she'd held another person's essence inside her skin. Not to mention incredibly impressive, on a woohoo-look-at-me-I'm-a-real-witch scale. She'd never felt anything that powerful before, and she and Tara had been working on some pretty deep magic.

Thoughts of Tara no longer conjured the same bone-deep sorrow Willow had felt a few short weeks ago. For some reason, giving Angel his soul back -- =really= back, and not in the flimsy, no guarantee used car way the gypsy curse had done -- made her feel worthy of still being alive.

Now, if only she could master a simple dinner . . .

"We should just order pizza," Cordelia declared, sniffing delicately at the dubious odors coming from the stove. Willow admitted -- if only to herself -- that she didn't relish the idea of consuming the food she'd prepared.

"Angel doesn't like pizza," Willow argued.

"Angel doesn't like anything without a red and white cell count," Cordelia countered. "Besides, he's in full broody guy mode -- with reason, I might add -- and nothing you serve him is going to matter. He's only coming tonight in the hopes that Buffy and I will beat up on him."

"What are you talking about?" Willow asked, genuinely puzzled.

Cordelia sighed deeply. "He wants us to punish him. Not in a whips and chains S&M club way, but... he wants us to let loose on him. He thinks that by avoiding us, by giving us some time, it'll unleash our righteous anger or whatever on him. He's a guilt whore."

Before Willow could formulate an answer of any kind, Wesley came through the revolving kitchen doors.

"What smells so...?" He wrinkled up his nose and swallowed deeply. "Delicious," he finished, looking a little greener than he had when he entered the room.

"Pizza," Willow sighed in defeat. "Cordy, could you go take orders?"

"Sure," the brunette agreed easily, taking obvious delight in escaping the kitchen.

"Help me dispose of the toxic waste?" Willow asked Wesley hopefully, indicating the pan of what had once been perfectly innocent chicken and vegetables.

"Of course," Wesley agreed, moving to the sink. He filled a dishpan with suds. "Sorry Angel hasn't invested in a dishwasher."

"It's okay," Willow assured him, scraping the chicken down the garbage disposal while Wesley got some of the bowls she'd used soaking. "I actually sort of like this. Washing dishes with family brings everybody closer. My mom always moved around kind of manic-y and had the dinner dishes cleaned up almost before we were done eating. I like taking time with it and I just realized what a huge geek I am so I'll shut up now."

"Not at all," Wesley hastened to assure her. "I rather... I rather like the idea of quality time over domestic tasks," he confessed. "In my house there was always a domestic staff, and Father felt the less time spent around his bumbling son, the better." He said it in a self-deprecating tone of voice, but she felt how much it hurt him.

Sharing a sad smile, they worked side by side, chatting companionably until the dishes were washed and air-drying.

"Well, thanks for your help," Willow began as she inched one of her big yellow rubber gloves off.

"I think I'm in love with you," Wesley blurted out.

Eyes bugging slightly, Willow paused, gloves dripping soapy water onto the floor. "P-pardon?" she sputtered.

"I'm sorry," Wesley immediately apologized. "You don't want to hear that. It's too soon, and you're... well, you're..."

"I'm what?" Willow asked, sounding a little indignant.

"I mean, I thought that you were . . . you know."

"Gay?"

"Yes."

"I was. I mean, I am. I mean... I don't know." Willow made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. "Why does everybody keep focusing on that?!"

"No offense intended," Wesley began, "but it's sort of a main point if a member of the opposite sex is considering the idea that he might be madly in love with you."

"You went from plain old in love with me, to madly in love with me in less than a minute," Willow pointed out. "Which is it?"

"I'm leaning toward madly, actually," Wesley confessed. "More and more the longer I see the way your eyes actually seem to sparkle when you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Willow denied nervously.

"You're not ready for this," Wesley said. "I'm a fool for bringing it--"

"I am ready," Willow said suddenly. "I mean, what almost happened before... that was about stress and attraction... it was chemical."

"Definitely chemical," Wesley agreed.

"But this... this is thought out. And... you're nice. And I like you. And I'm somehow doubting you'd be put off by a woman who likes to break into government secured websites and practice turning a rat back into a girl in her spare time."

"Those are two very attractive attributes of yours, actually," Wesley agreed.

"Kiss me," Willow ordered.

"What?"

"Now," Willow snapped.

He pulled her into his arms and ignored the wetness coating the back of his shirt when she clutched at his shoulders. What was a little dampness in the grand scheme of things?

"Oh dear," Wesley said gravely as their lips parted slightly.

"Why 'oh dear'?" Willow asked warily.

"I rather think we're going to end up on the table again," Wesley declared.

Willow grinned. "I really hope Xander doesn't get hungry in the next few minutes."

"Few minutes?" Wesley spluttered indignantly. "My dear girl, I'll have you know we will be on that table for a =lot= longer than a few--"

With a wicked grin, Willow pulled his mouth back down to hers.

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Life sucks," Faith muttered as she took out all the frustration racing through her body on the poor, defenseless punching bag hanging in the Hyperion's basement.

"Tell me somethin' I don't know, darlin'."

Faith froze mid-punch, and let out a grunt as the bag, unprepared for her inactivity, hit her heavily in the solar plexus. She stumbled backwards, and only managed to keep off her ass by the strong hand that steadied her arm.

As though she'd been burnt, Faith leapt away from the contact and spun on her heel to glare at Lindsey McDonald.

B had been on a 'forgive and forget' kick since Angel got his marbles back. Lindsey McDonald was the most obvious manifestation of it. When he'd confessed he didn't have anywhere to go, Buffy had offered him a room in what Faith had privately and publicly begun to call Lost Souls Headquarters. Lindsey had been resistant to the idea at first, but once Buffy made it clear she wasn't taking no for an answer, he'd agreed.

When Faith had questioned her fellow Slayer about what Faith had then termed 'complete mental breakdown', Buffy had explained her reasoning.

"One," Buffy had said crisply, "if he's really on the level, we could use his help. Two, if he's taking us for a ride, I'd rather have him where I can see him than working in a little hole with new fun ways to destroy the people I love. Three..." And Buffy had smirked. "You need to get laid, Faith, and I've seen the way he looks at you."

"What do you want?" Faith asked Lindsey briskly, forcing her mind back to the present.

He raised an eyebrow. "You've been down here for a couple of hours. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce asked me to come down and check on you."

Narrowing her eyes, Faith ripped the tape she'd had on her wrists with her teeth, feeling another trip into the recent past coming on. < Fucking Wesley and his fucking overblown sense of responsibility. Or maybe he's just a matchmaker at heart. Either way, this whole swearing off killing people thing isn't going to work out, 'cause the English dude is =so= dead. >

Faith had confided in her former Watcher over the past week. She'd confessed the aspect of her prophetic dreams she'd kept such a closely guarded secret before. Told Wesley of the man with the bright blue eyes who made her feel like she'd come home. Wes had listened patiently, 'hmming' and 'ahhing' at the right moments. His entire posture had seemed to shout 'why are you telling me this, exactly?' even though he'd never lost his polite countenance.

When Faith told him it was Lindsey McDonald in her dream, Wesley had nearly fallen off the couch.

After his initial shock had faded, however, Wesley had been surprisingly encouraging.

"The man did save your life," Wes had pointed out. "And it would appear he's trying to change his life, just as you are."

"He's evil and he's a lawyer," Faith had maintained, "and I don't even know which is worse."

"I was under the impression they were actually one and the same," Wesley had joked.

"Stop trying to be funny, Four Eyes, it doesn't work for you," Faith had snapped. "I can't be in love with something evil. Don't you get it? I had my fuckfest with the dark side of the force. This is supposed to be Faith: The Next Generation, preferably evil-free except for the ugly things she fights."

"Mr. McDonald is not evil," Wesley had cautioned her. "No more evil than you were. Granted, you both fell, nearly too far to recover, I dare say. But you =did= recover. And if we are correct in assuming that your dreams are as accurate as Buffy's have been in the past..."

"You all right in there?" Lindsey asked softly.

Startling, Faith forced herself to focus on the present. Lindsey was looking at her with concern in his eyes. They were like chips of blue ice, and she had the ridiculous desire to thaw them until she found his soul again.

She remembered how dark it had been for her, how lost she'd felt. Her soul had been nearly black by the time she fought her way through the fog. If it hadn't been for Angel, she might never have gotten it clean again. It was still a little dingy around the edges. Did Lindsey still have a soul? Was it just in need of a little Windex and someone else to wash it?

What the hell was she thinking? Even if that were the case, she wasn't a saver of souls. She hadn't been able to save herself without a hell of a lot of assistance. Lindsey was better off looking to one of Buffy's little Scoobies for help. Maybe once Angel got off his walkabout kick he'd be able to do Law Boy some good.

"Five by five," Faith forced herself to answer. "Tell Wes I'll get something to eat after I finish my workout."

"They got Angel to agree to dinner," Lindsey said with a sardonic smile. "Your fellow Slayer's been driving the whole house insane with demands to make it perfect. She wants everybody in this mausoleum presentable to welcome the prodigal back."

"I wouldn't talk about Angel like that if I were you," Faith said menacingly. Without thinking, she stalked right up to Lindsey and got in his face. "Especially not around me and B. We sort of owe him our lives."

Lindsey stared at her for a moment, then he lifted his hand to the side of her face. Faith was so shocked by the contact that she didn't pull away as he tucked a piece of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail behind her ear.

"Your eyes turn the color of extravagantly overpriced dark chocolate when you're angry," he confided quietly.

Swallowing deeply, Faith stepped away from him. "Leave me alone," she said in a shaky voice.

Shrugging, Lindsey backed away. "Whatever you want, darlin'," he promised softly as he turned and jogged back up the stairs.

A not unpleasant shiver ran through Faith's body from head to toe, causing her to spin around and take out the punching bag with a flying kick. It sailed through the air and cracked open against the boiler.

"Someone's got a cru-ush," an obnoxious, accented voice singsonged from one of the basement's darkest corners.

"Where did you come from?" Faith muttered as Spike came into view.

"Been around," he answered, lighting up a cigarette. "This here's the only bleedin' spot in this whole nuthouse nobody finds me takin' a drag."

"I can't believe I didn't know you were here," Faith said, feeling disgusted with herself.

"You're slipping all right," Spike agreed.

"Or maybe I just don't sense you as much of a threat, Cujo," she added.

"You wanna know what I sense?" Spike asked, ignoring her.

"Not really."

"I sense that you're all hot and bothered for the rodeo reject up there," Spike pronounced.

"Not in this lifetime," Faith insisted, her mind instantly betraying her as it called up perfect recollection of the way Lindsey had looked in the faded blue jeans he'd worn. They'd hugged his hips just so, and gave her the view of what might just have been the finest ass she'd ever seen up close . . .

"Oh, yeah," Spike groaned, "you're panting for him."

"Doesn't matter," Faith snapped. "It's not gonna happen."

"Yeah, well, you don't let off some of that tension, you're gonna explode."

"What makes you the expert?"

"Just so happens I've got a bit 'o tension boiling up inside of me, too," Spike answered. "From a coupla' different sources." He moved in closer to her until she could feel his nonexistent breath on the back of her neck. "We put our heads together, and maybe a few other pertinent parts, we might just be able to solve our mutual problem."

"Let me get this straight," Faith muttered, turning to face him as she put a few feet between them, her tone disbelieving. "You think that just because some lawyer's got me a little hot under the collar, I'm gonna chuck my sense of self-respect and let you fuck me just to let off a little steam?"

Spike's reply was an incredibly articulate shrug. Faith thought it meant 'Well, yeah'.

"Works for me," she muttered as she grabbed the back of his head and proceeded to maul his mouth.

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

It was more like combat, than sex.

Of course, both had had their fair share of both.

Spike had spent thousands of nights with Drusilla. Some had been tender, but his baby's darker predilections had yielded more than a few howling, bloody, ecstatic bouts. His mind shied away from thoughts of Drusilla. That was half the reason he was about to screw the =other= Slayer six ways from Sunday. He'd killed the woman who'd gifted him with immortal life, to save the life of the human girl he wanted to love more than anything else, with the possible exception of the =other= no longer human girl he wanted to love more than anything else.

Neither of them would ever want him, though. The blonde was so full of his idiot GrandSire that she'd never give him the time of day. The redhead was too innocent, too firm in her right and wrong view of the world to ever get muddled in such petty ambiguities as loving a demon. Wolf boy and the cute, stuttering witch aside, Spike was pretty sure she wanted someone normal to share her bed -- even if they were only normal according to the lunar cycle.

Hearts and flowers nonsense aside -- Spike mostly just needed a really satisfying screw. In the worst way. And a flexible, confused, horny Slayer was a gift horse if ever he'd met one. Better, even, than a three hundred-pound woman lying dead in the street, just begging to be fed off.

For her part, Faith was desperately trying not to think. Her mind kept trying to drag up memories of other one-night stands, of nights spent in the company of men she'd shuddered to look at in the harsh light of day.

Fortunately, she would never see this guy in the daylight.

It wasn't that he was so bad to look at, she conceded as his mouth molested hers. And he was a =damn= good kisser. It was that she'd sort of sworn off evil things, and neutered though he may be, he was about as evil as evil things came.

Wasn't that why she was doing this? To avoid messy, emotional entanglements with =another= evil guy? At least with Spike, what she saw was what she got. He was evil. He made no qualms about it. He put himself out there and didn't pretend to be something he wasn't. Lindsey McDonald was talking about changing his life. Lindsey McDonald made appearances in her dreams and begged her to save him when she couldn't even save herself. Lindsey McDonald had eyes that reminded her of places she'd never been, and things she'd never felt.

Lindsey made her want things she had no business wanting, and he made her want to trust in people the way she'd learned the hard way she wasn't allowed to. Things didn't go well for Faith, especially not when love was thrown into the mix. No, it was better to surround herself with almost-friends, like she had here. It was better to rip Spike's coat from his body and throw it to the ground, ignoring his protests that the leather would wrinkle.

And, God help her, it was so much easier to strip him naked and lose herself in the cool, lithe perfection of his body.

His hands were pretty busy, too. They had her naked as jaybird in fifteen seconds flat. That had to be a record of some kind. She hadn't even felt him work the clasp on her bra. His mouth was everywhere, cool and soothing and arousing and rough. Faith liked it rough. When it was rough, it was easier to compartmentalize. This was about release and pleasure and distraction. No entanglements, no awkward silences later, and definitely no morally ambiguous lawyers that made her wonder just how adept he was at using one hand...

Spike had her flat on her back before she had a chance to blink, and the position didn't suit her at all. She dug her nails into his shoulders for purchase, and rolled them until she straddled his waist. Impaling herself on his rock hard cock before he had a chance to roll her beneath him again, she let out a hiss of satisfaction. It had been a =long= fucking year in prison.

The vampire beneath her was unwilling to let her win their war so easily. His hands clutched at her thighs tightly, seating her on him firmly as he came up on his knees. Unless she was willing to let him slip out of her body, she had no choice but to wrap her legs around his hips and hang on for dear life. Her arms hung onto his neck for good measure, and he fell forward, landing heavily on top of her. She groaned, but Faith had always liked the pain, and she raked her nails down the back of his neck, over his shoulder blades, in response.

He pounded into her with force and speed Faith had never experienced before. Her lovers, though many and varied, had all been human < no wonder B could never get enough of Angel > and this demon was setting her on fire with his cool, hard flesh.

One of his hands dug into her hair, tugging at it as they fucked wildly. He was giving her such a good ride, she was just fine with letting him be on top. Her fingers gripped his back in spasms as the raw pain/pleasure tore through her body. She bit into his shoulder with blunt teeth, muffling the scream that would not be contained in her throat. He snarled, and did nothing to silence his own cries. Instead, he threw his head back and roared with satisfaction.

As he collapsed on top of her, Faith restrained the urge to curse. Lindsey's face still floated in her mind.

She didn't know what it meant, but she was pretty sure it implied that she was fucked. And =definitely= not in the good way.

* Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair. She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns. "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm." *

Willow giggled as she brought her still wet and soapy gloved hands away from Wesley's hair. The brown locks were sticking up straighter than Angel's and she quickly dispatched of the yellow bits of rubber and brought her dry hands to his hair. She smoothed down the rough edges until he looked moderately respectable again; then she yanked his head down so she could kiss him some more.

It felt amazing, being close to someone again. They'd gotten much closer than this, before. The assignation they'd narrowly avoided on the very kitchen table he was lifting her onto now seemed destined to occur.

She didn't really mind so much.

There was confusion rattling around everywhere in her brain. It seemed there'd been nothing but confusion over the past two years. When she'd fallen in love with Tara, it had felt like a whole side to herself she'd never known existed had emerged. That awakening, the way Tara had made her feel, had led Willow to believe she was gay. It was a logical conclusion, and one she had been sure was correct.

Given the way Wesley's mouth and hands were making her feel, the way his fingers slipping beneath her peasant top were making her skin tingle, Willow was sure there had been a miscalculation somewhere.

None of it seemed to matter as Wesley kissed her so softly; played with her tongue, coaxed it into his own mouth. Her fingers moved naturally to the buttons on his shirt, and she sighed when she was finally able to press her palms to his warm, bare flesh. He pressed adoring kisses to her cheeks and her jaw before he pulled away just enough to slip her shirt over her head.

Cupping her breasts through the white cotton of her bra, he seemed to realize what was happening between them. He guiltily looked back at the door.

"Do we want to chance it?" he whispered loudly.

Again, Willow giggled. "I think it'll be okay," she whispered back, just as loud. "Cordelia's allergic to housework and she's probably warned everyone I'm in a bad mood after the chicken fiasco." She frowned. "But no chocolate this time. I was rinsing in some unusual places."

He grinned boyishly. "Why, Ms. Rosenberg, I haven't the faintest notion to where you might be referring," he teased.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, you're the one who thought it would be a fun idea to dribble hot fudge..." she blushed furiously, "=there= and then we got interrupted before you could..." her blush deepened, "clean it up."

"But we won't be interrupted this time," he murmured huskily.

He had the most amazing voice, Willow decided as he bent her back over the table. He seemed to know it, too, because he murmured sweet endearments and dirty promises into her ear as his hands practically dissolved her clothes from her body. There was so much gentleness in him, such an amazing capacity for love, that Willow felt tears spring to her eyes.

She had been lucky in her life. There'd never been a bad apple. Xander, the first boy to capture her heart, had been -- continued to be -- her best friend. They'd been meant to be forever in love, just not in the way people usually took that to mean. Of all the souls who had ever touched her life -- who would touch her life still -- Willow was most thankful for Xander. Everyone should have a Xander.

Oz had been the first man she ever loved, even though he'd been little more than a boy at the time. He'd introduced her to so many things, and he'd done so on her timetable, giving her a first time she still looked back on fondly. He, too, had been a dear friend, and a secret corner of her heart was still looking forward to a trip to Istanbul when she was eighty.

Tara had been the first person Willow had loved as a woman, in full possession of her heart and her senses. The witch who'd thought she was some kind of demon for most of her life had changed Willow in more ways than the obvious. From Willow's deepening proficiency with magic, the control she had now, to her broadened tastes in music, to the little cat Giles had brought back from his trip to Sunnydale, Tara had left her mark on the redhead's soul. Ms. Kitty Fantastico was a balm to Willow's heart, and while it didn't make missing Tara any easier, it certainly eased the sharp pain to see the kitty playfully paw at the bars of Amy's cage.

One thing Willow had never been capable of doing, was shutting off her heart. It loved easily, and it loved often, and it made room for everyone. Over the past few months in Angel's home, it had been making room for Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

He was gazing down at her now with uncontained adoration, and she gave him a reassuring smile as she pressed her hand against the outside of his hip. He was as pale as Spike, she noted, then blushed. She didn't mean to be having naked thoughts of Spike. It was just that after the big battle, he'd been wounded and she'd seen him without a shirt on... and Willow swore she would never tell Wesley that she'd been thinking of Spike naked during the first time that they made love.

Fully back on track, and in the moment, Willow slid a leg around Wesley's lower back and urged him onto the table with her. She worried for a moment about protection, but Wesley had that taken care of.

"Pretty sure of yourself," she noted with a grin as he rolled the condom onto his throbbing erection. She reached out a hand and tickled him at the root, causing him to nearly pop the rubber off his tip.

"Well, after the incident with the chocolate, you know... you can never be too prepared--" His words trailed off in a moan as she gave him a firm stroke. She'd always been fascinated by the contrast of warm skin and cool latex. "For any eventuality," he continued, his voice sounding almost drugged.

Shushing him, she placed two fingers to his lips. "Less talking. More kissing," she whispered.

He obliged, and did a lot more than kiss her.

Willow felt truly happy for the first time in months.

Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Faith was panting, and Spike, though not requiring breath, seemed a little dazed. Five minutes later, and they hadn't moved. Faith was trying to work up the energy to tell him to move the fuck off of her, but she really couldn't be bothered. Her body was satisfied, but her stupid heart and her stupid soul and her stupid mind wouldn't shut the hell up.

That had to be the best fuck of her life, and she =still= couldn't stop thinking about Lindsey McDonald.

Determined to do something -- anything -- to make it stop, she dug her fingers into the hair at the back of Spike's head, and pulled him up to look at her. Maybe he'd kill her, and she'd be done with all of it. Maybe he'd suck Lindsey out of her soul. Maybe it would all just =stop= for a few precious seconds.

"Bite me. Mark me."

He actually looked shocked. "I... I can't."

"Look, I want you to do it. I give you permission, make it so, whatever. The chip shouldn't--"

"It's not the chip, love," he whispered hoarsely. "It's the . . . I can't just bloody =mark= you. It's not like lifting your leg and pissing on a hydrant, y'know."

"Could've fooled me. Look, I know you can do it. Buffy's got two holes in the side of her neck even eternal life couldn't heal."

"Yeah, and she got 'em because the rabid animal biting her happened to be the possessive type. He marked her because in his mind, in that moment, she bloody well =belonged= to him. I could mark =Buffy=. Hell, I could mark . . ." He seemed to think better of what he'd been about to say, and simply settled for repeating himself: "I can't mark =you=."

"Right." Faith laughed, the sound a bit unstable. "So basically, you vampires can suck any old gal dry, but if you're gonna stake your claim, she's gotta be something special; gotta be =worth= it."

"Hey, don't go getting all like that--"

"No, it's cool," Faith insisted, shoving him off her so she could jump to her feet. She was dressed just enough to leave in seconds. "Not like I've ever been worth anything to anybody before. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"It's been nearly two centuries for me, and I'm still not used to it," he confided quietly.

"Y'know, this is gettin' way too weird for me. I don't think my mental stability can handle identifying with a soulless vampire."

"Do what you gotta do, love," he said softly, withdrawing a cigarette from his abandoned coat. He lit it while he spoke. "I sure as fuck already got enough squishy feelings to deal with, without addin' yours to the soddin' pile."

"Story of my life," Faith said dully as she trudged up the basement stairs, feeling more depressed than she had before her workout. "Didn't think that was physically possible," she muttered as she tried to make herself look like less of a slut.

Her attempts were unsuccessful.

"Somethin' I can do for you, darlin'?"

"Shit," Faith hissed, jumping slightly. "Damn it, don't do that."

Lindsey raised his eyebrows at her. "Sorry. Actually, that's not accurate. I'm more surprised than sorry. Here I was, thinkin' it was impossible for a mere mortal such as myself to sneak up on a Slayer."

"Yeah, well, this Slayer's got a lot on her mind." Faith stared into his eyes for a few moments before she realized what she was doing. "What do you want?"

"The actress is taking pizza orders," he said helpfully. "I told her I'd take yours, considering I knew where to find you."

Faith just stared at him. Pizza. He was asking her about fucking =pizza=? Abruptly, she turned from him and stalked down the hall, muttering quietly to herself.

"Strange girl," Lindsey murmured, unable to keep himself from noticing the way her hips moved as she walked away.

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Where the hell are the pizzas?!"

"They're probably still loading them into the arc at the pizza place. I hate to be the one always reminding you of this stuff, Cordy, but you only got off the phone with Greco's twenty minutes ago, and if you haven't noticed, the neighbors are gathering up animals two by two."

"It's just a summer shower," Cordelia sniffed haughtily.

Xander stared at her, then stared out the window that, for once during the early evening, wasn't covered with a thick black curtain. If the sun were capable of peeking out of the torrential downpour, it would be deadly to three of the house's occupants. The fact that Cordelia was clearly blind didn't bother Xander nearly as much as the reason =why= she was slipping into Uber Bitch mode.

Cordelia had an amazing capacity to care, and to love. In fact, it was so amazing, so grand, that it took too much from her to give it. Her bitchiness was an act of self-preservation when the world was threatening to hurt her. It was a facet of her personality Xander hadn't understood when they'd been dating, but the longer he got to know her as a friend -- a real friend, finally and at last -- the more he understood the first girl he'd ever fallen in love with.

There was a kitten buried deep down beneath that rabid tiger's exterior.

"Giles!" Cordelia screeched, hurrying over to the startled Watcher at the dining room table. "Remember what a disaster a formal dinner was last time? Why are you setting the table? Are you completely mental? I thought Watchers had to have an OUNCE of common sense!"

Deep, deep, =deep= down.

"Yes," Giles said stiffly, "perhaps I'll just gather all the formal dining wear up and toss it out into the monsoon outside."

"It's just a light shower!" Cordelia cried.

"Okay, time out," Xander said, taking Cordelia by the arm. "The table looks great, G-man," he added over his shoulder.

Giles rolled his eyes. "It's hard to tell which one of them is worse," he muttered to himself as he gathered the plates together to take into the other room. God forbid they eat at a table like civilized human beings . . .

"Want to tell me what's going on, Princess?" Xander asked once he'd herded Cordelia to a private corner of the hotel, near a window.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "I'm not your princess. I'm =nobody's= princess."

"Oka-a-a-ay," Xander said slowly.

Cordelia's big brown eyes became liquid, and her lower lip trembled. The sight temporarily paralyzed Xander. Queen C did =not= show human emotion. His Cordy < did I just think of her as mine? so not thinking about =that= at the moment > did, though. She had on a number of occasions with him, back when they'd been dating, and since he'd been at the Hyperion. Cordy was more human here, around people she trusted, the way she'd been with him once upon a time when they'd been alone together.

"I'm sorry," Cordelia whispered. "Someone . . . Doyle -- I told you about Doyle, right? -- he used to call me that. Princess."

"You are a princess," Xander said before he could stop himself.

Cordelia smiled sadly. "No, I'm not," she said quietly. "But it really means a lot that you think so."

There was so much not okay with her, but before Xander could probe further, Willow and Wesley came into the dining room. Xander narrowed his eyes. They were... rumpled. And they looked... satisfied.

< oh, ewwww >

"Is everything ready?" Buffy asked, breezing into the room. She wore a tight black tank top and a flowing dark purple velvet skirt that sort of looked black when the light hit it in just the right way. The material had always fascinated Xander; Anya had been fond of it.

Anya had looked beautiful in it, he corrected himself. She hadn't cared for the material, but he'd loved her in it, and because she loved to make him happy, to make him proud to be with her, she draped the soft, clingy material over her body every chance she got.

He'd never gotten the chance to tell her that he'd be proud to have her by his side if she'd worn a sackcloth. He regretted that, but as time went by, he was beginning to let it go.

That didn't make him miss her any less.

"It's freezing cold outside and you're wearing a tank top," Cordelia groused, half-glaring at Buffy.

"Vampire perk," Buffy threw out casually. "I repeat again, due to lack of response the first time -- is everything ready?"

"The pizzas aren't here yet," Cordelia said.

"Pizzas?!" Buffy shrieked. Xander winced at the shrillness. "Willow was supposed to make chicken. There was going to be chicken. How are we supposed to have a peaceful dinner without chicken?!"

"We're not going to have a peaceful =anything= until you stop shrieking like a banshee," Cordelia snapped.

"I had Cordy order you a barbecue chicken pizza," Xander said smoothly, stepping between the two women, who looked ten seconds away from ripping each other limb from limb. And considering Buffy was a Slayer Vamp, Cordelia didn't stand much of a chance; and Xander was really starting to get used to having Cordy around again.

Buffy still looked ready to snap. Her gaze darted around the room, before she took a deep, unnecessary -- yet apparently calming nonetheless -- breath.

"I will be in my room," Buffy announced stiffly.

"Good riddance," Cordelia muttered.

There was a loud banging sound from the lobby.

"Pizza's here," Willow chirped, trying to inject some cheer into the room.

Her attempt was a complete failure. But, Xander noticed, Wesley still seemed to be making goo-goo eyes at her anyway. He narrowed his eyes. There was something about the mere =idea= of his oldest friend boffing the formerly stuck-up British guy that gave Xander hives. The fact that it seemed to be happening in living color was making his skin crawl.

Rain made everybody so =weird=.

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Angel, Buffy decided, had finally perfected the fine art of being in the same room with her without actually having to talk to or even look at her for more than five seconds at a time. And for the past half an hour, he hadn't even managed five seconds.

Feeling rejected by her mate, Buffy had been trying to turn her attention to the other occupants of the room. Her predator's senses had been picking up on things she'd =never= noticed before as a plain old Slayer, and the temptation to gag was growing stronger every moment.

Spike smelled like Faith. Faith smelled like green apples. Which led Buffy to believe that Faith had been the only one of the two of them with enough sense to shower. She was torn between twisted fascination < WHAT could they POSSIBLY see in each other?! > and abject horror < It's SPIKE! > at the thought of her sister Slayer and the soulless demon having any kind of intimate relationship.

There was a weird vibe going on between Wes and Will. Wes and Will. Buffy tested the names out in her mind for a moment. It sounded like a vaudeville < God, Angel was really opening up about his past before everything went bad. Never would have pictured him sitting in the back of a theater watching vaudeville > act from the 30s. They both smelled like Willow's honeysuckle shampoo < curiouser and curiouser > and they kept glancing at each other when they thought no one was looking.

Lindsey McDonald was sitting quietly in the corner, looking for all the world like he wanted to be swallowed up into the earth. Buffy could relate. She hadn't been too comfortable around people just after she'd regained her soul, and in a less dramatic, sorcerer sort of way, that's exactly what Lindsey had just gone through. Only he'd willingly taken possession of the soul he hadn't really lost in the first place. He'd just misplaced it.

Buffy only hoped that her desperation to believe that he'd changed wasn't clouding her better judgment. Giles had alluded to that very fact when she'd announced her decision to let Lindsey stay with them.

Speaking of, Buffy's mentor was reading through that diary < why is he so fascinated with some dead Chinese dude? > again. "There's a wealth of information to be gained within this text. I daresay it's the most pivotal discovery we've made to learning the true nature of the Slayer's destiny and what role vampires are to play in it since Angel brought me the Codex." Buffy mentally rolled her eyes at the remembered conversation.

Cordelia looked like she wanted to slit her wrists, just as she had all through dinner, and Xander was half-heartedly patting her shoulder while he glared daggers at Willow and Wesley. < What the hell is THAT all about? >

Shaking herself out of her survey of the room, Buffy realized that the story Willow had been telling moments before had ended, and an extremely awkward silence had stretched over them all. Floundering for something to say, Buffy caught a glance at Spike out of the corner of her eye, and promptly forgot about trying to liven up the room.

The blond vampire looked like he was about to =murder= Wesley. In fact, Buffy was positive that, had it not been for the chip, Wes would have been an afterthought by now.

Could Spike smell something she couldn't? He =was= a lot closer to Willow than she was, and Buffy was pretty sure that having raging jealousy on his side might make his senses a little keener.

If Angel had been fooling around with someone else, Buffy was sure she'd be able to feel it, let alone smell it. That was a moot point, anyway, because if he ever so much as =looked= at another girl, she would rip his lungs out. He might not need them anymore, but she was pretty sure it would hurt like hell. Besides, she was sure it wouldn't come to that. She would make Angel so blissfully happy that he'd never want a Drusilla or a Darla or anyone else.

Assuming that he ever spoke to her again.

Xander took that moment to make sure Buffy wouldn't have to worry about silence for some time to come.

"My God," he groaned, watching as Willow discreetly ran a fingertip down the side of Wesley's hand, "would you two just go get a room already? I know we've started a boarding house here, but there's still like a dozen free ones upstairs."

"I =knew= it!" Spike shouted, leaping to his feet. He was glaring at Wesley murderously again. "You shagged her, didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon," Willow huffed, rising to her feet at the same time Wesley did, "but I don't think it's any of your business =who= shagged me." She looked pointedly between Xander and Spike. "=Either= one of you."

Spike snorted. "Everybody's business is everybody else's business in this loony bin."

"Leave her alone, Fang," Cordelia snapped, jumping into the melee. "Willow's been through a lot, and if she's getting shag-- hey! I don't believe it! Wesley's getting some before me =again=?! What, does he have some kind of Super Fast Acting cologne?!"

"I thought you were gay," Buffy said to Willow helplessly.

Everyone was on their feet now, except for Angel, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the shadows, and Giles, who appeared to =actually= be disappearing out of embarrassment.

"Didn't even realize how nice it was, smellin' the other little witch on you 'til I got a whiff of this wanker," Spike muttered to Willow. "At least the girl gave me some nice happy images."

"He's not a wanker," Faith said, defending her Watcher. "Besides, who even says wanker? God, you've been in America how long and you can't pick up the slang?"

"You didn't seem too concerned about my cultural deficiencies a few hours ago, pet," Spike said smoothly.

"I knew you slept with him," Lindsey said, directing an intense gaze at Faith.

"So what?" Faith asked defensively, giving Lindsey an equally intense stare.

"You slept with Spike?" Cordelia gasped. "That's gotta be the grossest thing I've ever heard!"

"Your boss ate your boyfriend," Spike said nastily. Cordelia looked ready to cry.

"Enough," Angel snarled, batting Spike away from Cordelia with the back of his hand.

"Oh, wow, he =speaks=," Buffy hissed, glaring at Angel.

"You don't have to get nasty," Angel said coldly.

"I think I do," Buffy insisted, "because unless I do, you won't fucking talk to me, or look at me, or TOUCH me!"

"I'm here, aren't I?" he snapped back.

"And you think that's supposed to MEAN something? That it fixes ANYTHING inside of me that's broken? I =need= you. I need you to hold me and tell me that everything's going to be okay."

"I don't know that it is," Angel said quietly.

"Why'd you do it, darlin'?" Lindsey asked Faith curiously.

"Maybe I just needed to get laid," Faith snapped.

Giles sunk further into his chair; buried his nose a little deeper into his book.

"What happened to 'we're going to give it some time, Xan, not rush into anything'?" Xander asked Willow.

"We were," Willow said. "And then... there were dishes."

"I once read that suds could be a powerful aphrodisiac," Wesley said unconvincingly.

Xander just stared at him.

"Eww," Cordelia whimpered, still looking shaken from Spike's earlier comment, "you did it in the KITCHEN?! Great. Now I can =never= go in there again."

"Just tell me why you won't even touch me," Buffy pleaded, looking up at Angel beseechingly.

"I can't bear the thought of putting my hands on you again," he said in the quietest, coldest voice anyone in the room had ever heard him use. Fortunately, most of them were too involved in their own dramas to notice him much.

"Well, then we've got a problem, Angel, because I can't bear the thought of you =not= putting your hands on me ever again," Buffy said, her voice clogged with tears.

"How can you say that?" Angel asked hoarsely. "After everything he -- =I= -- did--"

"You were right the first time," Buffy snapped. "After everything that =he= did." She made a distressed sound in the back of her throat. "What was your plan? Now that there's no curse stopping us, we just never have sex for old time's sake?"

Giles, deciding to ignore all of the disturbing sex talk, as well as the emotional ramifications of it, stood. "Yes. Tea. I'll make us all some tea."

"You don't know that suds =aren't= an aphrodisiac!"

"Where, exactly, in the kitchen? Like, if I wanted a snack, could I just run to the fridge, reach in, grab it, and run back out without touching anything that something of HIS touched?"

"I hurt you," Angel insisted. "I can't get that out of my head."

"Have you oh-so-conveniently forgot that when I was all Up With Evil that I tied you down and fucked you, too?" Buffy asked, sounding exasperated.

"That was different," Angel denied through gritted teeth.

"Why? 'Cause you're the guy?" she hissed.

"No," he snapped. "Because I enjoyed it."

"So did I!" Buffy cried.

"What's that? Yes, of course, midnight snacks to go with the tea. Charming. I'll just be down in the kitchen... =not= touching ANY of the surface areas."

"You don't mean that," Angel said firmly. "You can't. I was there, remember? I saw your eyes."

"Angelus -- you soulless -- whatever you want to call him . . . yes, he hurt me. And yes, something inside of me broke because of it." The look on his face might have been triumphant, if she hadn't seen his soul dying behind his eyes. "But, Angel, nothing is that cut and dried."

"I hurt you," he said slowly, as though speaking to a small child. "That =is= cut and dried."

"Stop saying you hurt me!" she shrieked. Everyone in the room let their own running dialogue stop at the sound that came out of Buffy's mouth. "Just stop it! Stop acting like what happened--"

"It's called rape, Buffy," he said in a numb voice. "Why don't =you= stop talking around it?"

"Fine," she snapped. "Then if what you did to me was rape, so is what I did to you."

"It's not the same thing," he protested.

"Tell me why," she ordered crisply.

His mouth opened and closed like a guppy. Later, she might think it was cute. Now it was just keeping him from answering her.

"When we were together... when you came into my room..."

"You mean when I broke into your room, chained you to your headboard, and screwed you into the mattress against your will?" she asked.

"Yes," he gritted out.

"Go on," she urged.

The others were starting to take a page from Giles' book and slowly creep out of the room. All except for Spike, who openly stared at the spectacle before him. Willow pinched his ear between her thumb and forefinger and forcibly dragged him out of the room.

"You didn't hurt me," he said in a rough voice.

"I'm sorry, did I imagine the lacerations, the bite marks all over your body?" she asked sarcastically.

"You inflicted pain," he said calmly, "you didn't =hurt= me."

Buffy was smart enough to know the distinction, and she shut her eyes tightly. When his mind was so determined to believe one thing, it didn't matter what she had to say. He would do anything -- =anything= -- that he believed was best for her. She'd learned that slowly after his return from hell, and had been slammed over the head with it just before Prom.

She felt his hand hover beside her face, and she wished with all her heart that he would touch her the way he hadn't since his memory returned. Buffy's wishes had always proved to be futile, and now was no different. His hand fell back to his side, and she felt him sigh.

"I saw your eyes," he whispered, and in all the time she had known him, she'd never once heard more anguish in his voice. "I see you every morning when I close my eyes. In my dreams, I'm hurting you, I'm raping your body and your spirit and I =enjoy= it while you sob beneath me."

Opening her eyes, Buffy saw that he was no longer looking at her. His shoulders were hunched, and she'd never seen someone so big look so small.

"It isn't--"

"It is me!" he yelled, spinning toward her again. "I have all the memories stored up here." He pressed a finger to the side of his head. "And I can remember every scream you gave here." His hand moved over his heart.

"Then why won't you remember that I never ONCE said no!" she yelled.

"Because I know why you didn't," he yelled back. "You were trying to spare me this, everything I'm feeling now. Buffy, you had to know that wasn't possible, that I would still feel how deeply everything I did to you cut."

"Of course I knew," she whispered, the anger draining out of her. She was filled, instead, with something desperate; something that felt like failure. Was it possible she might not be able to reach him, to help him forgive himself? "But I still fought. And I tried to protect you with the only weapon I had."

"The only weapon I had left you," he corrected bitterly.

"Angel, I =need= you," she said desperately.

"You shouldn't," he whispered. "All I ever do... all I've ever done is hurt you."

"Don't say that!" she screamed. She moved toward him and began beating at his chest. He accepted her abuse passively. "Don't ever say that." Soon, her blows weakened and she sobbed against him, clutching the soft texture of his sweater as she emptied herself of grief.

He did not move to hold her.

As she came back to herself, Buffy realized there were no strong arms around her, no gentle voice in her ear trying to calm her sobs. Warily, she stepped back from him, looking up into his eyes.

Tears streamed down his face, but she knew, when she looked carefully at the set lines of his face, that he would not allow her to comfort him, anymore than he would let her take comfort in him.

"I need you," she said again quietly, softly. "I need you in our bed," her voice caught on the word bed, "and I need you with me out there, in the fight, and I need you here," she placed a hand over her still heart, "where I can still feel you; where I've never, not once, been unable to feel you; not when I was soulless, not when you were soulless, not even when you left me."

She moved toward him again, cupped his cheek in her palm and pulled his head down so she could press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I love you," she whispered. "I miss you."

Then, she turned and walked out of the room.

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Are they still in there?"

"Shhh, the door's opening!"

Cordelia and Xander were huddled in the room opposite the cozy den Buffy and Angel were still having it out in. Cordelia had the door open a crack and was trying to make out who was leaving the room in the dark. Given the size of the person, it looked like Buffy, and when Angel didn't immediately follow, she heaved a sigh of disappointment.

"No go," Cordelia said mournfully.

"Damn. Never thought I'd be looking forward to the day when the two of them would get groin-y with one another," Xander commented.

Cordelia wrinkled up her nose. "I don't know if I'm entirely comfortable with that mental image you just gave me, Harris. Besides, sex doesn't seem to be doing a lot of good with any of the people who are actually having it."

Xander waggled his eyebrows at her. "Maybe that's 'cause we haven't given it the 'ole college try yet."

Rolling her eyes, Cordelia couldn't help but smile. He was trying to cheer her up, and he was being moderately successful. "Neither one of us went to college," she felt obliged to point out.

"Even more reason why we should give THIS the good 'ole college try," he said reasonably.

"Freak," Cordelia said affectionately.

"Is it safe?" a worried voice asked from outside.

"No one knows, Will, but come on in anyway," Xander answered.

A sheepish Willow and a nervous Wesley came through the door.

"Angel just stalked outside," Willow said timidly. "I take it no smoochies?"

"Not unless they've got a funny way of making up," Cordelia said.

"I'm sure Buffy and Angel will find their way back together in their own time," Wesley said diplomatically.

"Says the guy who's gettin' some," Cordelia groused. She turned toward Willow. "And you. Aren't you--"

"I swear, if one more person points out that I'm gay, I'm going to channel the troll world and bash them with a mighty hammer!" Willow cried.

"Chill," Cordelia advised. "I was going to say =mourning=. Aren't you mourning? Since when did kitchen sex get added to the mourning duties? And major eww on another level -- wasn't Tara KILLED in that kitchen?"

"Loosely translated from Cordelia into English, that meant 'I understand your pain, Willow, and am curious if you've found a way to ease it I haven't thought of'," Xander explained as he tugged on Cordy's arm.

"That's not what I meant," Cordelia snapped, wrenching out of his loose grip. "Don't tell me what I meant." She turned back to Willow. "Gunn and I had barely shared our first kiss and I can't imagine letting someone else touch me this soon. You and Tara were so... I mean, I saw you, when you got here. You were like freaky bonded in magic and sex and sisterhood. How do you just get over that?"

Tears filled Willow's eyes, and for once, two former enemies weren't regarding one another with hostility. Cordelia was desperate to understand, and Willow wanted to help Cordelia through something the redhead had experienced first hand.

"Because I had to," Willow said softly. "I didn't get a choice about being alive after Tara was gone. And if I hadn't let go, if I hadn't moved on... what kind of an insult would that have been to her? I have to live for BOTH of us now and that means I have to live twice as good as I would have before. She'll always be in my heart, Cordelia, but I couldn't let myself just die with her, as tempting as it was."

"Oh," Cordelia said quietly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She hadn't let herself cry in days. "Well. Good for you then."

"That's it?" Xander squeaked.

"What the hell do you expect?" Cordelia snapped.

"Absolutely nothing," Wesley said diplomatically, herding Willow over to the couch. The four of them had gone shopping three days before and bought a few more TVs for the house. One sat a few feet away, waiting to be turned on. "Mindless drivel to take our minds off the unpleasant group sharing earlier?" he proposed.

"I'm in," Cordelia agreed, plopping down next to him on the couch. Xander sat at her other side, and Willow sat on the end next to Wesley.

A gentle tapping at the door drew their attention. Giles poked his head in.

"Is it safe?" he asked warily.

"Relatively," Wesley assured him. "We are watching reruns of 'Remington Steele'."

"Brain candy," Xander said with a demented chuckle.

"Fine," Giles agreed, entering the room with a tray covered in tea and little pastry things. "I made this without touching any surface in the kitchen other than the stove, which I assume was safe." He glared at Willow and Wesley. "And if it wasn't, neither of you are EVER to tell me, is that understood?"

"Yes, Giles," Willow said like a chastised child as Wesley kept his embarrassed gaze riveted to the TV.

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

< Fucking rain fitting my mood so fucking perfectly >

Spike sat on the curb in front of the Hyperion, a drenched, unlit cigarette in his mouth, his precious coat ruined and plastered to his body. He was soaked to the skin, and his heart felt like someone had reached into his chest and crushed it.

< not like I don't deserve every bloody bit of it. not like I ever had a chance with her anyway. not like I should even care >

He did care, though. That had always been his problem, it seemed. He'd cared about Drusilla, loved her desperately with all his dead, evil heart. Angelus he'd worshipped, even though their relationship had been tense at best, and murderous at its worst. He'd been his Sire, in every way but the initial, and it had killed Spike when the old bastard had abandoned them. When he'd come back for that short while in China, Spike hadn't let himself trust he'd be there to stay. Better to depend on Dru, who would never leave because she'd needed him by then.

Angelus had left, too, and that last time was too much for Darla. The old broad had flipped but good, cast him and Dru loose and went crawling back to her bat faced Sire. Again, he hadn't shed too many tears, because he still had his dark princess, and with her by his side, burning whole cities to ground, plucking people off the street like take-out... there was nothing he'd ever need.

It had all come to an end, though. He'd felt it in his bones, when Dru got sick, that the end was coming. Concentrating on finding her a cure had helped him deny it. The rage he'd kept buried toward Angelus surfaced as he hunted him down. He'd known about the curse before he ever hit Sunnyhell, but when he'd come face to face with his 'ole Sire, some part of him had hoped...

< everyone I love never loves me back having a soul never helped having a pulse never helped being a monster never helped playing at being a white hat never helped what the hell is wrong with me that even an insane bitch like Dru had still preferred her tosser of a Sire after the ETERNITY I gave her of ME of everything I was >

A truck drove by and splashed filthy water all over Spike. He started to laugh until the cigarette fell out of his mouth.

"Don't that just beat all," he muttered around an unstable chuckle.

His misery was deserved, and he recognized that. He was a monster, and he knew that, too. Didn't have to look in the mirror to see what he'd become. Knowing it didn't change the fundamental core of who he was. Having a chip didn't alter the bloodlust and the craving < killkillkillfeedfeedfeedfuckfuckfuck > and the desire to maim every now and then. He just couldn't =do= it. And that inactivity had brought about a side effect he'd never expected.

Forced into close quarters with the humans he once hunted, he began to see them as friends. They didn't return the affection, of course, and they were more like wary allies, but his stupid heart had never been able to make the distinction, and the loss of his soul hadn't changed that. It didn't take a soul to make stupid decision about morshy, fluffy emotions.

It wasn't enough to just be around them, though. He had to LOVE them. First the Slayer, then the witch. He'd screwed the wacko and it hadn't helped, like he'd hoped it would. It didn't blot out the memory of pixie eyes and bright red hair. The only upside he saw to being so hopelessly over the bloody moon for Willow was that it distracted him from the stalker-like obsession he had with Buffy.

At least he hadn't stolen anyone's underwear lately.

There was something nearly pure bubbling up inside of him for Willow. It scared the hell out of him, and made him unconsciously scratch at his skin < like worms crawling around in there > over his dead heart.

None of it mattered. He was a monster, and he couldn't even work up the energy to feel guilty for all the things he'd done. He didn't =feel= guilty. It took more than a chip to inspire that. It was damned time he accepted that, too. He was doomed, forever trapped between two worlds, welcome in neither. He would never again be what he was, and there was nothing that could make him be something else.

There were no happy endings for soulless demons, and he just had to figure out how to get his stupid poet's heart to stop pining for things < WillowWillowBuffyWillowWillow Buffy AND Willow together > it would never have.

A change would have to be made; to what, he didn't know. But continuing on as he had been was unacceptable.

Something was about to break.

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Man, you look depressed."

Angel glanced up and glared at Lindsey. He vaguely remembered someone telling him Buffy had granted the lawyer permission to stay with them. If Angel had been in his right mind, he might have objected loudly.

Not being anywhere near his right mind, he remained quiet.

He'd gone back out to the rose garden to think. Rain fell steadily outside, but the roses were protected by the shelter Gunn and Wesley had helped him put up a few weeks ago. Things had been nearly perfect for awhile there.

He should have known some kind of mind-fuck was heading straight for them.

"Mind if I sit down?" Lindsey asked, not waiting for a response.

"What do you want?" Angel growled as he moved a good foot away from the lawyer.

"You seem to be having a rough time lately," Lindsey mentioned. "Thought maybe I could help."

"You want to help me," Angel said, laughing bitterly.

"I help you, I help myself," Lindsey said seriously. Angel was suspicious of the 'good 'ole boy' accent. Was that part of his con, or was he genuinely trying to repent?

Angel was almost shocked to realize that he cared < maybe I'm not dead after all > either way, and that if Lindsey really was trying to change, that Angel wanted to help him. < Thank you, Buffy, for doing my job while I was too lost to notice someone needed me >

< I need you >

He shut out her voice in his head. What she most certainly did =not= need was him. She was just confused and trying to reach out to something familiar. Buffy would get past it and realize she didn't want him anywhere near her. It should have occurred to him years ago, that moment she forced him to drink from her to save his life. The girl he loved so dearly would do anything for someone she cared about, and she had always cared about him.

That's all it was, he maintained. There was just no way she could have gone through what he'd done to her and still want him...

Lindsey was still talking.

"So the way I figure, if I help ease the big 'ole guilt cloud hovering around your shoulders, maybe I can blow a few of my own storm warnings safely away."

"If you're sincere, I thank you," Angel said stiffly. "But there's not a damn thing you can do for me."

"Don't be so sure," Lindsey cautioned. "You don't know what I'm offering."

In spite of himself, Angel was curious. He turned to regard Lindsey fully. "Okay, Linds," he said nastily, "change my life."

"I didn't give your brains all of my research," Lindsey said quietly. He reached behind him, extracting from his pocket an ancient looking leather bound journal. He handed it to Angel. "It belonged to a Slayer that lived a few hundred years ago. You might be interested in what she has to say, and as far as I'm concerned, you're the only one here with a right to see it."

"Why?" Angel asked, feeling something tug at his soul. It was far away and soft, almost like a memory brushing < please let me I can't not without you you're the last you have to don't make me no choice no time take me > at his soul instead of his conscious mind.

Lindsey shifted in his seat. "The Soul Blessing... it's very intricate."

"Willow mentioned that," Angel murmured absently. He'd had enough presence of mind to sit down with the little witch and tell her he wasn't mad at her for restoring his soul. He was sure he hadn't been good company, but he'd gotten the gist of it across. He didn't blame her, and she shouldn't blame herself.

Funny, how he felt like he was waking up; remembering the way he'd zombied his way through life for the past week.

Remembering how much he missed Buffy.

"What is this thing?" Angel asked again, lightly running the pad of his index finger over the cover of the journal.

"The Blessing identifies the... what do you call it... the =signature= that surrounds every soul it's working the mojo on."

"The signature," Angel repeated dumbly.

"Like a spiritual fingerprint," Lindsey added. "No two in the world are alike."

"Snowflakes," Angel murmured absently, wondering where the comparison had come from. < love the snow made angels when I was a little girl make love to me in the snow >

That made Lindsey grin for some reason. "You've gotta crack that baby open," he said, indicating the journal. "Plenty of answers there."

"I've got a better idea," Angel snapped, setting the book beside him very gently. "You give me the answers you have now, and I use the book to verify them."

"Fair enough," Lindsey agreed easily, though Angel thought his capitulance had to do with the death grip he had on the front of the lawyer's collar.

"Talk," Angel instructed pleasantly. "I know I'm usually more patient, but I've had a hell of a week."

"She was you," Lindsey choked. "The Slayer. The one in that journal. She was you."

< Wow >

Angel didn't let the awe he felt show. "Neat. I was a Slayer in a former life. How does this change my current incarnation?"

"Because you weren't just =a= Slayer," Lindsey snapped, shoving Angel's hands off of him. The vampire let him go, satisfied they were finally getting into it. "You were THE Slayer. The one that nearly broke the Watcher's Council in two."

"I'm listening," Angel said.

"A friend of mine did the casting on Buffy," Lindsey said, "and traced her soul's signature back a few hundred years to the last vampire who walked this earth with a soul. Until you, that is.

"That journal tells the story of a Slayer who fell in love with the vampire who was assigned by her Watcher to protect her. They were inseparable. They became lovers shortly after they met, and continued their affair until the Council put out the order that all souled vampires were to be exterminated. It seems you weren't keen on following rules then, either, because you sacrificed the lives of a dozen people to save the life of your demon lover."

"I didn't," Angel protested, then realized how futile it was. They were talking about past lives. < I was a Slayer! And =Buffy= was the vampire?! What is this, some kind of cosmic bad joke?! >

"I'll leave the gory details for you to read yourself," Lindsey said, indicating the journal. "The short of it is, fearing for your lover's safety, the two of you went on the run, the Council dogging you at every turn. At that point, they were ready to assassinate their Slayer and let the next girl, ignorant of the souled vampires, take her place.

"To that end, the Council poisoned Buffy. 'Killer of the Dead', I believe it's called. You forced her to drink, and she killed you. No such thing as transfusions back then," he said with a wince.

Angel's heart hurt. He had the definite feeling that it ached with his own pain, as well as the phantom echo of the girl he'd been a few hundred years ago.

"What happened..." Angel licked his lips, desperate for moisture. "What happened to Buffy's soul?"

"The vampire wandered the earth, doing whatever good he could until the Council located him," Lindsey explained. "It took awhile." He paused for a moment. "Barely a day after Buffy's soul left the earth, yours was reborn in Galway. Like you were waiting for her so you could start again."

"Too bad it took us two hundred and fifty years to get it right," Angel muttered in disgust.

"Actually," Lindsey said, "it seems to be taking even longer than that. Damn but you must enjoy pissing time away in the breeze."

"You don't know a damn thing about it," Angel snarled.

"Maybe not," Lindsey conceded, standing. "But here's something for you to chew on: all the hurt you've done her... the Watcher's Council had the solution to all of it and they stood by and did nothing."

"Just because they could have done something, and didn't, doesn't take any of the responsibility away from me," Angel insisted.

"You are the most stubborn, pig headed son of a bitch... You know, she forgives you. She loves you. If I had that, do you think I'd be wasting my life sitting out here staring off into the rain and the dark abyss or whatever the fuck it is you're doing? Though, I suppose we don't all get eternity to fuck around with. You enjoy yourself, now."

Angel heard him leave as he stared out into the rain, clutching the journal < my journal, me, another me, one that was pure like Buffy before she knew THIS me > tightly as he tried to remember everything good in his life.

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"Been out here long?"

Buffy smiled up at Xander. "A few minutes," she answered. "It was calling to me."

"I'm supposed to be getting Cordy and Willow sodas," he confided, "but I couldn't bear to go into the kitchen yet. Kept getting scary visuals. No idea how Giles did it." Xander didn't let his brain examine why having someone murdered in that kitchen hadn't turned his stomach enough to keep him out, yet Willow and Wesley getting naked in there had. There was probably some deeply damaging psychological reason that could be traced back to early childhood, but he figured he had enough to deal with and didn't see a good reason to add to it.

Sitting down beside Buffy, Xander took in the tranquility of the rose garden. He'd been out here twice in the same day trying to comfort two brooding souled vamps. That, added to his previous musings, gave him a moment of pause.

< gee, my life isn't weird beyond belief or anything >

"Not doin' so good, are you?" Xander asked unnecessarily. A blind man could see that Buffy was falling apart.

"I don't know how to help him," she sighed miserably. "He's curled up in that shell of pain and I can't crack it no matter how hard I swing the big mallet!"

"So do something romantic," Xander suggested. He plucked one of the blooms from Anya's bush. "Bring him a rose."

"Love to, Xand, but he won't even tell me what room he's sleeping in." Her nose scrunched up in worry. "I don't even know if he's sleeping."

"So give up," he suggested. She looked outraged and he shrugged. "Buff... things sound pretty hopeless to me, and you're sounding fatalistic, which usually spells doom. Angel doesn't seem to be very forthcoming with the appreciation, so why are you bothering? Why are you really putting so much energy into healing a guy that's hurt you so bad?"

"How can you even ask me that?" she asked, sounding offended. "I love him more than anything. I need him."

"You, you, you," Xander said, gesturing with his arms. "I know all that stuff. Tell me the truth, Buff."

"That is the truth," she mumbled. "I do love him and I do need him. But I also know he loves me, too. He needs me, too. We don't... we don't do so well without each other. I've learned that through gut-wrenching experience." She looked up and narrowed her eyes at him. "And I thought you guys were getting along. Why are you suddenly ragging on him again?"

Xander grinned. "'Cause I gotta look out for my guy. Wanted to make sure you were committed." His grin turned into a gentle smile. "And because I passed by your bedroom and he's sitting in a chair by the window reading a book. Looks like he's waiting for someone."

Buffy looked ready to cry. "Really?" she whispered.

Smiling at her again, Xander tucked the rose into her cold, shaking hands. "Go, Buff," he urged softly.

"He's waiting for you."

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

"That's gotta be one of the top ten most pathetic sights I've ever personally witnessed."

Lindsey never looked up from his position at the baby grand piano. It was a relic, left over from when the Hyperion had held dances and parties in its grand ballroom. The hideously ugly wallpaper seemed to be peeling the most in the big, open room.

His only remaining hand lightly plucked at the keys, playing a half-tune Faith vaguely recognized. She took a seat on the bench beside him. He still wasn't saying anything, but he scooted to the right just enough to give her room. Their sides brushed and Faith felt something inside her shift.

"This is freaking me out," she said honestly, staring at his profile. He was so focused on the keys. < One hand. Sucks to be him. Did he play a lot . . . before? > "This is freaking me out =a lot=," she added, when it appeared he wasn't talking.

< can't do this can't let it happen can't stay away >

"You need to tell me if I'm insane or not," she continued. "I keep having these dreams, and you're in them, and I =know= that you know. The way you talk to me, the way you =look= at me... it's like you can burn me alive without laying a hand on me, and I don't fucking like it!"

Still not looking at her, he grabbed her left hand and placed it on the ivory planks. Finally, he looked up into her eyes and smiled crookedly at her, with so much southern charm she wanted to faint into his arms.

< What the hell?! This is nuts, this isn't me, this is... nice >

"Can you feel it?" he whispered. She could see his soul behind his eyes. She could see that he had one. And when he looked at her like that, she could feel that =she= had one.

"What?" she asked, wary.

"Magic," he answered, as though it were obvious. A sound came to Faith's attention, and she glanced down at the piano.

Their two hands were playing in tandem. Without missing a beat. And Faith didn't know how to play.

Lindsey began to sing softly.

"Love rescue me, come forth and speak to me, raise me up and don't let me fall, no man is my enemy, my own hands imprison me, love rescue me."

Pausing, he glanced at Faith and raised an eyebrow; posing a silent challenge. Their hands continued to play while she debated. Was this that mythical point of no return she heard people talk about? Was there really such a thing? Hadn't she crossed it once before and clawed her way back from the darkness?

Would she have to claw her way back from this?

Somehow, she didn't think so. Somehow, she felt as though she'd been clawing her way toward this for the past year. She sang the next verse.

"Many strangers have I met, on the road to my regret, many lost who seek to find themselves in me. They ask me to reveal, the very thoughts they would conceal, love rescue me."

"You're pretty good," Lindsey said as they stopped, his voice echoing in the big, open room, just as the music they'd been making had before.

"You're no slouch yourself," Faith added. "But I'm a little shaky on you stopping... just when things are getting good." She flashed him a wicked smile.

He returned it, and winked as he brought his hand back to the piano. "Hold onto your horses, darlin'," he advised as he began to play. Her hand joined his immediately, and they began to sing together:

"And the sun in the sky makes a shadow of you and I, stretching out as the sun sinks in the sea. I'm here without a name in the Palace of my shame said, love rescue me.

"In the cold mirror of a glass I see my reflection pass, see the dark shades of what I used to be, see the purple of her eyes, the scarlet of my lies, love rescue me.

"Yeah, though I walk in the valley of shadow, yea I will fear no evil. I have cursed thy rod and staff they no longer comfort me. Love, rescue me."

Their voices faded, as did the melody from the piano. Lindsey leaned in first, and Faith didn't move away. It was the most innocent kiss either had ever shared, and when it ended, they smiled shyly against each other's mouths.

Then, they played another song.

I've conquered my past
The future is here at last
I stand at the entrance
To a new world I can see
The ruins to the right of me
Will soon have lost sight of me
Love rescue me

Sometimes, when he felt a good brood coming on, Angel really missed the mansion's fireplace.

He wasn't sure why he was there, sitting in his favorite chair by the window, pretending to read the book of poetry he'd recited to Buffy from memory a dozen times. His common sense screamed at him to leave < she hasn't seen you yet you're going to hurt her again you can't avoid it spare her this you've taken so much already > and his soul wept for him to stay < you can't last without her there's nothing if she isn't a part of it you know that she'll forgive you she =forgives= you she loves you anyway >.

The talk he'd had with Lindsey shouldn't have affected him this deeply. There was no reason < you love her, you idiot, you need her > to be waiting for Buffy to come to bed, no reason to beg her forgiveness < she already gave it to you, moron > and certainly no reason to imagine making love to her < taking all the bad parts away and replacing them with good, so good, nothing but bliss between us > until the sun exploded.

What was he thinking? Just because they'd =literally= been soulmates . . . just because the journal he held so tightly, but hadn't been able to read yet, supposedly contained another doomed love story they'd shared hundreds of years ago...

That information gave him no right to forgive himself, and no right to beg his way back into their bed. And yet... wasn't that exactly what he intended to do? He'd come to this room in the hopes that, possessed of this news Lindsey had given him, he would be able to look into her eyes and see nothing but the possibilities he'd been beginning to believe in a little more than a week ago.

They had gotten so close to having something real, something that only contained a sliver of frustration < okay a LOT of frustration when all I want to do is gorge myself on her lithe soft body but there's a 'do not enter' sign courtesy a gypsy curse that oh by the way DOESN'T EXIST ANYMORE > and very little pain.

Pain, an old friend of theirs, had definitely made their acquaintance again; in fact, it had made up for its short sabbatical in spades.

The more he thought of it, the more Angel decided that Lindsey's talk hadn't persuaded him to forgive himself; that was something he wasn't sure he would ever be able to do. What it =had= done was give him a different view of things; it had given him the ability to realize it was Buffy who mattered, and since she apparently needed him, then she would have him.

Of course, the fact that he needed her desperately factored heavily into the equation. He felt as though his skin was sewn onto his bones and muscle with the fine threads of her love, and without it as a daily presence, he was coming apart, his flesh shredding until his soul escaped through the cracks. He had to touch her, to taste her, to feel her envelop him the way she was meant to before he had a hope of feeling whole again.

Those were his needs, though, and he was determined to concentrate on hers. She'd mentioned needing him to talk to her, to be with her, to sleep with her... and if that's all she wanted for awhile, he would understand. What he'd done to her... A shudder ripped through his body. He was the luckiest son of a bitch on the face of the earth that she could even still look at him and he wasn't about to ask for more.

No sooner had the thought left his mind, then he felt her enter the room. He was facing away from the door -- he wasn't sure he had the strength to look her in the eye yet. Some twisted, scared part of him wanted her to come to him, even though he'd rejected her so forcefully earlier. She moved so silently now, vampire and Slayer reflexes merging seamlessly inside her.

His heart, had it been capable of beating, would have pounded out of his chest. He felt close to tears < I want this so much I can't fuck it up I can't hurt her again please god if I haven't completely lost you just let me love her the way she deserves for all time > as her long skirt rustled; she was undressing... for bed? He hoped so. There was nothing he wanted more than to crawl into bed beside her, saving recriminations and apologies for the new day.

At least, he thought there was nothing he wanted more.

He was proven wrong when Buffy appeared before him, naked and luminous in the moonlight, a rose cradled gently in her hand. With no conscious thought on his part, he held out his hand to her. Taking it, she moved forward and straddled his lap, taking an inordinate amount of time to get comfortable. She smiled gently into his eyes and her sunshine-hair < it will always be sunshine hair to me, even after a thousand years in the dark > fell over her shoulders, obscuring her breasts from his vision. He was only mildly disappointed as he forced his gaze back up to her eyes.

Buffy pressed the very tip of the rose to his nose, then slid it over his mouth, letting it kiss his lips for a breathless moment.

"'Bout time I brought you one of these, wouldn't you say?" she asked in that soft, whiskey-flavored voice she had whenever they were alone.

< only for me that voice is only for me she's offering me everything and all I have to do is take it takeittakehertakehertakeher >

One of his hands moved to the back of her head and he pulled her towards him, kissing her deeply, gently, allowing himself the comfort of her cool, lush mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her as they pulled back a bit, but did not part. "I'm so sorry..."

"Shhh," she whispered, kissing him between words, "don't tell me, Angel." She traced the rose bud over his throat, then leaned in to nuzzle her cheek against his. "Show me."

Angel swallowed deeply, the heat < comfortblissabsolutionpeace > in her voice, the promise in her eyes... no, he did not deserve this; but he would be the worst kind of fool to deny her anything.

Pressing a gentle hand to her chest, he bowed her backwards over his knees. He wanted to take all the time in eternity with her, but the raging guilt in his head also demanded he take stock of the injuries he had inflicted upon her.

"Angel?" she asked quietly; total trust radiated from her.

A tear spilled over onto his cheek. Oh, how he adored her . . .

"Please," he entreated, "please, let me . . ."

Her smile was so ethereal, he had to shake himself; to remind himself that she wasn't some heavenly angel sent from the Powers themselves to save him. She was a girl, though with an extraordinary set of circumstances, still a girl like any other with the same wants, fears, and needs.

"You can do anything to me as long as you don't stop touching me," she said, tears spilling from her own eyes.

"Never again," he swore, pulling her body flush against his. His inspection could be delayed a moment. He pressed adoring kisses to her throat, her chin, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, licking away her tears, only to find that his actions caused more to fall.

"No matter what," he vowed, cradling her face gently, making sure she saw how much he meant it, "we face it together. If I'm being stupid, you just kick my ass back into line."

"You better believe it, buddy," she sobbed, throwing her arms around his shoulders; holding him tightly as she went back to his mouth for seconds.

And thirds, and fourths, and fifths...

...and twelve deserts and lunch for a week and enough to feed all of England...

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Faint scars covered her body; she hadn't been feeding well over the past week. She knew it was the same for him. Her heart had been telling her mind what to do, and her heart was convinced that if he wasn't nourishing himself properly, then she wouldn't nourish herself properly. Only a week, and already, they'd both lost a lot of muscle definition and the wounds they'd inflicted upon each other hadn't healed nearly enough.

He bent her over his knees again, and the position made her feel vulnerable. She had to concede that there was a small, miniscule part of her that was afraid. There was trauma in her mind that she couldn't begin to deal with; that she =wouldn't= deal with until she'd nursed Angel back to health enough to pick up the pieces when =she= fell apart.

All that was secondary, though. The most important thing was loving him; letting them heal together.

More tears slid down his cheeks as he traced a particularly nasty line over her collarbone. Threading her fingers through his hair, she rose up to him again and kissed him with all the passion and longing she'd ever felt for him. There was a lot to be said for foreplay, and he seemed intent on tracing gentle circles over every inch of her body, but Buffy was =not= in the mood for slow.

Something extremely primal took control over her as she began quickly undoing the buttons on his shirt. She didn't bother to take it off; merely parted the material and slipped her hands inside to stroke his skin. Her fingers traced his ribs, his abdomen, until they reached the buckle on his belt. Her mouth fastened itself to the side of his neck and she decided to see if vampires could get hickeys, however short a time they might remain.

"Buffy," he whispered urgently, "slow . . . we've got all night."

Releasing his neck, she successfully got his pants open, reached inside his boxers and pulled his cock free. It felt so good against her skin, soft and hard and cool and she couldn't help but stroke him slowly.

"You're darn right we've got all night," she said, pressing a kiss to his mouth, which was emitting the cutest little grunting noises as she increased the pressure of her hand. "But we've been doing 'everything but' for weeks, love," she whispered. "I... I =need= you."

Without waiting for a response < not like he's REALLY going to put up much of a fight > she rose up on her knees further and sank down on his erection. She took him all the way in, moaning deep in her throat. He really had hurt her... the last time < mind still shying away >; he was very, very big, and she was very, very small. Somehow, it worked, though. Especially when she wanted him as desperately as she did.

"Okay?" he panted < it's so weird how we both do that > in her ear. He was definitely getting into it, and all his protests seemed to vanish < at least that's what I think his tongue tracing every square centimeter of my ear means >.

"Good, good, good," she cooed, while her mind took up a different chant < good more good more good more > entirely.

One of his hands moved to her back and he held her firmly to him. The other reached up to almost absently cup her left breast while he began to feast on her mouth again. Buffy cried out against him as he gave a thrust up into her, burying his length to the root inside her. < not so small after all stretching pain but good pain such good pain >

Thrusting against him in return, Buffy kissed him back avidly, lapping at his tongue with her own, coaxing it back into her own mouth. The pad of his thumb traced the kinds of hard, slow circles she loved over her nipple, and the hand on her lower back slipped lower until it cupped her rear.

His =amazing= fingers < the things he does with his hands should be in a 'how to give mind bending orgasms' book > slid between the firm cheeks of her ass and just sort of... rested there.

It made Buffy squirm; in a good way.

Mewling against his mouth, she was torn between thrusting forward, towards his thumb on her nipple, or backward, towards his teasing fingers. The result was a frantic sort of vibration that sent her keening into bliss far sooner than she would have thought possible.

The contractions of her body were so violent that she toppled them both out of the chair. Angel, still hard and throbbing inside her body, landed on top and they gave twin whimpers of need. Buffy wrapped her legs around his waist and began urging him on with her feet against his ass.

Angel really didn't need a lot of prodding, as his hand cupped her rear firmly and lifted her lower body off the floor, increasing the tempo of his thrusts. Bowing his head, he pulled her badly neglected nipple into his mouth, lavishing it with attention. Her hand on the back of his head was enough to express her desire, and he began suckling at her with more intensity than he'd ever shown her.

It was half-pleasure half-comfort for him, she knew, and it felt so good < oh god oh god oh god Angel yes yes yes yes yesyesyesyesyes > to her that she would have been content to let him nurse for the rest of her eternity.

Especially considering he wasn't neglecting any other part of her. Buffy had put her weight on her shoulders, thus freeing the hand that had been securing her lower body to his to explore elsewhere. It finally settled on moving between their bodies so it could caress the sensitive skin of her lower belly; slipped lower to tease the nest of wiry curls that covered her; finally slid inside her folds; touched the sopping wet flesh above where he thrust into her so < deep so deep he can never leave me again never again > deliciously.

Like before, he found the ideal spot over her clit and . . . let his fingers rest there. The intense pace their thrusting set caused a minimal amount of friction, and the light touch was about to drive her out of her mind.

"Angel," she whined, practically incoherent. It was as though the orgasm she'd had a few minutes before had never happened. One thing being soulless had taught her: the connection she and Angel shared was definitely not =solely= based on their souls.

"What do you want, love?" he murmured, giving her an Eskimo kiss.

"More," she whimpered, "harder... touch me..."

"I am," he laughed. Bastard was =amused=?!

"You know... you know what I meeeaaaan," she hissed as he hit a =really= GOOD spot inside her.

"No, I don't," he said, feigning confusion. "Show me. Remember 'show me', Buffy?"

Growling she forced one of her hands to release its death grip on his shirt and slid it between their bodies. There was something inherently erotic about bumping against his hand with her own while they were both trying to touch her clit. Another thought occurred to her, and she moved a little lower, caressing the base of his cock as it slid in and out of her body.

He groaned, a low, deep sound that brought a pretty smug smile to her face. His hand disappeared and she emitted a cry of desperation < no no don't go don't go come back please please please >. He hushed her with a deep, soul-stealing < maybe not the BEST choice of words > kiss, his hand feeling around the floor for something.

When it returned to her, she gave a wail of gratitude. He'd removed one of the rose petals and was rubbing it slowly over her throbbing clit.

Nuzzling at her neck, he pressed a kiss over his brand on her throat and that was all she wrote. Buffy arched off the floor toward him, mauling the back of his head as she pulled it up for a kiss. Attacking his mouth, she felt his shaft expand inside her as she bit and sucked at his lips. Purposely tightening her inner muscles around him in an irregular rhythm, Buffy swallowed the moans and whimpers of bliss he emitted, offering her own in return.

They collapsed in a pile of limbs and she secured her legs around his waist. There was just =no way= he was moving for a long, long time.

Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he moved his head enough to look down into her eyes. She grinned cheekily at him.

"Welcome home," she murmured, "soul feel all firmly ensconced?"

Angel looked at her gravely. "No," he answered. "It feels like someone set it free."

Bending down, he kissed her again and showed her exactly what he meant.

< okay, so we can move if he's going to do THAT >

The End

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